TXT MSSG
FROM: the seeker
TO: imaginary socialite
TXT: guess who went home w. a SCORES GIRL last night?
babe, do we really have to guess? ew.
[DITA VON TEESE - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Archive for May, 2005
This Just In
Wednesday, May 4th, 2005Alpha Mail
Wednesday, May 4th, 2005Here are some fun ones from today:
“I.S. -
You sound like new money.
-L.V.”
L.V. – Flattered I sound like any money at all. We should be friends.
“Imaginary Socialite –
Did you see Jess Joffe at the Costume Ball? She looked really good, don’t you think? Why didn’t she clean up that way in Vogue? Also, do you know, I had the biggest crush on Dana at [preppy university]. He’s really handsome. Do you think I could be The Imaginary Player and bag him?
–Virginia”
Hmm, depends what kind of bag. Marc Jacobs? Maybe. Le Sportsac? Nice try. And I did think Jess looked amazing at the Met, though redheads always have an advantage.
“IS – are you kidding me? wtf this is fucking lame. ”
I know. So imagine how bad a REAL socialite would be, instead of just a figment.
Keep them coming. am.i@imaginarysocialite.com
[REBECCA DANA - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Six Degrees of Preparation
Wednesday, May 4th, 2005Slightly stunned to see that Dana Vachon has actually garnered a book deal, but even more tickled to see that his editor (publicist?) calls him “a young Tom Wolfe.” Here’s why:
Back at Dupont University, Dana was great friends with Charlotte Simmons, aka Ali Wolfe, aka Tom’s daughter, who was dating the president of Dana’s fraternity, allowing ample social time.
After Dana moved to New York, he cold-called Hud Morgan (then at the New Republic) and begged for advice on how to get a job there. Hud later moved onto Vanity Fair. Dana stayed at his i-bank, went to Lotus every night, and started a very interesting blog that he has since abandoned.
He is also, supposedly, related to the Cusack clan, though that doesn’t seem to fit with anything else in this post.
How do I know all this? Because when I was 19, Dana’s then-girlfriend cornered me in a hallway, somewhere on the east coast, and told me she hoped I died in a plane crash. Classy, huh?
Hope that makes it into his book, which I expect will actually be quite good.
[MOLLY JONG-FAST - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Guess The Editor!
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Raise your hand if you think this chick from Jonathan Van Meter’s “I Hate Brooklyn” article is Jane Pratt.
But in 1988, I went to Brooklyn willingly, because I was only 25 and I didn’t know any better. A friend, who’s now the editor of a fashion magazine, took me to a party in some crummy apartment filled with Oberlin grads smoking pot and listening to “black music.â€Â
Come on, it SO is.
[PAZ DE LA HUERTA - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Fade Into You
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Overheard this weekend:
“[Redacted important editor] doesn’t really keep track – he asks me, ‘so, am I on Gawker today?’ every morning.”
yep, pretty much.
[CHRIS WILSON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Blue Jean Baby
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005So Intermezzo sounds so totally boring, as all trade shows do, but then my friend told me that almost all the denim companies have really hot guys at their booths to attract all the buyers and editors. Apparently the Bergdorf team in particular was salivating, and perhaps a spy from that venerable store has given me a list of her favorite booths (for guys, not jeans):
1. Saltworks
2. 575 Denim
3. Stitches
4. Tsubi
5. Rogan
6. Smashbox
Someone else Sidekicked me this message:
“Intermezzo’s denim section is out of control. They all have hot guys! Is it a trend? So bazaar!â€Â
I don’t think bazaar would care about hot guys in jeans, but maybe cosmo?
[SALLY HIRSCHBERGER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Hello, Dolly
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Here’s one for weirdness:
Dandy Man Patrick McDonald will have Dolly Parton singing Led Zepplin’s “Stairway to Heaven” at his birthday party next Wednesday.
um.
[PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
White Album, disk 2, song 1
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Boxer and I lie on his bed, scanning porn magazines.
“Fake!” I accuse, pointing at Playboy.
“Fake,” sighs Boxer, not unapprovingly, and fingers an Eighteen Only centerfold.
“Fake,” I giggle, tapping a photo of his ex on the bedroom wall.
The rain starts smashing his window. The Seeker sneaks into the room and onto the bed; he must have let himself inside.
“Here’s the thing with tomorrow,” says Boxer, lazily rolling over like he’s in the sun. “It would be so cool to get everyone together, here, for a party, but…”
“But,” I pick up, “you can’t, because then all your girlfriends will find out about it.”
Boxer nods earnestly. The Seeker and I exchange a glance.
“Dog biscuits,” he says to Boxer with a giant grin. “You’re getting dog biscuits for your birthday.”
Boxer sits up, stares at us intently.
“I’m not,” he says, returning the smile. “I’m getting you guys.”
He’s actually getting a call girl, courtesy of The Seeker, but he doesn’t know that yet. We curl around him on the bed, pretending we don’t either. The rain slams his window, pane by pane, and in the blue blackness we wonder separately if our paths might be the same.
[HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOXER. WE LOVE YOU.]
Casting Call
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Meryl Streep to play Anna Wintour
But who to play Lauren Weisberger?
The IS’ top choices:
1. Scarlett Johansson
2. Samaire Armstrong
3. Annabelle Dexter Jones (ah the irony!)
4. Maggie Gyllenhaal
5. Zooey Deschanel
These girls would all be great in the role of Lauren because, presumably, none of them have any writing talent either.
Whom do YOU think should play the lead in “The Devil Wears Prada”?
[SALLY SINGER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
I Say, Take Me Out
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005“They said the door was going to be ultra-tight and they’re only gonna play rock,” explained The Seeker as he pulled me, tugboat style, through the crowd upstairs at Hiro. “So of course, neither is true.” The room was wall-to-wall posers, though Paris Hilton did appear to be lounging in the way back of a billowy banquette.
I was slightly high and slightly drunk and slightly confused: the beginning of the night was a tequila smack-down pitting me against one of New York’s hottest firebombs, her suave euro boyfriend, a rosy-cheeked brit whose secret claim to fame was a lovely affair with Liam Gallagher, and a guy who works for Jane. Somehow, we sunk into the back of a cheesy white limo, screaming Debbie Gibson lyrics and wrapping ourselves in webs of green smoke.
And now here.
How The Seeker found me, I don’t know. I was smashed against the bar, had a vague idea he was somewhere in the club, and suddenly his hand was around my hip and then they played The Killers.
I thrashed about with a beautiful British boy with heavy black bangs who didn’t talk. A fleshy blonde with full cheeks tried to cut in; we stopped stone cold and stared at her, until they changed the music. Franz. We thrashed some more. Then a hand on my back, pushing me out, out, out.
The light hurt my eyes. There were five of us, the original five, so we piled into separate cabs. Supposedly they went to the same place, but really we ended up split, and searching, and snarling into cell phones as to who would come where. I suspect if either party had been great, it would have been easy, but Les Enfants was dead and Misshapes was undead, which is even worse.
When we finally did meet up, we were exhausted, and overstimulated, and singing the Kaiser Chiefs refrain, “every day I love you less and less,” very quietly and to no one in particular.
[SIA MICHEL - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]