The New Yorker Holiday Party 12/12/06

Austin happened upon a list of New York's big industry holiday parties, locations, and dates. I was interested, but not dedicated because I had final papers due and though our faces are hard to turn down at the door, these were the big time parties. Austin and I were gold standard at the small time parties, spotlight whores, hoarding the attention of the photographers and press, but we weren't ready to play with the big kids.

Still, Austin insisted and I resigned. Our sources at headquarters told us it was the day of the New Yorker holiday party, held at a Japanese restaurant in SoHo. We had bikes. It was practically on our way home. I was dirty, city dirty, with groggy eyes from computer screens and academic small type, but I left the computer lab at 6:30, perfect for early party entry. I wore jeans, sneakers. I had my red backpack and bicycle helmet. Austin had a black sweater. "All you need is a black sweater," he always says. But I didn't have one.

We locked our bikes, stuffed our extra winter informalities (hats, scarves) into my backpack and approached the door guarded by a woman and man with a clipboard. We gave our names, our real names, which of course were not on the list.

"I just RSVPed today," I said. "I should be on this list."
The man went to my name...nope.
"I'm with Conde Nast."
He looked at me.
He looked at the list.
"Go ahead," he said.

I walked in quickly, afraid he would retract his decision. Austin was with the woman. I didn't think he would be able to get, but soon he was next to me. He said his name might be under the name of a friend of a friend of ours who works at The New Yorker. It worked.

First we saw the bar, covered with the thickest, pinkest, shrimp cocktail. Don't mind if I do. The bar was open of course and Austin and I debated what fancyass beverage we would like to consume in quantity. We watched the bartender pour champagne over some fruity thing and asked her what it was. It was a Bellini: peach puree with champagne. That sounded gay and fancy enough. We ordered two and saw the waitress punch in some numbers to some machine: 13$ each. Whoa! But of course we didn't have to pay.

Then we found another bar. The sushi bar! Piles and piles of sushi. Eel, yellowtail, tuna, spicy tuna, avocado. And whatever you wanted to order. Austin and I gloriously shoved face, practically swallowing whole fishfull disks at a time.

And then...another bar! The oyster bar. Oysters in half shells on ice. We toasted to the ocean and consumed more of the ocean in all its slimy salinity.

In addition, there were the moving appetizers. They included mini bowls of clam chowder, lobster on crackers, and raw tuna in Japanese soup spoons. After sufficient consumption, we mosied around.

The people around wore black and looked good, sheik, expensive. The women were beautiful and the men wore plastic rimmed glasses and had wiry hair. They looked literary, just how you would imagine New Yorker affiliates to look except more hip. I wished I had at least showered. I was self-conscious of all the crap I was carrying: my jacket, my backpack, my helmet. I found the coat check and checked my shit, stripped down to my everyday shirt (grey, low cut, slightly tattered) and my jeans, skinny jeans.

While standing around, a waitress approached us. More Bellinis? She asked. But how did she know, our flutes were empty? They were so freaking professional, that's how. Of course, we said. She brought us more. In total we each had five, or seven, I don't know.

We found the one person we knew. He didn't recognize me so out of context, but I explained and he remembered. I asked if anyone famous was around. He looked around and pointed out the important editors. I wished I had researched what these writers looked like before going. It was like going to a party of radio personalities, but like radio personalities with silent voices...so it's harder.

I did see David Denby, the film critic. I recognized him because he once lectured at my school. I also know him because my mom's friend went to high school with him, Fairfield School, and he asked her out. She said no. This was 45 years ago.

I also saw Malcolm Gladwell, author of The Tipping Point and Blink. I recognized him from the book jacket. He stood around near the sushi bar awkwardly. He wasn't talking to anybody. It would have been the perfect time for me to talk to him, but I didn't want to tell him I liked his book, well, that I liked The Tipping Point a lot, but thought Blink was disappointing. And I didn't know what else to say so I tried to smile at him. He ignored me.

We went back to the oyster bar, because I don't know if you know how delicious oysters are. It's like the whole ocean in one little crusty shell. It's like a vagina. It's awesome. By the oyster bar was a very attractive writerly young fellow who said to me, "Man, I feel like I could have walked in here right off the street."

"That's what I did," I said.
We talked for a little while. He respected our audacity. That was that.

I also saw David Sedaris, but from far away and I couldn't track him down later. At that moment oysters probably seemed more important.

Overall, the whole thing was pretty darn exciting. At one point I even cried. "I'm so happy," I told Austin, gushing, because here was the physical manifestation of my literary and intellectual development.

The party occurred on my mom's birthday. She told me she was glad I celebrated her birthday for her, but was worried I reached my peak at 21.

But I didn't ma, I wasn't even invited.

One day I'll be invited.

--Deenah