It’s not enough that those silly boomers are so absorbed in their big, fleshy, collective midlife crisis (see every Time cover and John Updike, Philip Roth and Minot sisters novel of the past decade), now their kids are kvetching as well? Take this book Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties please! We found co-author, bachelorette and Yale grad Alexandra Robbins at her desk in The New Yorker magazine’s Washington bureau (where, unlike the New York bureau, the female contributors aren’t yet encouraged to pose suggestively and bra-less for the magazine’s pages). It’s a small bureau, just four rooms, one of which contains a copy machine where Joe Klein likes to Xerox his buttocks. “People think that the 20’s are this wonderful, wonderful time, but there’s a dark side,” said Ms. Robbins. “Twentysomethings today waffle over decisions. They find decision-making to be a burden. There are so many options out there, it makes it harder for them to choose. I was going through one of these things and then I wrote this, and just hearing all these twentysomethings say, ‘God, you know, I have problems,’ hearing other people doubt themselves, now I’m fine! I’m gonna be 25 soon and ” Click. Meet Ms. Robbins and co-author Abby Wilner when Mademoiselle, which used to publish the likes of Sylvia Plath back when people in their 20’s read Sylvia Plath instead of Harry Potter, throws them a book party tonight. Crash strategy: camisoles!
[Glass, 287 10th Avenue, 7 p.m., by invitation only, 286-4306.]
MoMA-ney! Spring is a time when the cheapskates suddenly flee Manhattan for Europe, since they know if they stick around they will be hit up for megabucks by the benefit brigade . Tonight’s money train starts at the Museum of Modern Art’s fabled “Party in the Garden,” co-chaired by Aerin Lauder Zinterhofer, the only woman in Manhattan who’s never had a bad hair day. Count the number of women who blindly outfit themselves in this season’s Prada decadent-flower number . Meanwhile, the slightly blonder socialites Jennifer Creel, Tory Burch, etc. make a plucky, vaguely unsettling attempt at “white-trash chic” (ankle bracelet) at the Society of Memorial Sloan-Kettering’s “High Rollers” gambling party. Lots of fun and squeals around the roulette wheel! Meanwhile, suspiciously pneumatic model Stephanie Seymour puts her lips together and blows at a private fund-raiser for Jazz at Lincoln Center with jazz big-shot Wynton Marsalis and a curious, if not exactly fun, crowd: underused actress Glenn Close, puffing pillar of society Fran Lebowitz, actor-turned-social-butterfly Matthew Modine, plus Diane von Furstenberg, the woman who wrapped scores of women like so many burritos in those little dresses and then married Barry Diller for the year’s best punch line. All will shimmy and half-gyrate in the way “cultured” people do when they listen to jazz.
[MoMA Party in the Garden, 11 West 53rd Street, 6 p.m., 708-9680; High Rollers, Metropolitan Club, 1 East 60th Street, 7 p.m., 639-7972; Jazz at Lincoln Center, somewhere in the West Village, 7 p.m., 258-9829.]
Ring her Belle! If you’ve had it up to here with lanky social-whirligig author Thomas Beller, why not try petite, grounded authoress Jennifer Belle? Her first novel, Going Down, zoomed to the top of our best-five list in 1996, and ever since then we’ve been anxiously awaiting her second, High Maintenance, and here it is! Woo-hoo! The plot: Woman divorces man, misses her apartment, becomes a real-estate broker, complications ensue oh, just buy the damn book. (It irks us that Ms. Belle has not gotten the attention that certain inferior novelists have received simply because they are quick to pose for semi-naked photos, blinding unprincipled male editors . ) Anyway, tonight Ms. Belle celebrates High Maintenance at a fancy-dress store downtown. “I just thought it would be very beautiful and fairy-princessy,” she said. Our big-cheese editor is revving up his pumpkin.
[Morgane Le Fay, 67 Wooster Street, by invitation only, 366-2737.]
Me so Sehorny! We have little love for golf though those scalloped Lilly Pulitzer skirts are pretty cute but for those of you who enjoy a “sport” where your heart rate doesn’t budge for two hours, don’t miss your chance to see Lisa Ling (View lady), Jason Sehorn (football player) and Hallie Kate Eisenberg (incredibly annoying child actress who appears in those insufferable Western-style Pepsi pre-movie “trailers”) putt their way around the city to raise money for Sehorn’s Corner, which benefits underprivileged single-parent families which, one presumes, does not include Calista Flockhart. Who’s sponsoring: porno mag Maxim and ESQ, a Swiss watch company not to be confused with “ironic” porno mag Esquire.
[Tee-off, Modell’s Sporting Goods, Vanderbilt Avenue between 42nd and 43rd streets, 2 p.m., 849-8261.]
Gimme shelter magazine! So this magazine called Dwell along the same lines as Nest, Wallpaper and those other fancy real-estate rags for ambisexual Gen Y’ers with shiny, clunky shoes, nasty cigarette habits and too much time on their hands threw a contest: design a brand new White House! What’s wrong with the old one (besides the fact that there’s a man with the I.Q. of a monkey running loose in there)? As for the 80 submissions, “It’s fairly top secret,” said a flack, “but there’s one that was modeled on the idea of a Rubik’s cube, there’s one that was designed as a drive-in, there’s one that was modeled on the idea of a New York apartment.” Is Bill Clinton judging this contest? Tonight, Dwell editor in chief Karrie Jacobs announces the winners at a “kickoff” for the International Contemporary Furniture Fair coming up at the Javits Center.
[Dwell magazine, the Van Alen Institute, 30 West 22nd Street, sixth floor, 6 p.m., by invitation only, 255-8455, ext. 25.]
While you were sleeping, The New Yorker ratcheted up its ongoing self-celebration. Last night they kicked off that dreaded New Yorker Festival (the Lilith Fair for the self-styled literary set) with readings, including two Brits who used to be pals, then loathed each other for a while, and now who knows? We’re talking about Martin Amis and Julian Barnes. This morning, the magazine throws all reason to the wind and sticks O.J. Simpson expert Jeffrey Toobin at the Harvard Club, financial writer James Surowiecki at the Yale Club and Malcolm (“Hello, ladies”) Gladwell at the Princeton Club, while Woody Allen is interviewed by New Yorker editor David Remnick, finishing up tonight with a Bob Dylan– themed benefit for P.E.N. featuring (who else?) Dave Eggers and some group calling themselves the Esquires (no relation to the magazine, unless editor David Granger has been brushing up on his harmonica skills) at Town Hall, and then a dance party (be afraid, be very, very afraid) thrown by New York’s resident “hip” Brit writer, Nick Hornby, at Shine (hey, is that place still in business?). All this because the magazine itself hasn’t been any fun since Harold Ross left?
[Call 1-866-LIT-FEST for all the details.]
From Eggers to eggs: Remember when everyone was so scared of cholesterol, you couldn’t give away eggs in this town? But that was before eggs-citable New York Times food critic Biff (“One Star”) Grimes single-handedly revived interest in the lowly orb with his sad, sad tale of a wanderin’ chicken that plunked down in his Astoria backyard . Today, Maison Louis Jadot sponsors an “Egg-Stravaganza” (yes, that’s what they’re calling it) on a yacht (no escape) to benefit Share Our Strength (feeds the hungry) and the French Culinary Institute Scholarship Fund. Good eggs André Soltner, Jacques Pépin and Alain Sailhac will demonstrate how to cook the perfect omelet; author Marie Simmons will discuss her book, The Good Egg; and they’ll be raffling off “surprises” (uh-oh) from various restaurants. Hey, it may cost 75 bucks, but it sure beats facing those pram-wielding people in their 30’s aggressively brunching at Bubby’s.
[World Yacht, Pier 81, West 41st Street at Hudson River, noon, 630-8100.]
Harvard needs cash? Tonight you can reprise that whole New Yorker Lollapalooza feeling at the first installment of the George (“I wore short pants as a boy!”) Plimpton reading series benefiting The Harvard Advocate. Tonight’s readers: stormin’ Norman Mailer and slick Rick Moody the Star Jones and Milla Jovovich of the readings circuit. The overbooked Mr. Plimpton must then pop some Ephedrine and head to the Park (the Moomba of 2003), where Morgan Freeman, Denzel Washington and Aidan Quinn co-host a dinner for the Artists for the African Rainforest Conservancy. Tell Mr. Quinn you loved his work in Desperately Seeking Susan.
[Harvard Advocate, The Paris Review, which is located somewhere we’re not supposed to tell you exactly where on the Upper East Side, 6 p.m., by invitation only, 861-0016; Artists for the African Rainforest Conservancy, the Park, 118 10th Avenue, 7 p.m., by invitation only, 228-5555.]
Feelin’ your Oates: Hall and Oates? We wish, girlfriend. It’s another Joyce Carol Oates book. Right on the heels of that short-story collection, Faithless, is this murder mystery titled The Barrens, about yet another real-estate agent . Tonight she gets a book party. If you’re still reading her 378th book, and have yet to get to the last 50, hit the opening of the Rink Bar, the new outdoor venture in Rockefeller Center from Restaurant Associates, the mysterious claque that brought you the Condé Nast cafeteria and, hence, this summer’s disturbing Rice Krispies Treat bloat. Thanks, guys!
[Joyce Carol Oates, the Players, 16 Gramercy Park South, 6 p.m., by invitation only, 765-0923; Rink Bar, Rockefeller Center, 49th and 50th streets, between Fifth and Sixth avenues, 6:30 p.m., by invitation only, 866-430-1780.]
Lunch with Mike Wallace? Actually, make that Don Hewitt; Mr. Wallace had a scheduling conflict. Join a bunch of nice people like Helen Gurley Brown, Katharine Graham, Brooke Astor, Pat Buckley, Pauline Trigère and Barbara Walters as they honor former Time Inc. editor in chief Henry Grunwald for raising public awareness about age-related macular degeneration (A.M.D.), which we think is just another term for good old-fashioned “Somebody bring me my damned glasses!” Bring a lorgnette.
[Cipriani 42nd Street, 110 East 42nd Street, noon, 821-9300.]