A scruffy Franco, post open bar, pre Q&A (Julie Cunnah Photography)

In our post-fashion week hammock of a lull, with the Presidents Day exodus to boot, we were surprised when our inbox lit up yesterday afternoon with a short note from our friends at the Film Society of Lincoln Center: “Hey, do you want to meet James Franco?” What a silly question.

Doing a quick bit of research, we learned he was hosting a remixed screening of Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho. Mr. Franco aptly redubbed his take on the cult classic "My Own Private River" an homage to the late River Phoenix, a young actor that had made a lasting impression on an even younger James.

As we approached the Walter Reade Theater for this Franco flavored chapter of the Film Comments Select Series, we spotted our PR contact and he yanked us inside. “Come on you have to see this, they’ve decorated the reception exactly like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting … except there’s an open bar.”

Having seen our fair share of flicks depicting AA meetings, this fit the bill: chintzy channel fabric hung the walls in medieval monotones, utilitarian foldout tables piled high with pamphlets, a respectable snack area in the corner. Atypical from the scene, however, was the wide grin smacked across the face of a bartender, holding court over an impressively stocked open bar.

Drink in hand we eyeballed the projector displaying what had been discarded footage from Van Sant’s original cut of My Own Private Idaho, turning back around to attack the cheese booth, in walks Franco.

Typically swaggered, slightly squinted (a la Oscars), and donning a quilted Gucci leather jacket, Mr. Franco beamed around the room, shaking hands, kissing babies and then, finally, speaking with The Observer.

JF: Hey man, have we met before? You look familiar.

NYO: I don’t believe so, but that’s not terribly important. Mind if I ask you what it was like to obliterate an apartment with a sledgehammer on film for Wholphin films?

JF: You saw that! Haha! I love those guys, we had a ton of fun. I really fucked that room up didn’t I? Funny you mention Wholphin actually, it’s a bit under wraps but I’m doing a whole new project with them, basically focusing on all of my short films from film school. It’s gonna be fun.

NYO: Speaking of film school, we seem to remember a scurrilous headline from the Huffington Post trumpeting the fact that you received a “D” in one of your film courses at NYU–it’s good to see that that blow didn’t make you rethink your career.

JF: Ahh man, not you, too! Look, everyone who’s anyone who’s ever been to film school can tell you this–it’s not about the grades, it’s about the body of work you produce. I knew I had that grade coming, had discussed it with the teacher, I think there’s actually some sort of lawsuit or something around that whole thing. Either way it’s stupid.

NYO: So what was the initial attraction to My Own Private Idaho? Was it the Shakespearean connection? I mean, you were, what, 15 when River died?

JF: Yeah, I was young, but River had influenced me from an even younger age, along with Van Sant’s work. These guys were idols of mine, so when we found what had been lost footage, the dailes, the cuts, etc, it was a total honor to re-cut the movie in tribute.

“Would everyone please take their seats in the theater!”

NYO: Looks like it’s that time, James.

JF: Take Care, man.

Wholphin is the film imprint of McSweeney's. See James Franco destroy a bedroom on Wholphin No. 8 (https://store.mcsweeneys.net/products/wholphin-no-8)

Handlebar and all, Axl Rose preaches the rock gospel. (Paul Bruinooge/ PatrickMcMullan)

In celebration of the long desired end of Fashion Week, DeLeon Tequila and Nur Khan hosted what would be the last of their fabled Electric Sessions last night at the Hiro Ballroom (which, for the record, is still open) with Guns n’ Roses.

The Observer plays the waiting game.

• Doors at 9 p.m., we pop in around 10:30 hoping to dodge most of the wait for what was rumored to be an 11 p.m. start time. Seems like a decent idea, right?
• 11:15 hits and we bump into a few friends who had just left the temporary palatial penthouse home of Axl Rose at The SoHo Grand Hotel: “Yeah man, we were just over there and literally 10 minutes ago they ordered a ton of room service.” This did not bode well for a packed house hungry for high school rock.
• We spot a glowing Sienna Miller holding court with boyfriend and baby daddy Tom Sturridge, and can’t help but think that dude should lock it down.
• Olivia Wilde and Jason Sudeikis host an impeccably attractive table in the slightly grungy Hiro.
• Even Jared Leto seemed a bit confused as to where the rock band was hiding.
• Checking in with Tyler Winklevoss. We both immediately realize how bratty we feel when we grumble about waiting around for a free GnR show.
• Wanting to get the real school, we shoot Nur a text, who is quick to inform The Observer that Axl is in fact slated to go on at 12:15, and relief washes over us like an awesome wave.

Damon and a homeless dude people were freaking out about. (Paul Bruinooge/ PatrickMcMullan)

A bit more mulling about, and we see Nur take the stage.

• “Yo, shit, that’s Nur dude! They’re totally about to come on!” remarks a hyper observant party-goer.
• In the corner of our eye we spot Justin Timberlake and Matt Damon stopping to strike a pose in front of the camera. Both card-carrying members of the way-more-famous-than-you club.
• Ok, wait. Something’s happening – the lights are dimming, cigarettes ritualistically lighting up, the slow rolling “unnnghhhhhhhhhh” of a bass guitar being flicked on.
• There he is. Axl Rose himself. Handlebar moustache in full effect: “How are you tonight, fucktards!?!” he asks politely before launching into his first song, ‘You’re Crazy.’
• We notice a tweet from a colleague a few hordes of people away: “Holy shit, Axl Rose still has it.” And he did, in fact, still have it.
• Warm up out of the way, Axl takes the microphone to his lips, stares deep into each and everyone’s soul, and posits the question: “Do you know where you are?” We were in the jungle, baby.

Olivier Zahm is French. Can you tell?

In the wake of last Saturday’s Purple Magazine party, we were left with several questions: What is it about Fashion Week mag soirées that seems to whip everyone into a frenzy? What mysterious gravity does Olivier Zahm carry that sucks the clothing off of so many stunningly beautiful women? How is Lindsay Lohan even still alive?

Our prospective evening began unfolding with an incoming text from Natalie White, former muse of photographer Peter Beard and current item of lust on Purple’s website: “Will I be seeing you at Purple Magazine tonight?” Of course, we replied, “but Natalie, how will we spot you?” Seconds ticked by, and came the response, “I’ll be the one wearing a see-through dress, darling.” With that image firmly lodged in our mind, we began to wonder what kind of party were we getting ourselves into.

We mulled the question as we hoofed it over to the Standard, a fittingly unglorified way to approach what would be a fittingly glorious event. Refinery29’s Kristian Laliberte—on full Fashion Week tilt—and his posse spotted us a block out. After a ritual passing of the flask, the group rolled over to the (suspiciously quiet) entrance.

“Sorry baby, it don’t start ’til 11,” deadpanned an Amazonian doorgirl. “You gonna have to go wait in the lobby with the rest of ’em.” Mr. Laliberte and our newly formed crew shambled into the appointed holding area with our tails between our legs—joining what more than one person referred to as “The Ellis Island” of the Purple party.

Our attempt to be fashionably late was unfashionably thwarted.

“O.K., let’s head back over there so the line won’t be too long” suggested Mr. Laliberte after a short time.
In the eight minutes we stood in the lobby, approximately 60 people had crowded the door, jostling for invisible spots on an invisible list that we were reminded would be “referred to as gospel” by the Amazonian.

(At this point, an aspiring—if misguided—partygoer was overheard remarking to his date, “I think we can sneak in. I’ve been here before.” Raised eyebrows and knowing glances were exchanged among the on-the-list set.)

The extent of the door difficulty was underscored when Patrick McMullan, nightlife photographer and fixture extraordinaire, sidled up to the wrong side of the gate. “Yes, I’m Patrick McMullan, I’m here to shoot the Purple Magazine party,” he informed her flatly.

The Amazon sized up the late-night veteran, thumbed through her clipboard and said: “Sorry, baby, you ain’t on the list, and if you ain’t on the list, you ain’t getting in!”
Whoa.

The be-guestlisted mob waiting behind the velvet ropes noticed the martyr having a hard time, and began a rallying cry: “LET HIM IN! LET HIM IN!” The solidarity of New York party people can be a beautiful thing.

Once inside, The Observer took our post on the railing and waited to see who trickled by. First up: Writer Bennett Marcus, nightlife veteran that he is, gave us a few pointers on what’s going to be what at this circus of an evening.

Peter Davis already seemed to be having a significantly better time than we, posing with the always-striking Anh Duong. We make a quick stop by the DJ booth to check in with the Misshapes, who reminded us that the evening might get a bit messy. (What was everyone so afraid of?) They neglected to mention, however, just how much of their set would be dedicated to the late, great, Whitney Houston. As a camouflage scarf-wearing Hamish Bowles strutted in, an onlooker remarked, “You almost kind of think that he’s always listening to Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ in his head.”

Spying Derek Blasberg, with his hand wrapped around Sofia Vergara, we thought of Woody Allen’s remark that he would like to be reincarnated as Warren Beatty’s fingertips.
We ran into Alexander Skarsgard, whom we urinated next to a few nights prior. “It’s good to see you again, Alex. Are you enjoying yourself this go around?” we asked, already knowing the answer.“Yes, of course!” he enthused. “Look around you! Everything, everyone is so beautiful.”

We looked around us. Everything and everyone was, indeed, beautiful. But even through the temporarily borrowed eyes of an international heartthrob, we had questions that were largely unanswerable: Who were all of these people? Where do they go between Fashion Weeks? Where were all of the promised see-through dresses?

Beyond a few standout characters, a few regulars, a few club kids and a few DJs, we noticed that even at this party, one of the most exclusive of the weekend, the froth that filled the gaps between celebrities was largely made up of people who don’t seem to exist outside of party photo websites. People who snuck in by knowing a guy who knew a guy who knew a PR girl. Extras on the backlot of downtown nightlife.

As we reached the peak of our vodka-soaked state of reflection, we grabbed Waris Ahluwalia to gather his thoughts on what we were all doing here, and why: “What do you make of all this, Waris?” we asked. “Well, you know, Olivier Zahm does what he does, and you know, this is what it is.” Hmm, elliptical.
Back into the froth.

Our photography degree was tingling, is that Juergen Teller? It was. We followed him for a bit, hoping to pry him away for a quick comment, but suddenly found ourselves in front of Russell Simmons: “You hangin’ in there, man?” Looking out below the brim of a Yankees cap, a slightly weary Russell demurred, “Yeah, yeah, you know how these things go.” We did.

Then it happened. Here we were in a fit of evening weltschmerz, and now confronted with the visage of the fast life’s most cogent cautionary tale—the Go Ask Alice of the corner banquette—Lindsay Lohan.
Fresh from what appeared to be a bit of a spat with world-renowned gentleman (cough, cough) Brandon Davis, LiLo looked surprisingly good.

Staring into the void, we thought it prudent to introduce ourselves. “Evening, Lindsay,” we said. “It seems we’ve gotten swept up into your posse!” A look of mortified disgust washed over her as she regarded our extended hand. The void was staring back into us.

We were swatted away by Ms. Lohan, as she made the most adorable “get the fuck out of my face” motion with her own little hands. We obliged, warm with the knowledge that we were back among the living.

Skarsgard. (Rob Loud/WireImage)

Day three. Er, two? Day one? Whatever, Fashion Week is going full bore—and last night was something else.

First stop of the evening, a quick check in with Felipe Oliveira Baptista at Lacoste

• Alright let's see here: We're in a shop filled with clothes, there's a swinging jazz band, an endless supply of macaroons, followed by infinite champagne. Better than a hero from the bodega, no?
• Felipe, the Creative Director himself cruises in with a decently-sized posse, which we peel him away from for a quick chat.
• "How did Felipe get here?" we asked. "You'll be surprised to hear it was actually through a headhunting agency! They found me, and placed me with a job. Simple as that!"
• We want to be headhunted by this agency.

Moving right along: It's time to see what is going on at these runway shows...Libertine men's and women's at Milk Studios

• This place is a freaking mob scene. Umpteen floors of fashion mayhem, Milk Studios seems to have adopted the controlled-chaos business model.
• Where's our seat? Hello? Anyone? Ahhh yes, front row. Lovely.
• Who's here? Do we know any of these people? How many fashion bloggers can one bench handle? Should we be Tumbling this?
• Oh, god. It's that guy from the Princeton club. Or, wait, Columbia club? Ahhh yes, it's the Princeton-Columbia Club he reminds us.
• Lights out, heads up, flask at the ready.
• We start whistling Kraftwerk's "Model." Nobody gets it.
• The whole production feels strangely...cool. Sort of zen-like, a little mesmerizing. We like this.

All right, show's over. Let's see what Kristian Laliberte has going on at the Refinery29 party over at Double Seven

• Lots of booze.
• A healthy mix of budding media moguls and the fashion frenzied seemed to be just the right touch. Ms. Laliberte always seems to have a knack for this.
• Hello Elletra Wiederman!
• Is it possible to not like Sam Shipley and Jeff Halmos? No.

Ok. How many celebrities can The Kills bring to DeLeon Tequila's Concert Series at Andre Balasz's Boom Boom Room? Let's find out.

• "Tequila on the rocks sir?" Sure. At this point, why not?
• Everyone's favorite human being, Andrew Bevan grabs our arm: "Come meet Erin!"
• Erin Wasson double-cheek kiss? Check.
• Who's that at the table there? Ahh yes, of course it's an overall-ed Alexa Chung and Poppy DeLevigne letting it all hang out.
• Pretending to be low key Lindsey Lohan soars in with a hat wearing crew and makes a b-line to a dark corner, where they proceed to brood for the evening.
• Hold the phone, everyone just lost their shit. It's Alexander Skarsgard. Let's see if we can peel him away from the lunch line of twiggy models, shall we?

Here's what went down:

"So Alex, we'd like to ask you one question, would that be alright?"

"Of course my friend, anything!" he beams.

"How did Alexander Skarsgaard get here?"

"Oh man, I really like this question! It would be so easy for me to say "The elevator""

We agreed.

"But look, I see that this is one of those really open ended questions, and I like that! So many things brought me here, but first it began with my mother and my father. I owe them everything. Oh, also I really like The Kills!"

We continued our chat on The Kills briefly till the nicest vampire we've ever met announced he had to pee, so we took the talk to the famed urinals of The Standard.

"So tell me this my friend from The Observer, how did you get here?" as we both unzip our jeans.

For the next few minutes Mr. Skarsgaard did the interviewing, and concluded (completely mistakenly) that we too would be able to be as lucky with the ladies as he is. We informed him, that while we were flattered, the two of us were definitely a few standard deviations apart...

It crossed our minds as we zipped our flies and washed our hands that if there was ever a guy you'd want as a life coach, this is that guy.

Oh that's right, The Kills are playing.

Gary Oldman. (Julie Cunnah Photography)

As we quietly chanted a self-affirming (however desperate) "you can do this" to ourselves while rocking back and forth in the fetal position, The Observer's phone lit up with a surprise last minute invite to something a little off the beaten path: A two-hour reserved-seating Q&A session with screen legend Gary Oldman. The invite washed over us like an awesome wave.

First stop: Lincoln Center's Walter Reed Theater

• Being fans of The Fifth Element is an understatement. Being in awe of Gary Oldman's career is an even greater understatement.
• Mr. Oldman was whispered to be in an undisclosed location somewhere at Lincoln center having his photo taken on what photographers John Reuter and Myrna Suarez dubbed "The Largest Polaroid In The World." We caught up with them as they approached the theater.
• As we cozy our way into the packed house, the screen lights up with scenes from Oldman's career: Blood gushing from the mouth as Sid Vicious, revolver discharging wildly in The Professional, a tattered Sirius Black in Harry Potter, the menacing intergalactic arms dealer from The Fifth Element.
• The lights go on, and Mr. Oldman bounds toward the stage, beaming. We are an even bigger fan of him in person.
• Turns out this guy studied the art of mime. Whoa.
• When asked by an intrepid audience member whether he listened to music in preparation of a role, Mr. Oldman snickered, "Of course I do! Music is like pornography, it's immediate, it's a supreme art form."
• A flask is a very important thing to bring to Lincoln Center.

Our sweet tooth for Oldman sated, it was time to get back to business: Nur Khan and Nima Yamini kicked off the Electric Room's concert series.

Abbey Lee Kershaw with Chain. (Balarama Heller Photography)

• The erstwhile "supermodel" Abbey Lee Kershaw's band Our Mountain would be on tap for the evening. Nobody in the room seemed to have any idea what to expect, but there was definitely a bike chain and a trashcan in the band's setup.
• Bombay Sapphire seemed to keep the throng at bay as we waited for what looked to be a freshly bejeweled Abbey and her band to take their place in front of the, er, fireplace.
• Ok. Here we go. Things are happening.
• 17 cameras fixated on Ms. Kershaw, our ears start sending signals to our brains. The signals were mainly, "Uh, what?"
• More than our fair share of shrieking, howling, gyrating and experimental clothing later, it was time for the bike chain to come out. Boy, oh boy...
• Wouldn't you know, this track isn't so bad!
• Nur got the sense as the band slowly descended into a low BPM haze, he very well might lose the crowd. Expert ringleader he is, Mr. Khan makes a quick nod to DJ's Todd Smolar and Mike Nouveau to take evasive action. The band finishes out their set, and we're back to life.
• Keep that gin coming, baby.

Sandro Boutique West Village: Dree Hemingway for Sandro Launch Party

• Equipped with enough Belvedere vodka to wipe out a Russian platoon, Sandro decided that this night was theirs.
• Wait, who are all these people? Is that Mickey Boardman? Why is he the only person we recognize?
• Hello beef carpaccio!
• We overhear this gem of an exchange: "Ok hang on, so you're telling me both of you are named Johanna?" Both of the girls named Johanna nod. "And you're telling me you are both from Germany?" Again, synchronized nodding. "And neither of you have any real idea why you're at this party?" This last round of nodding sends the leather clad inquirer into a state of deep reflection.
• Borrowing the surprisingly lovely Ms. Hemingway for a moment, she revealed just how much she likes ready-to-wear. A lot. Further prodding revealed that she used "a vehicle" to get to where she is today. She declined to reveal which kind.

A quick colleague dinner in the West Village and we were off to Le Baron for the Sandro after party.

• "Another round of Belvedere lemonade things!" The masterminds behind the previous open bar had worked some magic to replicate the endless flow of sweet-tooth vodka drinks to Andre Saraiva's latest iteration of his Parisian nightclub.
• Saddled up, we start to watch the guest list from the launch party filter in...there are the Johannas!
• Waris Ahluwalia saunters in, Ms. Hemingway in tow.
• As the party gained momentum, we were losing it. This is going to be some week. We powered down for the evening in preparation.

Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia pose at The Bing Bar

It's winding down, celebs are fleeing, the open bars are starting to dry up, and The Observer's 4 day long hangover is starting to catch up with us—enough of the sob story, we're going back in for more.

First stop: Surprise surprise—The Bing Bar for a dinner and after party with the cast and crew from Sleepwalk With Me

• NPR's Ira Glass stormed the red carpet (read: stood there graciously speaking to lesser media mortals) and gave us a few pointers on the birds and the bees as we asked him how he got here: "Well, when a mommy meets a daddy, and they reaaaaly really love each other..."
• Bourbon in hand, we borrow the ear of the star himself, comedian Mike Birbiglia who through "years and years of debilitating and honest failure" arrived right where he is today. This guy's put his 10,000 hours in.
• Occupy Sundance marched around a bit outside our window, seemingly unaware that their audience was already deeply sympathetic (right?)

A quick drive-by drinking at Grey Goose and we're headed back to the basement at Bing to catch Theophilus London and Asher Roth on stage

Theophilus London commands the stage at Bing

• "I wonder if anyone thinks I'm famous..." overheard The Observer from a partygoer as we checked in with the omnipresent Hannah Bronfman, fresh from a short stint in Vegas for the Chanel event the night prior.
• Quick to remind everyone that he's probably much cooler than you, an insufferable Mr. Roth muddled about the red carpet un-ironically bouncing a tennis ball. Cool, dude.
• You kind of have to give it to Mr. London, who cites preparation, concentration and "an obsession with experimenting as much as possible with the latest tech" in getting him to where he is today. For a 24 year old from Brooklyn, he's got the stage presence of a seasoned vet.

Alright fine, twist my arm, let's go to Tao

• We found fameball DJ Samantha Ronson belting out a passable set, eventually putting the entire party on hold at microphone point to pay homage to Noah Tepperberg "Everybody shut the fuck up, there's somebody here that we have to thank, and I think you know who that is..." A crass, yet sweet gesture that didn't not remind us of the holdup scene from Pulp Fiction.
• They're out of bourbon. This is a problem.
• Sundance make out team Kirsten Dunst and Garret Hedlund realized they were sick of dancing with the plebeians and decided it was time to break it down on stage where Ronson and Rashida Jones were all too happy to oblige.
• Even Rashida Jones's name is hot.

The Observer was disappointed to learn that our red-eye flight would be cutting off our opportunity to catch LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy attack the turntables at Bing tonight, but we suppose there's always next time.

Bell, Bosworth and Aselton try On some shades for size.

While it seemed most of the action at the Sundance film festival had been happening at night behind colossal bouncers, The Observer caught wind that there was an equally exciting, yet slightly bizarre, scene taking place in the light of day: celebrity gifting suites. We took the opportunity to start our day a bit earlier to see what all the commotion was.

First stop: The Bertolli Meal Soup Chalet Hosted By Gen Art

• New York's own Byrdie Bell let us ride shotgun as she had her war paint applied by the Finns from Lumene Cosmetics, from whom The Observer dodged a graciously offered full male makeup treatment: "Don't you want your eyes to pop like hers?" (We kind of did.)
• Justin Long squeezed through a pack of iPhone wielding moms to pick up a pair of shades gratis from the Solstice team, who had just successfully equipped Kate Bosworth, Lake Bell and Katie Aselton—none of whom could determine if they liked skiing over snowboarding.
• Andie Macdowell's still got it. Like, really still has it.

Next stop: Talent Resources gifting suite (someone told me they had free Cream of Wheat samples)

• Bumped into producer Malcolm Pullinger of Wholphin and McSweeny's fame, who joined our investigation into these Cream of Wheat rumors.
• SNL's Nasim Pedrad leaned over a tall counter to snag herself some shwag from Sean John, noting that she really likes "the boy stuff, how 'bout that cardigan?" The team was all too happy to oblige.
• Cream of Wheat CENTRAL!

Moving right along: The Gansevoort gifting thing

• Are you a celebrity? Do you have feet? Do your naked feet need Sorel boots? These were the hard hitting questions being lobbed at John Heder by boot babes as he laced up.
• Everyone is wearing these freaking boots, getting the vibe that everyone may also be a little drunk.

Looks like there's a football game on? Back to the soup mongers to check in on the Giants

• OH MAN Christina Hendricks - hang on though, who's this dude she's with? Googling...Googling...she's married!?!
• Luckiest man in the world, Geoffery Arend everybody!
• Nap time.

Nursed back to health, The Observer hopped a cab back to main street to see what The Bing Bar had to offer

• Is that Andrew Keegan? Where the heck has that guy been? Oh right - practically living at The Bing Bar.
• Cobra Starship, expressing that they indeed had the capability to "go to eleven, if necessary" serenaded the crowd with more than their fair share of sweeping arpeggios.

Park City Live: Let there be Deadmau5

Deadmau5 takes Park City Live by storm.

• Waiting for Deadmau5, aka. Joel Zimmerman to assault the stage with his signature brand of electronic dance music, we run into Tenjune's Eugene Remm at his table stageside: "Can you believe this shit man? They have a pour limiter on our bottle service!" The Observer momentarily commiserated with the frustration of not being able to drink more than one shot of Patron simultaneously.
• Uh oh: the sound system is struggling. Zimmerman takes the stage.
• Promptly blows 3 speakers.
• Still somehow lights the place on fire, despite kind of phoning it in.

A quick pitstop at Chris Masterson's birthday party, and we're headed back to Tao

• We copped a squat on a banquette with the hard-to-miss king of clubs Noah Tepperberg, as he reigned over a roundtable in the house he built. We canvassed Noah on how he got here, who after promising to reveal to us at a later date told The Observer, "You don't want to know how the fuck I got here." We absolutely did.
• Fresh off the premiere of his film Red Hook Summer, director Spike Lee set up shop with a hulking posse directly in front of DJ Sinatra's dj booth, immediately proceeding to do their thing.
• Our ears are broken.

Morgan with Megan Wollover and Melissa Leo at the BCDF Pictures celebration before his collapse. (Patrick McMullan)

After a surprising collapse during an award ceremony last night at the Sundance film festival, Tracy Morgan's health issues appeared far from over. Lewis Kay, Morgan's publicist, was quick to rule out drugs and alcohol maintains upon his release this morning that "exhaustion and altitude" were to blame.

The Observer can attest that Park City's 7000 ft. elevation isn't easy on the capillaries. Eyewitness reports labeled the behavior leading up to the collapse of the 43-year-old diabetic as anything but normal, so it's possible the cause was being too high (in the mountains). Anyway, we're glad to hear he's out.

Aziz Ansari and Drake at The Bing Bar

Day 2 of the Sundance Film Festival found The Observer snowbound in the extreme. We're talking enough snow to give Mayor Bloomberg and the New York City transit system nightmares. Astronomic surcharges became the norm as Park City's anemic livery force struggled to even make the most ludicrous time frames: "Yeah I can have a guy up there in like 3 and a half hours?" deadpanned one audacious taxi dispatcher, who seemed to take pleasure in seeing so many city slickers squeal.

Despite the odds, The Observer met up with Ogilvy Entertainment's Creative Director Otto Bell to snag tickets for what would be our first activity of the day—a 3:30 screening of Escape Fire, an uplifting exposé on the pitfalls of the American healthcare system—which marked our event sans bottle service.

• While procuring popcorn, we overheard a cinema staffer: "Dude that's totally the president from 24, and those car insurance commercials..." And in typical Sundance fashion, it totally was.
• Dennis Haysbert found the film "Spectacular!" noting that everyone in America should see it. We had a hard time disagreeing.

Next stop: Back to the den of debauchery and Xbox game demos, the Bing Bar, for Lay The Favorite's cast dinner.

• Seconds in, we find ourselves in front of a freshly bandaged (just a little "don't worry I'm fine" melanoma) William H. Macy who revealed that he took "the Jitney!" to get to where he was at this very instant.
• As it turns out, a slightly more surly Corbin Bernsen "rented a fucking car."
• Mr. Bernsen could pass as a stunt double for co-star Bruce Willis.
• Chick-boner magnet Joshua Jackson claimed that it was in fact "the shuttle bus" that got him here today, which he conceded was "a bit of a smart ass response, but I'm gonna stick with it. Final answer."
• Cigarettes have not been kind to Laura Prepon, but man is her raspy voice awesome. Keep it up, Laura.

A quick stop to the Grey Goose Blue Door for the cast dinner of Arbitrage

• "Troubled hedge fund magnate" Richard Gere illustrated that no matter how many bespoke suits he may be forced to wear on screen, he's most comfortable in jeans and a baseball cap.
• Grey Goose employs a suspiciously attractive waitstaff. We were fine with this.

Sucked back in, we head to Bing Bar to see what Aziz Ansari and Drake have up their sleeves.

• A friendly (read: not so friendly) turf war erupted on the red carpet between film crews for VH1 and MTV after The Observer posited that VH1 clearly had the cooler microphone of the two.
• Mr. Ansari took the stage, promptly reminding everyone just how well he knows Kanye West.
• Drake's seemingly insulting observation that he knew way too many here right now that he didn't know last year ("Who the fuck are y'all?") was incredibly well received.
• Cuba Gooding Jr.

In it's last gasp of life, our phone lit up reminding us that Ryan Raddon aka. DJ Kaskade would be taking the stage shortly at our favorite petting zoo: Tao.

• Door girls at Tao Sundance did not find it amusing when we informed them that their balaclava and floor length parka outfits resembled North Face Burkas.
• Lil Jon somehow didn't smell like pot, an observation that was quickly rendered obsolete.
• Josh Hartnett had nailed down this look that said, "I'm Josh Hartnett."
• Mr. Ansari genuinely cares about the exposed legs of his nearly all-female posse.
• All bars should be open bars.

À demain.