Jonah Peretti's Sandwich Recipes: Buzzfeed's launching a food vertical. It's being led by BonAppetit.com online editor Emily Fleischaker. There are going to be original recipes, which is good, because don't compiled lists of things that already exist make up a fifth of Buzzfeed's traffic? The only difference is, with the food vertical, You, The Reader get to steal borrow the ingredients from Reddit. Funtimes. [Grub Street]

Things to Print Out for Your Au Pair: The Atlantic is launching a vertical too. Hooray! Another vertical! This one is called THE SEXES and we know this because they're looking for an editor for it. As they describe it:

The Atlantic is looking for an editor to oversee a new channel on its website devoted to the intersection of work and family. Regular areas of coverage include work-life balance, parenting, gender issues, and family economics – with a special focus on how women are navigating their careers as they juggle roles of mother, daughter, and wife.

Note that one of your job duties will be "crafting headlines that can work in both social and SEO contexts." No mention of headlines that don't do anything but convey information accurately, because, let's face it, those barely exist anymore. [Atlantic Media Group]

Nate Freeman To Save New York Daily News: Former New York Observer alumnus, ArtInfo reporter, media power bachelor and softball no-show Nate Freeman is part of the New York Daily News' new gossip team that's being assembled in light of Frank DiGiacomo's departure. Former Post writer Brian Niemietz is there along with some lady who went unnamed in Capital New York's report on the matter. We hear that Colin Myler himself is behind the changes and reorganization of the gossip beat, which would make sense, because we know Nate Freeman as, quite frankly, the only thing that could ever save the New York Daily News from the kind of circumstantial peril that a daily tabloid newspaper faces in 2012, especially one helmed by the guy whose last gig involved the Concordia-like disaster that was the end of News of the World. Did we mention Nate Freeman is going to save the New York Daily News? He also didn't show up for our softball game on Friday as promised. Congratulations New York Daily News on your trusty new hire. [Capital New York]

Nice Crack: Sports Illustrated and Wall Street Journal contributor Stephanie Wei called Akron, Ohio, the "arsehole" of America in a tweet. So a local Akron reporter called her up about it. [Romenesko]

Old Flames Burn Hard: Jay Carney doesn't like Drudge Report. So, he's got that going for him. [Washington Examiner]

Know who the new Daily News hire who isn't Nate Freeman is? Tips? Sophomore-year poetry? Media Bachelor nominees? Send 'em here.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

One's Loss is Another's Gaines: MSNBC flack Jeremy Gaines, who has mastered the art of the "no comment" and who has had a figurative Red Phone to the New York Times' Brian Stelter over the years he's been at the network is now leaving. Gaines is departing the cable news network for a far more boring and no doubt lucrative job: VP of corporate communications for the Gannett Company, reports Brian Stelter. Fans of cable news network flacks who never give reporters anything of substance, or who don't speak on record with any other outlet than the Times—who Gaines has more or less used as a publicity bullhorn in exchange for scoops—will miss him dearly.

Myler Col-ing: That's a Clash joke. Obviously the read of the morning is Steve Fishman's profile of NY Daily News editor Colin Myler for New York, which we'll dive into in-depth later. But we can't say we don't like what we've already read, especially the bits about Colin being the "Good Cop" to Col Allan in the Post newsroom.

'Chutzpah' is the Word You Are Looking For: While you're at it, don't forget to read The Guardian's latest on Colin Myler, who apparently tried to intimidate people into backing off of investigating News of the World. And not just people, but members of the British Parliament.

Free(man) Bird: A New York Observer hatchling has found a new nest! Our erstwhile Wee Hours columnist and noble heir to George Gurley's unpaid bar tabs, Nate Freeman, starts his new job at ArtInfo today, where he will be "a Lifestyle Writer, focusing on fashion and culture." We wish him the best of luck in his new position, where they will hopefully be far more merciful about bumming cigarettes to him than anybody here was.

Nast Brass Goes on to The Great Conde Cafeteria in the Sky: Once the chairman of Conde Nast International "who blazed publishing trails in new markets," Daniel Salem has died at 87. WWD has a great obituary about the man that is well worth reading.

Peacock Surrender: This week's David Carr-penned Media Equation column is about the NBC/George Zimmerman audio edit kerfuffle. Carr rang up the president of NBC News, Steve Capus, to ask why they never corrected an edited audio tape on air. Response: "'You’re probably right,' Mr. Capus said right away." This sometimes happens.

Except, One Thing: "No one has more respect for journalists than other journalists," notes a guy who received a quick response from Roger Ebert after emailing the legendary film critic for a Q & A. This is true, unless you are actually reporting on other journalists, in which case, they often turn into thin-skinned pathological narcissists who forget that they do the same thing to other people—that is, report on them—on a regular basis, otherwise known as Lesson Number One of Media Reporting.

Lesson about Deleting Things on The Internet: It's not just stupid, it's cheesy. Especially if you work for a presidential candidate.

A Very Long Engagement: Andrew Beaujon at Poynter reports that the Wall Street Journal has added onto their social media—or, excuse us, "social engagement"—team yet again in the form of "prolific Tweeter" Neil Mann. In other news, people are still paying tons of money for social media help.

Open Memo to Ron Paul Supporters: Thank you for calling me with blocked IDs and leaving creepy and vaguely threatening voicemails on my phone over the weekend, in addition to further email bombardment. It gave me something to show my friends during brunch. Also, this will not convince me to write about Ron Paul any more than I have. For the official New York Observer policy on writing about Ron Paul per your requests, please refer to editor-in-chief Elizabeth Spiers' take on the matter.

Our cup under-runneth with even marginally pieces of interesting media news. Do you have any? Don't forget to tip.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Here, every day's a holiday.

For the last two years, the Holiday Cocktail Lounge, hailed by some to be New York's grimiest, sloppiest and most dastardly dive bar -- i.e. New York's best dive bar -- has soldiered forward with its captain, Stefan Lutek, gone. He died at the age of 89 after decades of tending bar at the joint, which he opened in 1965.

The place now may be on its last legs. Corcoran put the listing for its building, 75 St. Marks place, on its website today. Yes, the listing notes the Holiday Lounge's notoriety, but focuses on the important thing here: this building can be your condo.

EV Grieve alerted us to the warning signs, and though there's no definitive plans or anything, whoever buys the place would have little trouble emptying the glasses downstairs. Or, as EV Grieve puts it: "Might as well set up the dumpster out front tomorrow morning."

There's no shortage of poesy penned about the bar's drab elegance. "Even in Manhattan it can exist, quiet amid the chaos, authentic beside a cab-riddled road," reads a story in The New York Times, printed on New Year's Eve 2006. "The dive is un-self-conscious, beautiful in its gloom. Greater than the sum of its parts, it is as spare as a Raymond Carver story, as lean as a haiku. Sentiment condensed, it is a poem, an elegy, perhaps, that hangs in the air as a testament to an anachronistic New York."

Pretty words for a place populated by rotting drunks and whiskey-swilling malcontents (who are, full disclosure, joined by The Observer on certain nights). But there's a literary tradition that could justify the reverence. Regulars included Allen Ginsberg, Leon Trotsky and most prominently, W.H. Auden. Before he passed, Lutek spoke with the New York Press about just how sloppy one of the century's great poets grew when the Holiday Cocktail Lounge was pouring the drinks.

The modernist master W.H. Auden, author of "The Shield of Achilles," was the star drunk. He drank here with Allen Ginsberg, among others, living on cognac, V.S.O.P.—whole bottles in an afternoon as he sat by the window, writing with a stubby pencil, constantly erasing and rewriting. "When he sober, he can't write," Lutak recalls. "When he too drunk he can't write. You could never say when he was drunk, because he drinking all the time."

Who else would you see? Frank Sinatra came by, as his agent lived a few blocks down. Madonna, too, in her early days. But mostly you'll see the regulars, guys with bad gums and stories for days, sitting silently in the corner nursing whiskys as NYU kids or other passersby enjoy, oh, a Budweiser or something.

"He disappeared in the dead of winter," Auden wrote, in verse, upon the death of Yeats. "The day of his death was a dark cold day."

Winter is coming, so if the Holiday Cocktail Bar does close, it will be doubly cold and doubly dark that day. Warm up with a whiskey soon, guys.

A scene from Alexander Payne's The Descendents, which closes the New York Film Festival.

Wednesday, October 10

Lucy Liu by the Numbers

In New York, a night can often be of two minds—two disparate occasions, with opposite crowds, on far-off edges of Manhattan. Take Wednesday, for example. Lucy Liu is having friends over to the Tory Burch boutique, a tony edifice up on Madison Avenue, to celebrate Seventy Two, her exhibition based on the Book of Exodus that opened this month at Salon Vert in London. It comprises 72 works, inspired by Chinese calligraphy and butterflies, and follows a theme inspired by the 72 names of God from the Bible. (Did we mention it’s called Seventy Two?) And it looks like, for Ms. Liu, books beget books—a hardcover coffee table rendition of the show will be released Nov. 1. But don’t think it’ll be easy to get your hand on one: it’s quite the limited edition, with only—wait for it—72 copies being made. Ten percent of sales at the store will benefit UNICEF, but why not stay on-theme, and donate 72 percent? Just saying.

Flat out not feeling Tory Burch tonight? What about a mild-mannered blues duo and some pretty stellar cell phone reception? Over at espace, a Room of Requirement over on 42nd near the Hudson, T-Mobile is celebrating the launch of two gadgets with cumbersome names—the Samsung Galaxy S II and the HTC Amaze 4G—with a performance from the Black Keys, two Akron boys with a few bar chords and hearts of gold. It’s hard to keep track of what the Keys are up to these days, what with all their Rza collaborations, but we’re pretty sure they still sound like a rock band. But if you think it’ll be awkward when you pull out your iPhone for the requisite “Oh, wow, it’s that song that band plays!” picture, maybe skip this one. (Miss you, Steve!)

Seventy Two: Lucy Liu book party; 797 Madison Avenue, 7 p.m.; invitation only. Special performance by the Black Keys, espace, 635 West 42nd Street, 9 p.m.; invitation only

Thursday, October 13

If You Want Denim, Join ’Em

The unmistakable characters were spotted on subway trains, Times Square billboards, front-page newspaper ads and email inboxes. What were they, what did they say, what did they mean? On the left, Japanese characters. On the right, those characters translated. The word was UNIQLO, in that red and white box. And why? Oh, just the first tremors of the retail store’s inevitable world domination. Things get started Thursday night with the opening of a new flagship, where founder Tadashi Yanai will be holding court. Come stop by before every evacuated Gap space gets filled with super-cheap Japanese denim.

UNIQLO NEW YORK flagship opening, Fifth Avenue at 53rd Street, 7 p.m.; small dinner to follow at Monkey Bar, invitation only.

Friday, October 14

Beers to Ya!

In September, the 21 Club—perhaps the best Old New York lunch spot—did the unthinkable. Along with your choices of either a gin martini or, um, a gin martini, the restaurant would now be offering beer. On tap. The nerve! The new corner of the restaurant is called Bar 21, with bar stools that befit jeans, and a lax sport-coat policy. On offer is a small but satisfying list of lunch fare, and after 4:00 patrons can nibble on tasty snacks. But September’s gone, and October calls for something heartier. Something more festive, that is. If you’re already salivating over the thought of bratwurst and pretzels, you’re on the right track. Bar 21 is now serving its Oktoberfest menu, so stop on by for some of Germany’s finest flavors. Veal schnitzel is accompanied by lemon, fennel and cucumber salad, or there’s the charcuterie plate, which includes aged ham, barrel pickles, Tilsiter cheese, rye bread and sweet mustard. And of course beer! An autumnal lunch isn’t complete without a few pints to warm the soul, and there are four different Oktoberfest favorites on tap. O.K., we’re no longer bemoaning the changes at 21. Another Radeberger, please.

Bar 21 at the 21 Club, 21 West 52nd Street, 212-582-7200, closed Sundays.

Saturday, October 15

On Your Mark, Get Set—Tweed!

Another thing that makes mid-October just the best? Tweed. Tweed jackets, tweed suits. Tweed skivvies. (O.K., that might be a tweed too far.) Of course, Ralph Lauren’s got you covered on that front. Doff your light summer coats and grab the fall weights for the Rugby New York Tweed Run, a bike race that’s more about style than speed. Things get started in the West Village this Saturday at noon, and you can take your wheels all the way to Brooklyn, where there will be a soirée awaiting you as you pedal up. Also, there’s a tea break somewhere in there. If you feel insufficiently appareled for the event, Ralph Lauren will be selling knitwear by the barrel, from scarves to mittens to sweaters. Or, if you want to keep warm the old fashioned way, they are selling flasks, too. Hey, you can’t partake in an autumn tweed bike outing without a buzz—and a tam o’ shanter—on!

Rugby Ralph Lauren Tweed Run, the West Village, 12 p.m.; more info at www.rugby.com/tweedrun/

Sunday, October 16

Grapes of Wrath

It seems like it just started, but like all good things, the New York Film Festival must come to an end. What began with Roman Polanski’s Carnage will wrap up with The Descendants, the first film from director Alexander Payne since Sideways. There’s a gala too, and so we can help but ask: will a certain type of red wine be served? (If you don’t know what we’re talking about, here’s a hint. “If anyone orders merlot, I’m leaving,” Paul Giamatti’s character, Miles, says in Sideways. “I am not drinking any fucking merlot!”) No word on whether Mr. Giamatti—who appears in this fall’s The Ides of March, a potential Descendants Oscar rival—will be at the party, but spies should watch the labels of the bottles tipped into glasses, lest anyone wants to be called a traitor. Though it would be a somewhat egregious if guests undertook an exodus over a little merlot, we think.

The New York Festival Premiere of The Descendants and closing gala, Alice Tully Hall, 1941 Broadway, 9 p.m.; sold out.

Monday, October 17

Nude Descending a Sotheby’s Staircase

Things are getting risqué tonight at the auction world’s über-house. It’s the 20th-annual Take Home a Nude auction, where men and woman can bid on the chance to leave the gala with a painting of someone going au naturel. The heavy hitters in attendance will include Larry Gagosian, Chanel CEO Maureen Chiquet, Andre Balazs, Bob Colacello, Naomi Watts and Liev Schreiber and the newly single Blake Lively. Perhaps she’ll bring along rumored flame Ryan Reynolds? He’s a well-respected art collector, right? I mean, we have no idea. Regardless of whom Blake brings, the New York Academy of Art will honor critic John Richardson and British portrait master Jenny Saville. Congrats, guys!

Twentieth-annual Take Home a Nude® Benefit Art Auction and Dinner to Honor John Richardson and Jenny Saville, Sotheby’s, 1334 York Avenue; silent auction and cocktails, 6 p.m., live auction, 8 p.m., dinner, 9 p.m.; individual tickets available from $175 to $1,000 by calling 212 842-5971 or emailing events@nyaa.edu.

Tuesday

October 18

Cristal Poppin’

In 1867, Tsar Alexander II was not exactly the most popular guy in Russia—he was so unpopular, in fact, that he was worried someone would kill him by putting a bomb in a bottle of Champagne at his Three Emperors Dinner. The solution? A new vessel was created with “crystal” clear glass, unlike the dark green bottles that would obscure any TNT. Thus, Cristal was born. To celebrate the 135th anniversary of this happy consequence of potential political assassination, Cristal parent-company Louis Roederer is hosting a salon in a mansion on Park Avenue, where the legendary Champagne maker will let the stuff spill into the flutes of enlightened guests. Managing director Frederic Rouzaud will be on hand to officiate the vintages, and even if the conversations on Balzac and Zola get cut short, there’s a good chance we’ll walk out of the salon with our spirits leavened.

Champagne Louis Roederer & Frederic Rouzaud host Cristal’s 135th Anniversary Salon, 41 East 72nd Street between Park and Madison avenues), 7 p.m.; invitation only.

Wednesday, October 19

Ace Rocks Out

There are so many people at the Ace Hotel on laptops clacking away that even if you’re there for fun, it can certainly feel like working. Then again, if you had to spend a day out of the office but still needed to hammer out a few projects, the Ace isn’t the worst place to do it: there’s Stumptown coffee, grade-A grub at the Breslin and plenty of attractive people to pretend to be associated with. What if you added four sets of top-notch indie rock, too? Starting at 10:30 today, Seattle radio station KEXP will bring a commendable lineup of acts to the hotel for a day of free music. Things kick off with Zola Jesus, the Russian freak-electro goth princess, and wrap up with those almost forgotten (but still awesome, trust us) guys Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. They go on at 4:30. So throw the lighters in the air, and if your boss asks where you are, well, you’re working from home.

KEXP Radio Live: CMJ broadcasts from the Ace lobby, the Ace Hotel, 20 West 29th Street; Zola Jesus, 10:30 a.m., We Are Augustines, 12:30 p.m., Portugal, the Man, 2:30 p.m., Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, 4:30 p.m.

Ms. Mulligan, Ms. Williams, Ms. Dunst.

“Wow, this is it, this view, New York City!” Michael Fassbender said after opening the door to the roof of the Standard, where the glass buildings lining the West Side bound forth from the meatpacking district toward midtown.

It was Friday night, and The Observer had just watched the New York Film Festival’s screening of Shame, a sexually violent fantasia in which Mr. Fassbender beds scores of random women in every dirty corner of Manhattan—including a few times against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the rooms of the hotel we were standing atop.

What better venue for the after party?

“This hotel …” the actor said. “I was staying in the rooms, once, and was told, ‘Beware! People can see inside.’”

Mr. Fassbender lit a cigarette and sat down at the table next to three of his oldest friends—buddies from his youth in County Kerry, Ireland. He had insisted on a roundtable conversation.

“How much of the sex was real?” we asked.

Here’s some context: Shame’s tamer scenes, which conceal nothing from the camera, find Mr. Fassbender engaging in sex under the Williamsburg Bridge, sex with prostitutes, sex with random men in a cavernous clubs, and of course sex in rooms at the Standard, for the entertainment of pedestrians on Little West 12th. (Don’t worry—things get wild toward the end.)

“Um, next question,” Mr. Fassbender said. “Now you gotta ask my mates one!”

“What was it like watching your buddy have more sex than you can ever imagine?” we asked.

“Unfortunately I haven’t yet seen his crown jewels!” one of them said. “I haven’t seen the film.”

“It’s really something,” The Observer responded.

“What is?” Mr. Fassbender asked, taking a last drag. “My crown jewels?”

“Well, I meant the film is really something,” we stuttered. “But, yeah, I have seen them now, I guess.”

“But I haven’t seen yours!” he shot back.

Mr. Fassbender downed his martini—his character, Brandon, was fond of the same cocktail, we remembered—and revealed that he hadn’t been with these guys, his closest friends, since 2001.

“We needed a significant break after we had a go at it,” said one of the friends.

Then they all started chiming in.

“We can only see each other every 10 years.

“I just got over it.”

“The shaking just stopped.”

“But we did a road trip together!” Mr. Fassbender interrupted. “And we were gonna call Marco’s ass up in Italy. Why didn’t we do that?”

“Because we were constantly drunk and we had the memory of a fucking goldfish!”

“Ah, that’s right.”

Steve McQueen, the film’s director, chose the Boom Boom Room for the film’s centerpiece scene, in which Carey Mulligan, playing Mr. Fassbender’s chanteuse little sister, sings “New York, New York” as the camera refuses to waver from her mascara-heavy eyelids.

“A lot of New Yorkers live in the sky, work in the sky, spend their time in the sky,” Mr. McQueen had noted during the postscreening Q&A. And when we spoke with him at the Boom Boom Room, it was up against the glass, with the docks and piers dangling out below us.

“This is the first time I’ve been back since we shot here …” he said. His eyes wandered downward. “The view, the expanse of water!”

After another drink next to a table where Olivia Wilde sat with Zoe Kazan, it was time to go. The cast cleared out too: this was just a small respite from the go-go of anyone involved in the New York Film Festival, where the fall’s slew of Oscar-bait pictures make their first impressions on filmgoers.

Two days later, another bash was underway at the Hudson Hotel in honor of Michelle Williams, who plays the blonde bombshell of the title in My Week With Marilyn.

“Does she pull off Marilyn Monroe?” Harvey Weinstein was asked. He was standing next to an enormous tin water pitcher that decorated the hotel terrace. “Well, see the film, then let me know. Me? Oh, I think she definitely pulls it off.”

Ms. Williams was herself at the party, but at Alice Tully Hall later that night she was Ms. Monroe—My Week With Marilyn is, after all, a film with actors playing actors. As we sat down for the screening, buzzed on a Negroni impetuously purchased from a Lincoln Center lobby cocktail cart, Ms. Williams-as-Marilyn began dancing on the screen-within-a-screen, as Kenneth Branagh’s Laurence Olivier sat in his own theater puffing on cigarette after cigarette. If only!

And all of this after our festival began with the earth caroming into a much larger planet in a deafening bonanza of fire—twice, actually—in Lars von Trier’s Melancholia, which premiered last Monday. It’s a glorious dismantling of terrestrial cores and emotional cores, an expansive vision set to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

And it wasn’t even the only end of the world going on. Abel Ferrara’s 4:44 Last Day On Earth, which also premiered at the festival, ends as you’d expect, and takes place on the Lower East Side. Oddly, on our way to My Week With Marilyn, we witnessed a plane etching the words “LAST CHANCE” across the sky.

Yet, despite Melancholia’s global destruction, the cast managed to make it to the Stone Rose Lounge for the after-party. (Mr. Von Trier, who infamously referred to himself as a Nazi when the film opened in Cannes, didn’t make the trip—then again, he’s never been to the United States.)

“I would definitely be with my family for sure,” Alexander Skarsgard, who plays Kirsten Dunst’s doltish (and doomed!) new husband, said to The Observer of his doomsday plans. “Where else would you want to be?”

“I don’t know, man” Ms. Dunst said to us. “I’d hopefully be with my family. It would be nice to be in the forest somewhere, chilling out. It’s such an awful thing to think about. What would you do?”

We told her we’d probably try to have a last night of fun.

First though, there were trays of truffle grilled cheese bites to eat, and DeLeon Tequila apple cocktails to down. The end would have to wait a little longer.

nfreeman@observer.com

President Clinton.

Wednesday, October 5

Walk It Off

El Camino de Santiago is an ancient religious pilgrimage that for centuries has led Christians to a cathedral in northwestern Spain. It’s said to be the final resting place of Saint James. It’s also the subject of a new film, The Way, starring Martin Sheen and kin, Emilio Estevez (what, they couldn’t get Charlie Sheen?), as, what else, a father-son duo. But tragedy strikes! Mr. Estevez—who also directed the film—plays a character who gets caught in a Pyrenees storm, and his father has to come to Galicia to collect his remains. The film premieres Wednesday at the School of the Visual Arts, in conjunction with the Walkabout Foundation, a nonprofit devoted to donating wheelchairs around the world. As far as religious pilgrimages go, the one from the screening to the after-party, at the Mondrian Soho’s Imperial No. Nine, is decidedly less treacherous, even if you take the subway. If you survive, the late-night bash is sure to impress, with the likes of Ivanka Trump, Mike Myers, Christy Turlington Burns and Chris Pine joining keynote speaker Bill Clinton in the fund-raising. With all these saints of entertainment involved, let’s hope things get ecstatic!

An evening to celebrate the Walkabout Foundation: 7:30 p.m., screening at the School of Visual Arts, 333 West 23rd Street (between Eighth and Ninth avenues); 11 p.m., after-party at Imperial No. Nine at Mondrian SoHo, 9 Crosby Street (between Howard and Grand streets). Tickets available at www.walkaboutfoundation.org. $300 for cocktails, screening and after-party, $125 for after party.

Thursday, October 6

Pretty in Pink

Polo Guru Ralph Lauren showed his spring/summer 2012 collection on the last day of New York Fashion Week, as he often does, and brought to the runway a shimmering bunch of looks that came off as resolutely American, rooted deep in the mythos of the Roaring ’20s. It was lovely. One thing missing, though? There wasn’t that much of the color pink in there. Some airy peach tones, splashes of silver and burnt-gold beige, but none of that soft feminine hue. The brand is more than making up for that with the party for the 2011 Lauren Pink collection, which goes down Thursday night at Lord & Taylor. The event, co-hosted with Glamour, will allow visitors some choice deals on threads, as well as trays of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres (of course). And it being fall, there’s a cause to benefit from all the haute shopping. The Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation’s Pink Pony Fund—a global effort to fight the effects of cancer—will receive 10 percent of all the proceeds, and additional donations will earn you a big pink balloon. So head over to Lord & Taylor to shop, sip bubbly and maybe indulge in some casual helium intake, all for a good cause.

The Fall 2011 Lauren Pink Collection, 6 p.m.-8 p.m., Lord & Taylor, 424 Fifth Avenue, fifth floor; invitation only.

Friday, October 7

Pistols and Portraits

Last summer, a new spot in the meatpacking district had the cute idea of repurposing the grit and grime of ’80s East Village to the city’s most notoriously bottles ’n’ models hood. It’s called Gunbar, and though it’s got stickers and neon all over the place (and maybe there’s a dirty corner or two), it comes off more like an exhibition on The Dive Bar set to open at the Met in 2200. For its next trick, Gunbar will open a show by street artist and graffiti maven Aliosha Daumerie—or, to use his nom de tag, Senz—who has spent time terrorizing blank city spaces here and in Paris, as well as in conjunction with agnes b. and Alice+Olivia. Will all this be enough to justify $14 cocktails? Or the mini tattoo parlor, set up for the truly dedicated scene rats? There is a certain excitement in Senz’s unhinged take on street art. But maybe you should take the broke-artist route and pregame the thing before with a brownbagged bottle of Wild Irish Rose.

Aljosa Daumerie a.k.a. Senz at Gunbar, 9 p.m.–late, 55 Gansevoort Street (Ninth Avenue), (646) 427-0457, www.gunbarnyc.com.

Saturday, October 8

Fasting? Nyet Anymore

This Saturday, the city’s Jewish population will spend the daylight hours trying desperately to distract themselves from the aromas, textures and imagined pleasures of New York’s culinary offerings. It’s Yom Kippur, which means no food or beverage from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday. O.K., yeah, it’s only one day, but things get pretty rough around Saturday afternoon, when one begins to aimlessly stare out the window waiting for darkness, sugar levels low, stomach rumbling, no end in sight. Oh, and all your goy friends are gloating over Twitter and Gchat about the huge sandwich they just ate, accompanied by a beer, and then another beer, and then ... Right. And then you shut your laptop and weep. The silver lining of this otherwise cruel day of starvation? The epic guilt-free gluttony of the break-the-fast meal. The Russian Tea Room, that old-timey vodka den on West 57th Street, is hosting one hell of a feast Saturday night after the sunlight washes away. End your noneating streak with borscht, chicken liver, and zakuski­—“a tasting of latkes, smoked fish and leak, and potato blini with red caviar.” Um, yes, please. Follow that up with lamb stew and fried chicken. Then polish that off with what can only be some world-class kugel. After all that, you’ll want to fast Sunday, too.

Sundown, the Russian Tea Room, 150 West 57th Street, (212) 581-7100, www.russiantearoomnyc.com; prices vary.

Sunday, October 9

Lemony Fresh

In 1992, the Lemonheads released their fifth and best album, It’s a Shame About Ray, a near-perfect collection of sunny pop that made lead singer Evan Dando’s drug problems sound like a walk through a park holding the hand of a nice, flannel-clad girl. How many bands can do that now? Not many, but if you want to see the real thing go down, head over to the Bowery Ballroom, where the reunited band will play the album in its entirety. No doubt the crowd will clap along to “Kitchen,” follow Mr. Dando’s hard yelps on “Alison’s Starting to Happen,” and thank the lord that the singer survived his addiction to crack cocaine when he breaks out “My Drug Buddy,” the best song about scoring since Lou Reed was waiting for his man. With luck, they’ll even run through the album’s two pitch-perfect covers, the radio-hit version of “Mrs. Robinson” and the heartbreaking “Frank Mills,” from Hair. Yes, yes, we really like the Lemonheads. But how can you not? And it’s not like Nirvana’s playing Nevermind in its entirety this year so, grunge fans, this might be your best bet.

The Lemonheads performing It’s A Shame About Ray, doors open 7 p.m., show at 8 p.m., the Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey Street, www.boweryballroom.com; $22 advance, $25 day of show.

Monday, October 10

Titanic Mechanics

James Cameron’s been the self-proclaimed “king of the world” going on 13 years now, but it can’t hurt the guy’s ego to hand over another award every year or so. On Monday, he’ll head to Hearst Tower to pick up the Popular Mechanics Breakthrough Leadership Award, for his innovative camera technology that made immeasurable leaps in the art of filmmaking (to put things in Cameron-ian hyperbolic terms). Remember when he dunked a camera underwater to find some rotting ship, and then made a movie about that? Or the time this Austrian-accented robot came from the future to kill the savior of mankind? Or the time astronauts discovered some crazy planet with dinosaurs and skyscraper-size moving plants and … O.K., we’re still a little hazy about what Avatar was about. Being honored with slightly less fanfare than Mr. Cameron will be the team from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory that built the Mars rover, the scientists who pioneered innovation that helped a paralyzed man move his legs voluntarily, and a team of doctors who developed universally compatible blood vessels for surgery. Mr. Cameron, though, is the undisputed headliner.

Popular Mechanics Breakthrough Awards, Hearst Tower, 300 West 57th Street, 959 Eighth Avenue, 8 p.m.;
invitation only.

Tuesday, October 11

Katie Couric Says, ‘Wear Sunscreen’

With her new daytime talk show, Katie, not set to air until fall 2012, ABC News correspondent Katie Couric has taken up charity function duties with enthusiasm, appearing at film premieres, benefits and other events all around town. Next Tuesday, she’ll helm the Skin Cancer Foundation’s Annual Skin Sense Award Gala, a bash at the Plaza to raise funds and awareness for the disease. Summer might be over, but the hot rays can still come through the clouds, no doubt, and Ms. Couric will be the one to remind everyone that you can never be too careful. Can we be so bold as to predict a certain S.P.F.-rated skin balm might be in the goodie bags at the end of the night? We don’t want to be presumptuous. Either way, attendees will get to mingle over cocktails with the likes of Julia Stiles, Gretchen Mol and Tony Sirico, who will forever be known as Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos. If Paulie tells us to lather on the S.P.F.-50, we’ll listen, that’s for sure.

The Skin Cancer Foundation’s Annual Skin Sense Award Gala, 6:30-7:30 p.m. Step and Repeat/Entrances, 8 p.m. dinner, the Plaza, Central Park South, (212) 759-3000. Tickets, which start at $1,750, are available at http://www.skincancer.org/Events/.

Wednesday, October 12

Va-Va-Valentino!

For someone as worshipped and reclusive as Valentino—Italy’s most revered living designer—it seems the guy is all over the place these days. We had the otherworldly experience of watching the man walk up the Lincoln Center steps to the tents during Fashion Week, as a mob of onlookers darted toward him, hoping for a picture, before he was whisked to the front row of the Diane von Furstenberg show. And once he arrived there, few other people in attendance mattered. Then, a few nights later, he showed up at the once-ratty former strip club Westway to sign karaoke with Carine Roitfeld. He went with “My Way,” if you haven’t heard yet. Then it was off to Europe for the next three rounds of spring/summer collections—including his own in Paris—but the parties in his honor continue in New York. Last week saw a kick-off luncheon at the Valentino boutique that served as a preamble to the real party: a blow-out at the Four Seasons next Wednesday held in conjunction with the Museum of the City of New York and Graff. The New York After Dark party is always a good one, so try not to miss out. Unless you’re stuck in Italy, that is.

Museum of the City of New York Director’s Council, New York After Dark, Four Seasons Restaurant, 99 East 52nd Street. Tickets from $250.00. Contact: Stephen Diefenderfer, (917) 492-3326, www.mcny.org.

"We were a bit dinged up."

The unmarked cop car sped out into the late night cobwebbed streets of Nolita at 3 a.m., bursting through red lights, sirens blaring, and ricocheting around turns that shook us back and forth, east to west. We had to lay low in the back seat, even for the quick trip to the corner of Mott and Houston. We pulled up next to three cruisers, sitting hotly in a giant cough of simmering exhaust, tire tread and the flash of red, white and blue.

Also, there was the pain: screaming molars rubbing up against sore, seared gums, our jawline banged, the burning skin of our neck still raw and throttled. We were a bit dinged up.

Against the side of the building stood three men. Black guy, with a short-sleeve, green, button-up shirt that didn’t quite cover the wired-together torso muscles. Another, this one massive, in a gray T, with a flesh-pouched face. Third black man, with decades on the other two, wearing a Panama hat.

The officers snapped out of the front seats.

“Can you identify who did this to you?” the first wanted to know.

“Yes,” we said. “The man in the green shirt and the big guy next to him. Never seen the guy in the hat before.”

“You heard the kid,” he said. “Cuff ’em!”

A slew of policemen from the other cars roughed the two men against the brick wall and slapped the word-of-God metal handcuffs around their wrists, arms back behind them. They shoved them into the back of a cruiser, but before ducking in, one of the guys, the big guy, swiveled his neck back toward our unmarked car. We locked eyes for an infinite second. With that, we slinked down in that back seat, behind the headrest, ducking our scarlet-laced, hammered-on mug.

The cruisers ahead of us cranked up the sirens and sped off.

“So,” the officer said, as he eased his big ass into the cushion of the driver’s. “What the hell happened to you tonight?”

"PLANS FOR LATER?" ASKED A FRIEND at the other end of the table. It was earlier that night, trouble still a dot on the horizon.

Our long and relaxed dinner at the new, soaring, silver-encrusted Hotel Americano, under the High Line in Chelsea, was winding down, and the hours of whiskey, wine and striped bass were working their woozy magic.

“Not really,” we said, scooping up the last of our shared dessert. A server refilled our flute with Champagne, and did the same for the girl. “Meeting up with a friend. Nothing too crazy.”

It was late, around 1 a.m., so we thanked the owner and lit out into the post-rain haze that had tucked its way into that ancient corner of 10th Avenue where Marquee still squats empty as sin. It was warm in the fog, the air so dense whole people could hide in it. Surprise people, dangerous people, obscured by the relentless frieze of shadows.

The cab zipped downtown, and we parted with our friend at Broadway-Lafayette, before heading to the neighborhood place where our pal was already nursing a Stella. We arrived, circulated, chatted, danced—it was a Wednesday at Kenmare.

“I think I’ve got to head out,” we told him later, gulping down the rest of a vodka and soda. Sure, we had a good booth—a French kid in leather who said his band was “big in Europe” clutching a young blonde, a jolly 20-something who worked in public relations—but it was late, a school night.

We were out: handshakes, cheek pecks, a stroll down Kenmare Street, past bodegas where men glanced at video keno screens over sandwiches and past other drunken kids counting on muscle memory to get them home. We had the routine down, all of us.

But perhaps there was something off. Who is that, lingering on that corner? How odd. And XIX, a posh lounge under Travertine—man, it seems awfully packed. And all those hissing shadows. No matter, we thought. The light was red, so instead of crossing we continued onto Delancey, across Bowery, to a dim pitch of sidewalk flanked by a park and a railing.

Suddenly fast footsteps behind us—thudding pitter-patter in a wave, rubber soles smacking like jazz snares, loud, louder, nearly here, bent arms and fists cutting the air. We swiveled around on a pivot and saw. The two men were barreling forward, a vortex, a dolly zoom, and as the bigger one pounced on our back, razorblading his tree trunk arms around our neck, the smaller one bashed the side of our face as we fell helplessly the ground, and two certain words went through our head.

Oh fuck.

“Give us everything!” the smaller one shouted. “Money, wallet, cell phone, everything!”

Our cheek bitten by gravel, we splayed our arms trying to get at our pockets, as the bigger guy squeezed tighter around the top of our spine, our ass scraping across the ground. Did they have a gun? A gun?

Oh fuck.

“I don’t have any money,” we spat.

Of course we didn’t have any money. In fact, of the many men and women leaving chintzy places that night, we must have been the last demin-jeans-and-tweed-jacket fast walker they’d want.

The smaller man hit us again.

“Give us everything!”

Out came the wallet, and the cracked iPhone, and the keys affixed to a simple key ring. We had nothing, they took everything. There was little left for them to do, then, but run off into the same dewy mist, leaving us busted and defeated on the ground, squinting to see them dive into that damp mystery that once made the city seem so damn romantic.

"AND SO WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?" the hulking detective asked as he scribbled into a notepad.

We had been taken to the city’s Fifth Precinct house, in Chinatown, for a few rounds of questioning. The two men we had sent away, our assailants, were locked up somewhere in the building. The sole witness to what went down, a driver parked near the scene, sat next to us. And there were the detectives who paced around the room.

We cleared our throat, for effect.

“I found my keys, they must have dropped them or something, so I could have gone home and licked my wounds, but instead I went back to Kenmare, to find my buddy,” we began. The detective was writing furiously, so much that he had begun to sweat fat beads that crested over the ripples of flesh on his forehead. The notebook just might have been identical to the one we carried in our jacket.

“Did they have a weapon on them?” one asked.

“Not that I know of,” we responded.

An officer rubbed at his chin.

“I had a cocktail and a smoke to calm down, and asked my friend to text my phone, because why not, who knows,” we continued.

The text had read: “Hey you have my friends phone ... where are you?”

A few minutes later, a response: “This is the police. We just stopped these two guys with this phone.”

“We received a 911 call from a cabbie and two guys matched the description,” the cop explained. “One had two phones on him. We asked why he needed two iPhones, and he said, ‘That’s how I roll.’ But I was looking at the text messages, and the phone didn’t fit the profile of a black male, it fit the profile of a white male. And then when that text from your friend popped up, it only helped.”

The detective lifted his head out of the notebook. “Look,” he said. “The perps fit the description for guys who we’ve been after for months. Stealing wallets and phones all over here.”

“They work at the Forever 21 on Broadway,” another cop chimed in.

“We’re going to need your help to put these guys away,” said the detective. “Are there any other details you forgot?”

“Actually, there’s one more thing,” we said. “After they got a hold of my phone and wallet, the smaller guy started reaching up in here”—we smacked our palm up our inner thigh—“and started yelling, ‘No homo! No homo!’ as he patted around my crotch.”

Because he wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

Around 5:30 the detective, along with his no-noise sidekick, had wrapped up questioning the driver, the sole witness. We shook his hand and thanked him—he had mentioned, in a solemn tone, that to hang around in a police station during prime club-departure hours is not exactly the best way to do business. No regrets, though.

“I watched, once outside my house, a young man get stabbed eight times, and I called the police then and saved his life,” the driver said by way of explanation. “I thought, maybe I would have to do this again.”

ANOTHER HOUR WENT BY as the last few loose ends got figured out. Without a wallet—the muggers had tossed it in the sewer or trash when they found it empty—we had no way of getting back save for walking. Even we didn’t want to walk home after a night like that.

A police escort would be the only solution.

“You’ll have to get in the back,” an officer said after handing us our phone. “Sorry about that.”

We climbed into the cage, the same type of crate that held the perps a few hours before. They would be in that jail for at least a week, when the prosecution would bring the case before a grand jury.

He cocked the gear shift and the cruiser shot out into the end of the night, through the Nolita streets that led to our haunted section of Delancey Street, and up back toward Houston, until we arrived home.

“Thanks for the ride,” we said. “Do you have a light? The guys grabbed our lighter, too.”

“Stopped smoking years ago,” he said, opening our door.

“Probably smart,” we said, scootching out of the back and onto the corner of Allen and Houston.

There were footsteps behind us, and we spun around. No one was there.

“Never been in the back of a cop car, actually,” we said.

The policeman hopped back in the driver’s seat.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s hope it never happens again.”

nfreeman@observer.com //  @nfreeman1234

Mr. Brill, Mr. Curry

“There aren’t many dissenters in the room,” said another young man at the party Monday night for Steven Brill’s new book, Class Warfare, about education reform in the United States. The young man, blond, worked with one of the schooling organizations celebrated in the book.

“But, us two,” he continued to The Observer. “We’re certainly in the lowest income percentile in the room -- unless you inherited wealth, unless you come from serious money.”

The Observer said we had not.

We had come to the corner of Fifth Avenue and 63rd Street, a hundred-year-old Upper East Side estate purchased by Leonard Blavatnik in 2005 for $31 million, to discuss Mr. Brill’s problems with the state of the city’s public schools. The townhouse is crusted in ancient stone between the last buildings standing before Central Park starts, a relic with princely marble that leads the eye to a pebbled courtyard, an anteroom, and then several more anterooms.

Copper platters swung around offering steak tartare, truffle grilled cheese mini-sandwiches and goblets full of sloshing red and white wine. Jill Abramson, executive editor of The New York Times, Jeffrey Toobin, staff writer for The New Yorker, and John Hickenlooper, governor of Colorado, chit-chatted with members of education agencies associated with Mr. Brill’s philosophy. Ms. Abramson, newly installed atop The Times’ editorial masthead, had a long conversation with party pic legend Patrick McMullan as one of the paper’s Wall Street staffers stood by blurting off exclamations in the direction of Mr. McMullan’s powerful camera.

“Steve’s taken a lot of hits,” Boykin Curry, a money manager friend of Mr. Brill’s and the man behind the party, as he addressed the crowd atop a podium. “The New York Review of Books hired Diane Ravitch to review the book. That’s like having Richard Nixon review All The President’s Men!”

Mr. Brill took the stand.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said.

He began pointing out the people in the audience mentioned in the book.

“Jessica Reid,” Mr. Brill said. He gestured toward a young blonde woman with a buoyant dress and ample smile.

“If you’ve read it, you’ll know she’s dressed the way she is in the book.”

Talk turned serious. When discussing a teacher, he revealed that she was allowed to keep teaching despite an indiscretion.

“She actually ended up passed out drunk in her Stuyvesant High School classroom.”

A few women in the audience gasped.

The speeches ended, and afterward everyone stuck around for another drink, as Mr. Brill had implored.

“It’s all Steve’s friends, he knows everybody, and they do what he says,” Boykin Curry said. “He commands them.”

We went on, and then Mr. Brill walked up to us as we were talking about the dissenters, the people he couldn’t command.

“Did we invite Diane Ravitch?” Mr. Curry asked.

“It’s improper legal etiquette to invite someone who’s threatening to sue you,” Mr. Brill snapped.

We said thank you, and as we walked toward the door, Mr. Brill stepped forward to grab one of the last pigs-in-a-blanket from the server’s silver tray.

“This is so terribly pretentious,” he sighed.

NOURIEL ROUBINI LIVES 62 BLOCKS SOUTH  and five blocks east of the Blavatnik mansion, and when we arrived by cab at Dr. Doom’s house we entered a door on First Street, took an elevator up six floors and opened the penthouse, where a flock of somewhere-by-way-of-extraction fabulous people were dolled-up and watching a projection of Sean Penn intone goodness on the giant screen. Mr. Roubini was a bit obscured behind the columns, but his atrium said it all -- three levels gripped around a staircase that shared its extra space with a helix of floating orbs linked together by golden strings.

“Where did you get those loafers,” a woman said to my friend who we came to the party with.

He looked at her.

“Stubbs & Wootton, 73rd and Lex,” he responded.

“Don’t tell the downtown crew about Stubbs & Wootton!” an eavesdropping woman yelled.

Mr. Roubini is best-known for his position teaching at the NYU Stern School of Business and his morbid -- but often scarily accurate -- predictions regarding the economic climate, which accounts for his “Dr. Doom” moniker. But, he’s also known for throwing great parties.

Where do these Monday night hosts differ, then? Both Mr. Brill and Mr. Roubini are respected academics, yet we can’t remember the Steve Brill blasting Rihanna’s “Only Girl” as guests commandeered the bar from its tenders.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry” Mr. Roubini said from behind a table with empty bottles of booze splayed about.

This was the place where we had met him, moments earlier.

“We’re getting more liquor,” Mr. Roubini said. “And we’re getting more wine.”

The Observer refilled our vodka as the tenant opened a bottle of red with his fist. We finished it and all of a sudden he was right. There was more liquor. And then we drank it.

And as we left we wondered: Was Roubini predicting his doom there on the chilly patio, there on that glowing yellow bench, his arm around a young woman? Perhaps, the only doom we could predict was a hangover.

Amanda Hearst, chair of the Whitney's studio party.

Wednesday, September 28

Hip Hop for Haiti

As we head into October, New York again braces itself for the annual autumn spree of charity functions. And though the foundations vary, representing any number of worthy causes, it still seems you can’t go a week in this town without a benefit for Haiti. And we say, “As it should be.” It’s a worthwhile cause: the small island country is still recovering from natural disasters and a flailing economy. (We do all remember this year’s Polo Classic, which donated funds to Hope Help and Rebuild Haiti. Indeed, who could forget Wyclef Jean’s head-scratching freestyle rap, which led to a dance party with Donna Karan and Hugh Jackman?) Well, if you’re looking for a cheaper way to donate to the country, Art in Motion is throwing a bash at Red Bull Space, replete with various diversions. There’ll be Haitian sculpture, a short-story reading, a Skype conversation from the island, a photo exhibit and a performance by the Sugarhill Gang, which has—breaking news!—changed its name to Rapper’s Delight. We don’t exactly endorse the policy of changing the name of your band to that of your single hit, but since we still know the whole song by heart, we’ll forgive them.

Concert to Empower Haiti, 8:00 p.m., Red Bull Space, 40 Thompson Street, $25; http://artinmotionshow.com/

Thursday, September 29

Big Top Jay-Z

Oh, the carnival—another one of fall’s classic pleasures. Who doesn’t love long nights riding the tilt-a-whirl, indulging in foods we did even know could be fried, going up in the Ferris wheel with Jay-Z and Beyoncé ... wait, what was that? It seems carnival season’s going to be a bit different this year, as Hova’s Shawn Carter Scholarship Foundation is taking over Pier 54 for a night of state-fair fun, taken to the next level. Instead of snacking on peanuts, you’ll chow on food from the Spotted Pig (Jay’s an investor). Instead of stuffing your face with cotton candy, you’ll scarf down cookies from Momofuku Milk Bar. And instead of winning a giant stuffed animal you have no clue what to do with, you’ll win much better prizes, including Nets tickets, electric guitars and—new watch alert—Hublots. No word yet about whether or not the host will perform, but either way, it’ll be quite the circus. P.T. Barnum, you better watch the throne.

2011 Carnival at Hudson River Park, Pier 54, 8:00 p.m.–12:00 a.m.; tickets available at http://www.scfcarnival.com/ $1,000–$1,500.

Friday, September 30

Author, author!

Each year, smart-mag editor David Remnick transports his writers from the page to the stage for The New Yorker Festival, a series of discussions, talks and performances with luminaries from the magazine’s areas of interest. It’s a stacked lineup this year, and judging from the schedule for the first day, the big to-do seems to be front loaded. Spend your night taking in a sobering discussion of war with Chang-Rae Lee, Tim O’Brien and ZZ Packer. Or if you’re trying to take your mind off the world’s problems, there’s a conversation between New Yorker art critic—and amateur fireworks enthusiast—Peter Schjeldahl and wild-and-crazy Renaissance man Steve Martin. Our pick for the night, however, is the evening with Sasha Frere-Jones and one-woman music act St. Vincent. Annie Clark, the one woman, will discuss her new album, Strange Mercy, and treat the audience to a few songs, too. The record is superb, by the way. We’ll be in the back rocking out with you, Mr. Remnick!

The New Yorker Festival, September 30 - October 2, Various locations. Go to http://www.newyorker.com/festival for tickets, full schedule, and venue information. Or, just download the iPad app.

Saturday, October 1

Eat Your Heart Out

We’re entering the backlash-to-the-backlash stage! With spoilsport Sam Sifton out as The New York Times’s restaurant critic, it’s safe again for New Yorkers to block out a few hours of each Saturday for that boozy, hollandaise-slathered bacchanal we call brunch. And summer’s over, bros—no more Hamptons action, we’re doing this in Manhattan. Of course, you can hop on down to any of your neighborhood spots, but why not go all out? The meatpacking district might just be the big-budget brunch capital of the world, with more places than anywhere else to wash down waffles with mimosas. Hit up steakhouse-gone-wild STK for what must be a, um, meaty experience. Or there’s the classic Day & Night brunch bash, which has settled down at Buddha Bar. And for those who don’t want the fun to stop, Dream Downtown has started throwing “After Brunch” parties too. Lavo’s Bikini Brunch parties are so last spring, man.

Boozy, boozy brunch, various locations in the meatpacking district, 10:00 a.m.—late.

Sunday, October 2

Cash Rules Everything Around Me

Too much city living getting you down? Take a spin off the island and up to Greenwich, where Roseanne Cash, the Man in Black’s Twitter-loving daughter, will perform at the Annual Garden Party, a luncheon benefiting Family ReEntry, a mentoring program that helps the formerly incarcerated and their families get back on their feet. Lunch will be served, as well as some refreshments. And in keeping with the all-in-the-family theme, Ms. Cash’s husband, John Leventhal, will be in attendance as well. Bring your mom, or something!

Family ReEntry Presents Music in the Garden at BYDALE, John Street at Richmond Hill Road, Greenwich, Conn., doors open at noon, valet parking available; call 203-838-0496, extension 100, for tickets, $200, $300, $500.

Monday, October 3

Krazy for Korea

The Joseon Dynasty ruled Korea from 1392 until 1910—quite the reign, if we do say so ourselves. Who knew, right? Anyway, to celebrate the elaborate dresses worn during this (rather lengthy) period, the Metropolitan Museum of Art is hosting “The King of Joseon in New York,” a gala that supports the United Nations’ Global Strategy for Women’s and Children’s Health. There will be cocktails, dinner and a performance of the King’s March, an elaborate dance characteristic of the regime. U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon will be there, as will Richard Gere, for some reason. (Sounds like the kind of thing he would have brought Julia Roberts to in a certain ’90s movie!)

The King of Joseon in New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 6:00 p.m. until late; go to www.the kingofjoseoninnewyork.com for tickets and more information.

Tuesday, October 4

Picture Perfect

Tired of all the endless partying? (As if.) Call up a friend, or a girl you think you might be interested in, and take her to see Peter Bogdanovich’s masterpiece, The Last Picture Show. It’s playing at the Film Forum for just a few days, and we can’t imagine a better flick to catch as the city slurps up the last dregs of summer. If you haven’t seen it, the movie is a classic of 1970s cinema. Based on the Larry McMurtry book of the same name, it is a sexually frank look at teenagers growing up in a sleepy Texas town. Shot in beautiful black and white, the film features the very young Jeff Bridges and a gamine Cybill Shepard, both of whom have never been better. (Not to mention a phenomenal performance by Cloris Leachman.) Believe us when we tell you: this surely beats a 10:10 showing of Real Steel.

The Last Picture Show, The Film Forum, 209 West Houston Street; screenings at 2:00, 4:30, 7:00, 9:30.

Wednesday, October 5

Studio System

It’ll be a while before the Whitney opens its new downtown digs, but, hey, why not keep having parties anyway! Just a few months after Amar’e Stoudemire threw down for the Groundbreakers party, the museum is at it again, this time with its Studio Party. The spectacle will take over Pier 57 and is hosted by a number of dignitaries from the worlds of art, fashion and cinema: Amanda Hearst, Miranda Kerr, Karolina Kurkova, Nate Lowman, Michelle Monaghan, Naomi Watts ... you know the drill. So starving artist types: put down brushes and step away from the easel, it’s time to let loose a little bit.

The 2011 Whitney Studio Party, Hudson River Park, Pier 57, 9:30 p.m.; invite only.

All it's cracked up to be.

On a charming August night, The Observer was sitting on our fire escape with two friends, having cigarettes, having beer. We had brought out an iPhone dock, a diminutive speaker machine that plays music right from a mobile device, at a decent, but not offensive-to-the-neighbors, volume.

Then, with a jerk of an arm, there came a crash. The iPhone dock, nudged at, spun down four stories and smashed unceremoniously on the Houston Street sidewalk. Still affixed to the dock’s protruding metal slab was our iPhone. A retrieval trip downstairs found a young woman holding the mess of technology. She handed it sympathetically back to us.

We examined the damage. Not good. It had been crushed to a pulp. The frame had cracked considerably, the SIM card sputtered out like a rancid animal tongue and the once-sleek corners were marred beyond help.

But I was hardly the first victim of a battered iPhone.

Let’s play a game. Do you have a cracked one? Have you been careless enough to go caseless, a state of the phone where a single mishandling can lead to a nasty slit across your screen? Look at your phone, turn off the backlight, and rotate it slightly to catch a good reflection—maybe you haven’t even noticed, but there’s quite possibly a spindly wisp of a line running horizontally from left to right.

For the last few months, more friends and acquaintances have revealed the imperfections on their phones. They might even reveal with with pride—there’s a sort of community emerging.

We have been privy to the following conversation, with little variation, rather frequently of late.

“Oh, yours is cracked, too,” said a friend to a young lady, over dinner at a small French restaurant on Orchard Street in July.

“Yeah, it is!” she replied in solidarity.

He was getting her number when the recognition hit. They both had gashes in their glass. They took the phones out to compare and the faults nearly matched up, like two touched-together palms with lifelines of the same size.

“What happened?” said the first friend

“I dropped it,” she replied.

“Look at that,” he said.

Never fear, this is not cause for mourning, not a moment to lament these blemishes to the vaunted work of the industrial-design gods in Cupertino. The thing is: cracked iPhones are cool now! The splinters displayed as a badge of honor here in New York. You have your demolished jeans, you have your beat-up apartment in deep Bed-Stuy. Now you can have your tough-looking mobile personal communication device.

(Can iPhones come pre-cracked, to save time? Sure. Why not.)

Adjusting to the new reality, we found ourself newly in possession of a blighted device, the dark face that once sprang to life with a single click blanketed in a spider web of broken glass, chunks of the sharp stuff falling out as we turned it over in our fingers.

But you know what? It looked pretty awesome.

“I’ve noticed that some iPhone users see cracks as street cred,” a writer told me. “Like, I was balling out with my phone so hard that I dropped the thing, cracked it, and I’m STILL using it.’ A cracked iPhone is clearly superior to any other type of phone that doesn’t have a crack in it.”

We had put out a notice on Twitter—how iPhone-appropriate!—asking those who’ve carried around a shattered phone in their pocket to come clean. Some replaced them out of shame, others sucked it up.

“[I’m] on my 4th iPhone,” one said. “Parents said the cracked one(s) made me look poor.”

“Psh I’m still on smartphone I think lucky #13,” tweeted another. “Maybe this one will last more than 5 months???”

“Oh man, mine was shattered and the butt of jokes for MONTHS but then it got stolen,” said one more. “Does that count?”

Yes, that counts.

Oftentimes it’s just laziness keeping New Yorkers from fixing their phones. Brian Phothimat, a tech fixer-upper who claims to be able to replace your screen in “5-35 minutes,” said with discernable dismay that he knows people who wait inexcusable amounts of time to get new screens.

“I have clients who sometimes wait 2 to 3 months because it’s not that important to them,” he said

(He then noted he was on the phone from Hawaii, on vacation. In the event of a dropped phone in the next week, well, his clients would be flat out of luck.)

“It gets really bad—when they try to slide it in they cut their hands,” he went on. “Your cell phone is your livelihood! It’s not good to look at. I cracked my iPhone three times and I had to get it fixed right away!”

Well, evidently many others feel differently. After talking about this for a while, we started getting tips, unprompted, from friends. There would be cracked iPhones at parties, cracked iPhones at the office, cracked iPhones on buses in and out of the city.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, our iPhone buzzed with a text from a close college friend who had just finished brunch in Brooklyn with four male acquaintances.

“Playing Taboo at a beer garden,” the text read. “One of them has a cracked iPhone.”

“Noted,” we typed back.

Another ping.

“Apparently there’s a background that is a picture of a crack.”

That is true, but cracked backgrounds are only the beginning. At this moment, just a few single clicks and you will be in possession of cracked iPhone wallpapers, cracked iPhone screen savers, cracked iPhone apps and cracked iPhone games.

Not all cracked iPhone apps are made equal, mind you. Being thrifty, we first picked up “Crack Me Up Lite”—it was free—which does little more than let you browse through none-to-convincing pictures of impact-heavy glass, and then blow them up full screen. Boring. So we ponied up a dollar for “Shattered Screen Joke,” which added one key element of a cracked iPhone app: the high-pitched exaggerated ka-pleesh! sound that attempts to intimate what it sounds like when an actual accident occurs. A nice touch, but nothing close to the real thing.

The full version of “Crack Me Up,” however, is pretty stellar. When you load one of the backgrounds, you can shake your phone to add more and more cracks, each shatter accompanied by a satisfying crunch. If you don’t have the courage to scuff your iPhone up on the ground, this would no doubt suffice.

But how could The Observer even test these apps out, when our phone lay dormant and unblinking after the four-story fall? The day after, we ventured to the Soho Apple store, where the air was thick with discontent. Every five minutes, another citizen approached the genius bar with a crack, or an iPhone that wouldn't turn on, or a model gashed badly on its bottom USB dock.

The estimate for fixing our phone was $150, and we declined.

Luckily, a friend had an old phone he was set to donate. We met in Williamsburg to complete the exchange. He handed it over at a busy intersection, and as we headed off toward brunch, the sun bounced off the screen and through the blinding rays we saw, across the top, a big visible crack. We thanked him and slipped the phone into our pocket.

nfreeman@observer.com