The loan, which was first reported by Bloomberg.com last week, will be used as "ongoing capital" for 9 West 57th, a person familiar with the matter told The Commercial Observer.

9 West 57th Street

"The building doesn't need capital improvement, it's rock solid," said the person. "It needs ongoing capital, that's all," the person added.

Deustche Bank AG reportedly edged out American International Group Inc. and JPMorgan Chase & Co. to provide the financing for 9 West 57th Street. The loan may be bundled as bonds and sold to investors, according to Bloomberg.com.

The loan was finalized last week, a person close to the matter said.

The 50-story 9 West 57th Street commands one of the highest rents in the city – as much as $200 per square feet in some instances  – and is famed for its Central Park views and tenant list of prominent boutique investment firms like Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co.

Wealth Management firm Forty North signed a 10-year lease to take 17,000 square feet at the Solow skyscraper in August.

The building, which also counts Silver Lake Partners and Chanel SA as tenants, has seen its occupancy rate drop to 38 percent from its near-50 percent rate at the beginning of the year, sources said.

Daniel Edward Rosen, Staff Writer, is reachable at DRosen@Observer.com.

The Q&A is reprinted in its entirety below.

Describe yourselves as much as you can. Where are you from? What are you wearing RIGHT NOW?

Do you really think we're going to tell the truth? Well here are some true aspects (really we're not lying!): we're not poor, there is more than one, some socialites have more knowledge of the creators than they put on and we're from the East Coast.

How did the idea for this site come about? Is what we see now much different from what you originally envisioned?

The biggest and most inaccurate misconception is that we hate socialites and that we created a site to mock their identities and torture their publicized lives. We love these ladies and gentlemen and we created this project to further promote this exclusive and fascinating community. The popularity of the website translates to huge visitor numbers, majority of whom don't understand this mission statement and simply read everything as an ironic insult.

What is your response to people who say the comment board has gotten too nasty?

It has. We don't sit at our computers and devilishly laugh at every comment. They annoy us too. But again, the majority of comments come from nearly 20,000 visitors from around the world who look at this world as one of unattainable privilege and surreal indulgence. At the same time, we want to make the comment board democratic but since we represent of one of very few sources on the Web about socialite activities, every comment is taken personally. When negative comments about socials come from Gawker they are not taken seriously. The message board on this site hurts because it represents what the majority sees when they search the Internet to learn more about these subjects.

We've noticed that occasionally a comment will be edited. What is your criteria for editing comments?

It's simple. We almost never edit editorial content after it's been posted. If we intuitively feel that some comments are outrageously ridiculous, we take them off. If one of the socialites writes to us directly, we usually always address their concerns.

Why do you feel it is essential to remain anonymous?

We have the freedom to say what we want, post what want without having to face cold stares at parties on regular basis. They are disadvantages to this of course. We know a lot more people would actually tip us if we wouldn't be anonymous, because right now a lot of girls fear that their enemy is doing the site. But publicists of course have no such insecurities. We have also been offered a lot of opportunities like TV shows, books offers, appearances, commercial deals which we all rejected due to our private nature. We are definitely not doing this for money though.

Is there any scheme to make a big reveal of the site's authors some day?

Hopefully one day, we can reveal ourselves on our own terms and trust us we have though of big scenarios. Something like a masquerade with fireworks, gasps and lots of security would be nice.

Have you noticed any Columbos picking through the authors' trash yet?

We're trying to ignore all the hype. Those who know our identity have been darlings in keeping their mouths shut. And we have housekeepers to take out the garbage, so we really don't come in contact. We're not having anxiety attacks over this. It's just hilarious on what meaning this site has taken to some many people we know.

What are the most important criteria for a successful socialite?

Knowing your value, knowing how to pose, having a great hair person, having a sense of self-respect and one must understand how ultimately insignificant this whole scene is. It's great to be famous but legacy and happiness are not measured by Style. Com pictures. All the girls that we feature on our list are actually really great New Yorkers who are fun to talk to and have distinctive personalities. They all have goals and we honor that. Public doesn't realize that most of these individuals have grueling sixteen hour days filled with jobs, event obligations and family life.

Has turning up the heat on the matter of who is the town's top socialite made the benefit-hosting scene more competitive? Or does it just reflect the competitiveness that already exists?

SR has definitely become an integral spice for an existing dish. It has always been competitive but now top publicists, photographers, journalists and casting agents use our site as a resource for their coverage of the socials. We help them access these girls as well.

Will it ever be possible for an LA girl to make it in New York?

Of course. Annelise Peterson did. They have the certain uninhibited charm that press here loves. But then they have access to Kitson, which kind of ruins everything.

Best Regards,

SR Team

In the recently published Nasty: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints, I stated that I have been arrested twice, once for running out of a greasy spoon without paying (in full glam-rock attire) and once for driving while intoxicated (in plaid bondage pants). Well, I was lying. I have, in fact, been arrested on three separate occasions during my wild and otherwise accurately reported youth. So not only am I a liar, but I’m also a total fucking idiot. Instead of seizing every possible opportunity to pump up my criminal record—thereby grabbing fistfuls of Freyish brownie points and street cred left and right—I actually subtracted an encounter with law enforcement. I am the Un-Frey.

In my deluded, queeny, old-fashioned brain, I figured that getting nabbed by the coppers twice was quite unsavory and gritty enough. To be arrested twice would seem unfortunate; to be arrested three times would seem like carelessness, was my Wildean thinking.

How was I to know that while I was diligently deleting arrests from my text, the Freys of the world were adding zeros left and right? Thanks, James! No wonder Nasty never got picked by Lady O.!

It’s been a week filled with such mysterious annoyances.

Irritation No. 2: People magazine enlisted me to comment on the “It” bags of the moment. I took time out from my new Freyian lifestyle—shooting up heroin and raping entire convents of defenseless nuns, undergoing a colonoscopy without any anesthetic just for kicks, etc., etc.—and wrote quips about each designer purse. Despite overdosing 63 times last Wednesday, I completed this project with alacrity and efficiency and for no money. At the request of the editor, I even made changes. Imagine how much smack I injected when, last Monday, I received a peculiarly blunt e-mail informing me that the good people at People had decided to take the story in “a different direction” and would not be using my quips! James, if you are reading this, I would be grateful for any good revenge suggestions.

While reviewing these objects, I couldn’t help wondering how come today’s handbags—a good proportion of which resemble metallic elephants’ scrotums—have gotten so ugly. Familiar though I am with the concept of jolie laide, it’s hard to understand why any gal would want to carry these overdesigned, overpriced horrors on her arm. If I were a chick—as I am sure Mr. Frey has been on a number of drug-addled occasions—I would rebel against this trend and tote the prissiest 80’s Chanel number I could find. (See this season’s black patent-leather model: $1,850 at Chanel 57th Street, Soho and Bloomingdale’s.)

Incomprehensible annoyance No. 3: Last week, my bloke and I were passing Abercrombie and Fitch. “Let’s check it out,” I said, fantasies of platonically wrestling with buff sales associates (in the manner of the hilarious Abercrombie Mad TV takeoffs) playing in my head.

We entered the store and recoiled. Every item of clothing looked as if it had been ravaged—and possibly pooed upon—by packs of wild dogs. No garment had gone ungnawed. Every outfit on display bore witness to some impossibly butch, stressful, rugged lifestyle. All this extreme-yet-bogus wear ’n’ tear seems to go unquestioned by the happy A&F shoppers. Not moi. All I could think about was the lady whose dog mauling had necessitated a face transplant.

This munching/shredding trend, by no means limited to A&F, seems to parallel the excesses of James Frey. It’s no longer enough to break in a pair of jeans in the normal, time-honored fashion, i.e., by living your life. The rips and tears of a normal existence wouldn’t be deemed fabulous or interesting enough. In order to be attention-worthy, you have to wear a jean that makes you look as if you’d been dragged behind a truck through 500 Taliban training camps and 6,000 Bruce Weber photo shoots—i.e., one that makes your life seem more interesting than it ever could be.

Re that third arrest: It occurred back in the U.K., right before the notorious Weeley Festival of 1971. The headliners included T. Rex, Rod Stewart and the Faces, and a long-forgotten but fab group called the Pink Fairies. It was a memorable weekend: A hideous, violent fracas between the Hell’s Angels and security guards turned this hippie scene into the British version of Altamont. No such excitements attended my encounter with law enforcement: I (clad in moderately frayed jeans) and my chums were taken into custody for—yawn!—snoozing in a cider-induced coma in the Weeley railway station. It was a heavy scene, man.

Met: January 2002

Engaged: Jan. 22, 2006

Projected Wedding Date: 2007

The fear of living in ( gasp) Queens had only just begun to grip Monty C. Floyd, a Texas native who’d come to the big city trying to win back the heart of an ex-girlfriend, when he saw an ad on Craigslist for a swank Upper East Side share. “Female preferred,” it read.

Mr. Floyd may not have been female, but he was a charmer with a British rocker hairdo. He arranged an appointment with the subletter, Claudia Reich, a slender East German with dainty features and flowing brown locks working as a vice president at Citibank. “I always do my dishes,” he told her in his gentle drawl.

After a week and a half, he was also doing her dishes, if you know what we mean. “We figured out that we weren’t going to be just roommates,” he told the Love Beat with a wink.

Both newcomers to New York, the pair began to explore the city together, along with occasional timid smoochfests on the couch. For Ms. Reich, this translated into relationship with a capital R. “In Germany, you don’t usually do things all the time with someone unless it’s pretty serious,” she said.

During a screening of Italian for Beginners, Mr. Floyd leaned in and kissed the Fräulein more passionately than ever before. “The movie didn’t really capture my interest enough,” he said. After the credits rolled, they moved the make-out session to the now-defunct bar the Blue Elephant before returning home. “That night, there was no more under-the-shirt-over-the-bra kind of deal,” reported Mr. Floyd. Oh, my ….

Of course, there was some awkwardness the next morning. “You’re acting weird,” he told her.

“No, you’re acting weird.”

Ms. Reich left the apartment for some “alone time.” When she returned, the roommates took a shower together. Suddenly, everything was fine. It was only a matter of weeks before they began to make cute little jokes about being “married.”

Their families were very happy about the growing love affair. “Last Thanksgiving, my grandmother said I’d be kicked out of the will if I don’t marry Claudia,” said Mr. Floyd, 35, a former Army private and political fund-raiser who now writes screenplays. “And if I didn’t marry Claudia, I’d probably lose about 10 of my closest friends.”

One day, the couple went on a shopping spree to Saks, Bergdorf Goodman et al. Mr. Floyd was intent on finding a particular shade of Chanel lipstick. At Barneys, her favorite store, Ms. Reich made a beeline for the lingerie department. “What are you doing?” Mr. Floyd asked. “We have to find this lipstick!”

“When he’s on a mission, he has to get it right away,” said Ms. Reich, 28.

“Of course we have it,” said the Chanel countergirl, walking away and returning with … a ring box, which Mr. Floyd quickly wrested from her.

“Will you marry me?” he asked Ms. Reich, dropping to one knee and popping the box open to reveal a glimmering single-carat, brilliant-cut, platinum-set diamond flanked by two trapezoid baguettes, to the audible delight of normally jaded Barneys shoppers. Mein Gott, of course she would!

Mr. Floyd and Ms. Reich currently divide their time between London and New York, using the Plaza Athénée as their home base, and are planning two events: the wedding in her hometown of Bad Liebenstein, and the reception at a yet-to-be-determined location in the States. The groom-to-be is justifiably proud that he didn’t propose in a restaurant or horse-drawn carriage. “Everybody’s done that,” he said.

Benjamin Kay and Margery Smelkinson

Met: Nov. 17, 2004

Engaged: Dec. 27, 2005

Projected Wedding Date: June 25, 2006

Benjamin Kay, 25, a broad and goateed Wall Street associate, is getting hitched to Margery Smelkinson, 26, a bespectacled, freckled Ph.D. grad student in biological sciences at Columbia who can’t wait to give up her maiden name. Though they’ve been engaged for barely more than a month, the couple has already booked the band and the caterer for their wedding at Bridgewater’s. “We’re eager to get married,” Mr. Kay said.

They met on Jdate.com. Mr. Kay was pleased by Ms. Smelkinson’s profile, which professed a love of steak and specified: “I’m looking for someone who knows the difference between a complement and a compliment.” She was a little warier, especially after she saw the picture of him cradling his mother in his arms like Rhett Butler with Scarlett O’Hara. But “basically, if someone wrote to me and was decent-looking, I’d go out with them,” she said. “Usually, it would suck.”

Before setting up their first meeting at Tomo, a sushi place on the Upper West Side, they spent two hours instant-messaging. Mr. Kay confessed that he liked “difficult” women. “You have no idea,” thought Ms. Smelkinson, who spends a lot of time in a lab coat with fruit flies.

At the restaurant, they began a discussion about religion. “How can you believe in a deity?” she challenged him, drawing stares from nearby tables.

Mr. Kay wasn’t deterred. “I meet people who find belief something exotic kind of frequently,” he said, “so it wasn’t the first time that had happened. Background and tradition were important to her, which was more important to me.”

After a drink at a neighborhood dive bar, Mr. Kay escorted Ms. Smelkinson home and asked for a gentlemanly kiss.

“No,” she corrected. “He pulled me around the corner and pinned me against the wall and started making out with me.”) Oh my, encore!

“I didn’t object,” Ms. Smelkinson added with a coy smile.

After eight months, your basic New York City rent-slash-roommate issues inspired the two to move into a roomy one-bedroom near Columbia. Ms. Smelkinson brought along her cat, Carl. And last Christmas, on a rainy evening after a hibachi dinner during a family vacation in San Juan, Puerto Rico, Mr. Kay dropped to his knee near a coral reef and asked the sexy scientist to be his wife, proffering a one-carat, diamond-encrusted platinum band from Diamond Cutters International.

Cohabitation has definitely improved his life, Mr. Kay told the Love Beat. “Once you took out the stress of ‘Where am I sleeping tonight, and is the cat fed?’, it became a lot easier.” he said. “Now we always have milk in the fridge.”

Folk it over! Lessons learned this week: If you happen to be opening a new restaurant or bar, to ensure maximum press and attention, tell your publicist to make pretend it’s a secret (plant notices on DailyCandy and Gawker, and the ninnies at The New York Times’ Styles section will fall all over themselves in a rush to publish your address and phone number—oooohh, naughty!); second, that publishing scions with good looks and buckets of money have their daddy issues, too; third, speaking of The Times, how do they manage to find such annoying narcissists to write the “Modern Love” column?—each one, we want to push out of a moving car before we’ve gotten to the second paragraph; and fourth, while we won’t say women with tattoos are nuttier than the rest, we will say beware of any young miss with a dolphin on her ankle. Also, while we appreciate (sorta) the idea behind the Critical Mass bike movement, we don’t enjoy being stuck at a crosswalk for 20 minutes, late for dinner, as they pedal their bikes around with self-satisfied smirks. But maybe that’s just the August talking; the shrinks are away, writing screenplays about their crazy patients; the sidewalks smell like a deli without electricity; and we don’t know what the hell is going on with Six Feet Under. O.K.! Tonight, get out your wooden spoons and love beads and head over to Joe’s Pub for banjo, as Jim and Jennie and the Pinetops—bluegrass and Southern rock, “twisting a vivid scene where affliction and peace co-exist in a turbulent but comforting place” (uh huh)—and the Crooked Still—“a unique combination of driving, earthy grooves and soaring, heavenly vocals” (uh oh)—take the stage. Expect some makeup-free, freshly scrubbed gals (wearing matching glasses with their fellas) to be drinking whiskey and beer. And remember, fellas, beware the ankle dolphin! (And, if anyone else is keeping track of just how many times a movie can be replayed, When a Man Loves a Woman is on the WE network. Sheesh, guys, we get it already.)

[Jim and Jennie and the Pinetops, Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette Street, 9:30 p.m., www.joespub.com; When a Man Loves a Woman, WE, 7:30 p.m.]

thursday 4th

No one is going to argue that M&M’s aren’t delicious—put a bowl out and watch how fast those suckers will go. So we can’t figure out why Masterfoods USA is making a big push to get more adults hopped up on the junk. But they are, and today in Grand Central Terminal, the company will officially unveil their “newest and biggest” M&M’s, which will come in more “adult” colors such as maroon, teal, beige, gold and “fellatio.” Inexplicably, the brilliant John O’Hurley (best known as J. Peterman on the popular NBC television series Seinfeld or from his turn on the very weird Dancing with the Stars) will be on hand. Next! A chick named Periel Aschenbrand is fêted with cocktails and politically correct food on photographer Mark Seliger’s West Village rooftop for her nonfiction book, The Only Bush I Trust Is My Own (she designed T-shirts with the saucy phrase and was one of those girls who realized they could protest and self-promote by stripping down during the Republican National Convention—but somehow, even with all of those eagerly displayed pudenda, George W. Bush still won—but hey, at least the gals felt empowered and got media attention!). The 28-year-old Ms. Aschenbrand writes in her book that she loves to be naked, drinks a double espresso with a “splash” of 2 percent milk and enjoys a good lap dance. See page 130 for an account of her bruised hemorrhoid. Mr. Seliger, who used to shoot Rolling Stone covers, met the budding writer in a stairwell (we bet!) and shot the cover of the book, which features a naked (of course) Ms. Aschenbrand. Now why didn’t Dorothy Parker ever think of that?! Meanwhile, a very different kind of artist will be on display at the Knitting Factory, where Stephanie Erdel, a 9/11 survivor (whose boyfriend was killed in the attack), sings songs from her album, Running from Fear, to benefit September Space, which provides free emotional support for 9/11 survivors.

[M&M’s unveiled, Grand Central Terminal, Vanderbilt Hall, 87 East 42nd Street, noon; Periel Aschenbrand book party, Mark Seliger residence, 162 Charles Street, 9 p.m., by invitation only; Stephanie Erdel performs, Knitting Factory, 71 Leonard Street, 7 p.m., www.knittingfactory.com.]

friday 5th

“I’ve had a crush on Drew Barrymore since I saw E.T., but it’s age-appropriate—I was 6 years old, too,” said Brian Herzlinger, the wacky director and filmmaker who made his quest for a date with the lovely actress into the movie, My Date with Drew, premiering this evening. Mr. Herzlinger, who funded the film with the $1,100 he won on a game show, embarks on a journey that takes him from buying a camera at Circuit City to crashing the world premiere of Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle. “We decided to make this movie on a Friday and started shooting that Monday,” he said. “None of us knew what was going to happen.” Was he intimidated by Ms. Barrymore’s fabulous, moffeted Strokes boyfriend? “It was never more than just meeting her—I wasn’t delirious. There was no downfall for me; honestly, I was just proud that I took the risk. It was a positive quest.” We can’t reveal if the maniac succeeds with Ms. Barrymore (this guy needs you to see the movie), but we’ll tell you who you will see in the movie: Corey Feldman. That’s right, the Feldman (proving once and for all it will work for food). In other moviegoing news, The Dukes of Hazzard, whose promotional blitz has tired us out, finally arrives in theaters. Anyone else both enthralled and repelled by the Jessica Simpson video for “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”?

[My Date with Drew and The Dukes of Hazzard, for showtimes and theaters, www.moviefone.com.]

saturday 6th

Marco! … Out in the ho-happy Hamptons, the nouveau-almost-riche flock again to watch the polo ponies in Bridgehampton. The previous weeks have brought out celebrities like the slippery Owen Wilson (we can’t figure out just what to think of that guy: Is he a laid-back stoner with a funny nose? Or the secret genius behind Wes Anderson?), Jay-Z (he’s got 99 problems, but a bitch ain’t one—now that we know for sure) and hemp-lovin’ Woody Harrelson (who’s so weird, you have to love him). Last week, Matt Dillon acted as host for the day. We wonder if Mr. Flamingo Kid is now getting asked about his brother more than he gets asked about Cameron (“These Boobs Were Made for Stalkin’”) Diaz. Today, Town and Country is on duty—make of that what you will. Elsewhere out there, Christopher Fischer, who peddles and perpetuates the whole summer-cashmere mystique, throws a cocktail party with trendy fashion jeweler Lee Angel, featuring discounts on the thread and a sneak peek at some new bling. Expect lots of air-kissy, grabby types (you know who you are).

[2005 Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge, Bridgehampton Polo Club, 849 Hayground Road, Bridgehampton; Christopher Fischer and Lee Angel cocktail party, 67 Main Street, East Hampton, 4 to 7 p.m., by invitation only.]

sunday 7th

Merci Coco! It seems like just yesterday that the socialites whipped themselves up into a lather over the Chanel exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Where have all the fine-feathered gals gone? (We’ll give you three guesses!) Today is the last day to see the clothes that launched a thousand ambitions (and eating disorders), so get up there before it gets replaced by something silly like historical art artifacts. Next! Much more accessible to the common people is the very free concert at SummerStage featuring M.I.A., who will kick it Sri Lankan style. The 28-year-old’s sound is described as a “mash-up of British garage, Jamaican toasting, American hip-hop and South Asian bhangra,” which, amazingly enough, can “effortlessly graft images of violent revolution and Third World poverty to block-rocking party beats.” This means, simply, a very white and serious crowd will be dancing like idiots. Now, onto more serious business: Six Feet Under … does anyone understand? On tonight’s episode, Kathy Bates returns, which we suppose is, at least, something.

[Chanel exhibit, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Avenue, www.met.org; M.I.A. concert, SummerStage, Central Park, 3 p.m., www.summerstage.org; Six Feet Under, 9 p.m., HBO.]

monday 8th

In a sweltering summer, just what this town needs is a big stinkin’ rap concert (hope nobody gets shot!). Eminem and 50 Cent (and friends, and bodyguards, natch) roll into Madison Square Garden for two nights of hip-hop-hooray! We’d advise staying off N.J. Transit and the LIRR this evening, because there’s going to be more than one Slim Shady riding the train home, if you know what we mean. Slightly north and just as packed as the Garden will be the Bryant Park Lawn for the big-screen viewing of 1968’s The Odd Couple, starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau (for the youngsters, before they became grumpy old men). If you hear some old movie queen saying all the lines out loud, have mercy: Our Big-Cheese Editor rarely gets out.

[Anger Management Tour, Madison Square Garden, Seventh Avenue at 32nd Street, 8 p.m., www.thegarden.com; The Odd Couple, Bryant Park, 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue, www.bryantpark.org.]

tuesday 9 th

It’s hip not to catch hep! Hundreds of New Yorkers march to City Hall to raise awareness about being tested and treated for Hepatitis C (a disease known mostly as something Pamela Anderson contracted). The blood-borne virus has infected nearly 300,000 New York City residents, particularly in the Latino community. “Our goal is to eliminate some of the names on a list for a liver transplant,” said Debbie Delgado Vega, the founder and C.E.O. of the Latino Organization for Liver Awareness (LOLA), who will be marching along with Joel Rivera, majority leader of the City Council. “The more awareness raised, the better,” she said. “We’ll hopefully look like a million at the march—City Hall isn’t that big!” Indeed, as Mayor Mike Bloomberg always cracks, “But I AM standing!”

[March for Awareness, noon, Battery Park City Parks Conservancy, 2 South End Avenue, www.lola-national.org.]

wednesday 10th

O.K., we admit it: Today might be one of those rare days when it’s better to be in the Hamptons with all of the arrivistes and strivers and overpriced radishes (although not if Lizzie “Leadfoot” Grubman happens to be driving a big German car—yeeeoww!). Because all that’s happening in our fair city is … National Underwear Day! Come on, people, what is this, Cincinnati? Can’t somebody important get kidnapped or something? Anyway, Freshpair.com, which sponsors the event, says they believe “underwear deserves a lot more recognition than it gets.” We feel woozy. We can’t wait for National Q-Tip Day.

[National Underwear Day, Freshpair.com.]

The current Chanel exhibit at the Met has only served to fuel our Gallomania. The haughty, highly quotable ghost of Coco Chanel is staring down Fifth Avenue, creating waves of self-loathing. I love a well-cut bouclé suit as much as the next man, but if one more person reminds me that “elegance is refusal” or that “luxury lies in the absence of vulgarity,” I am going to vomir.

Throwing lard on the fire is the ubiquitous Mireille Guiliano, author of the annoyingly successful French Women Don’t Get Fat (Knopf). Every time I turn on the radio, there’s Mireille, hogging every available spot on NPR—airtime that would be far better allocated to certain other recently published authors. The glee she clearly derives from comparing gargantuan Yanks to her petite fellow countrywomen is something she might want to discuss with her therapist.

My ire (something I frequently discuss with my therapist) reached a boiling point recently when I heard her on The Diane Rehm Show (WAMU): “If I ’ave zee little dessert at dinner,” crowed the magnificently restrained Mireille (I am paraphrasing), “zen maybe I say non to zee croissant zee next morning.” Oy vey! If this is the elegance of refusal at work, then donnez-moi un grand doughnut tout de suite.

Imaginez-vous, s’il vous plaît, the chorus of bewildered yawns that would ensue if a Midwestern housewife went on NPR and said the following: “If I overdo the ambrosia salad at night, then I always hold back on the Entenmann’s the next morning.” Fascinating!

Back to Coco, and moi. If elegance is refusal, then I must be about the most inelegant person on the planet. I say yes to everything, especially when it comes to press opportunities. During the course of my climb to the middle, I have been interviewed by late-night Russian radio stations and Chilean newspapers. No media outlet has been too lowly or too obscure for my consideration. If a seed catalog called me for a quote about whether nasturtiums were in or out this summer, I would be incapable of not returning the call.

I am most susceptible to anything involving TV cameras. I just appeared on Tommy Hilfiger’s The Cut and, yes, I recently lensed yet another episode of America’s Next Top Model. When you are an F-list celeb, as I happily am, you would never, ever, ever dream of refusing any media opportunity where a professional makeup artist is provided. For we F-listers, this would be the equivalent of being Jude Law’s nanny and saying non when he asks if you wanted to have a good old snog. Unthinkable!

Here’s yet more evidence of my pathological suggestibility: Whenever I read a book, I enter hook, line and sinker into whatever milieu is being explored. Extrication comes only with the reading of a new book and the embrace of a fresh milieu. I am currently reading Jimmy McDonough’s Big Bosoms and Square Jaws (Crown $26.95), the biography of soft-porn genius Russ Meyer, and I may soon have to stop: With every page, I sink further and further into the sleazy mire of Meyer. By Labor Day (I’m a slow reader), I am sure I’ll be sporting a revolver, not to mention a giant pair of silicone hooters.

This book has proven to be a fantastic antidote to this summer’s freaky Francophilia. The violent, busty Meyer supervixens—Raven, Haji, Tempest, Tura et al.—are, après tout, the antithesis of those withholding, smug French women. And Coco Chanel, with her lifelong battle to rid the world of vulgarity, was the absolute screeching polar opposite of Russ Meyer.

I feel a personal connection to old Russ. Back in the early 80’s—in ma drinkin’ days—I lived around the corner from a strip club called the Body Shop on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. The main attraction was Mr. Meyer’s then-girlfriend, Kitten Natividad. The star of Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens took quite a shine to me. This manifested itself in a highly unorthodox way: She invited me back to her dressing room. I went (it would have been inelegant to have refused). She then flew across the room and began to bat my head with her legendary appendages.

I had a Proustian moment while reading the Meyer bio. It occurred when I reached the passage where Mr. McDonough describes Russ as “the kind of man who discovers that slapping a leg of lamb is a perfect sound effect for a breast striking a face.”

Put that in your Gauloise and smoke it, Madame Coco!

Vive la vulgarité!

I arrived at my summer rental in Southampton on a Wednesday night late in June. It’s a Cape Cod–style house, about 100 years old, with burnished hardwood floors and a wraparound porch dotted with Adirondack chairs. Protected from the street by high, manicured hedges, the property is abloom with blue hydrangea and pink azalea bushes.

I hadn’t been to the place in over a week, and when I unlocked the front door, I let out a deep sigh of tranquility. Everything was just as it should be: dining-room chairs pushed neatly under the table and freshly laundered, folded beach towels stacked in a corner of the kitchen, waiting to be grabbed by anyone heading out back to take a dip in the pool.

However, once I entered my bedroom, I realized that something was amiss: The closet door was ajar and the light inside switched on. A noted neatnik, I would never have left my room in such a flagrant state of disorder.

“Strange,” I thought, opening the door wider in order to put away a few belongings that I had brought with me.

Horrific was more like it. The closet was nearly empty; most of my summer wardrobe was gone. My Prada shifts, Chloe T-shirts, Calypso cover-ups and brand-new Claude Pierlot shorts had vanished. My entire bathing-suit collection—lovingly assembled over the years—was wiped out: the Christian Dior floral tankini with matching sarong; the Issey Miyake athletic black two-piece with mesh trim; the two Chanels, a strapless, metallic pink one-piece and another with a red, plaid-skirted bottom. Saddest of all, I would never again see my Ursula Andress camel-colored bikini—Tom Ford’s summer 2004 swan song for YSL. And all that remained of my pink, striped Missoni bikini was the tiny top. The bottom had been stolen.

Yes, stolen. My clothing had been ripped off, along with my Longchamp weekend duffel, which must have served as the loot bag. How could this happen in the Hamptons, that supposed oasis of serenity, gentility and civility?

It was 11 p.m., and I immediately called the Southampton Village police. A squad car showed up, delivering two officers—Romeo and Cornell—to my door. Searching for evidence, they noted that all TV’s and VCR’s were accounted for. Nothing of value (at least to them) had been filched. There was no damage to the house, which was very odd; crime in these parts comes with kicked-in screens and rummaged-through drawers. Local hoodlums are after cash and anything that can be hocked in Riverhead or Bellport for drug money. There had never been a heist of designer pool-wear. The cops were sure the burglar had to be someone I knew. What kind of company did I keep? My last houseguest, as it turned out, was an acclaimed writer and former drug addict.

“Could she also be a klepto?” Officer Cornell asked. He suggested that I set her up by inviting her to my Manhattan apartment to see if anything was missing after she departed.

I wasn’t sure which was worse: a friend with sticky fingers or a friend who would frame another. Besides, the writer couldn’t be a suspect. Aside from being recovered, she spent most of her time chain-smoking and was way too self-involved and disorganized to leave the city and go through the hassle of staging a break-in to schlep a mound of my clothes back home. Also, she didn’t know how to drive.

“What about a domestic?” Sergeant Romeo suggested.

“The housekeeper who cleans this place has been doing it for years. She has a key. Why would she bother to contort herself through window when she could simply unlock the door?”

Still dismissing the theft as an inside job, the police were about to leave until I succeeded in urging them to make one last tour of the property. And there it was, the forensic evidence: a small, dirty sneaker print on a window ledge located at the side of the house, under an air-conditioning unit. Evidently, the perp had climbed onto the ledge, stepped atop the unit, lowered the upper half of the window and then leaped cat-burglar style into the guest room below. The point of entry was no more than a foot high and 18 inches wide. Only a Chinese gymnast or Heather Locklear could have accomplished it.

“That explains why the crook took my clothes!” I deduced proudly. “We’re the same size. I wear a two.”

“Has anyone been stalking you, Ms. Hayt?” Officer Cornell asked.

Stalking me in Southampton? No one knows me there. I keep to myself and only wear my Pucci pareo in my cloistered backyard. Why would I be a target of crime? Granted, my house is located in the “village” of Southampton—a far cry from the estate section—but I do boast a geographically desirable location: “south of the highway,” or “S.O.H.,” the local code for status.

Well, in truth, my rental is only a 1/16th of a mile S.O.H. More humbling, the street is also just north of a Long Island Rail Road overpass—which, in effect, puts me on the wrong side of the tracks, a reality that Southampton Police Detective Sergeant Lamison later confirmed when I called him to find out if there were any leads on my case.

“I’ve got 13 open burglaries right now. Most of them are near you, though none are like yours,” he said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

My case is particularly perplexing. The thief didn’t take all my clothes; left behind were my shoes, as well as a Marc Jacobs lavender cashmere sweater, Gucci denim jacket and Chanel terrycloth beach jacket. Why forgo such high-ticket items?

“The thief was a woman and the shoes weren’t her size,” surmised my sleuth-minded friend Ellen. “The crime had to have happened on a broiling hot day, because all your swimwear and beach cover-ups were stolen. If it had been a cool day, the cashmere sweaters and jackets would be gone. It could have been someone who came out to the Hamptons for a long weekend and left her luggage on the Jitney. She didn’t have any clothes to wear, so she took yours out of need. It was an impulse theft—really prêt-à-porter, which may be French for ‘ready to wear’ but actually translates into English as ‘ready to carry.’”

Prêt-à-porter. Ellen was on to something. Because the S.O.H. bikini burglar was svelte enough to squeeze through the window and into my designer threads, it’s quite possible she once walked the straight and narrow, namely as a waif supermodel strutting a catwalk. Why else would someone leave behind the Toshiba but make off with a sample-size Tory Burch tunic? And if that were the case, then the crime was one of passion—a passion for fashion—and, I, the victim, might in other circumstances have committed it, too.

I arrived at my summer rental in Southampton on a Wednesday night late in June. It’s a Cape Cod–style house, about 100 years old, with burnished hardwood floors and a wraparound porch dotted with Adirondack chairs. Protected from the street by high, manicured hedges, the property is abloom with blue hydrangea and pink azalea bushes.

I hadn’t been to the place in over a week, and when I unlocked the front door, I let out a deep sigh of tranquility. Everything was just as it should be: dining-room chairs pushed neatly under the table and freshly laundered, folded beach towels stacked in a corner of the kitchen, waiting to be grabbed by anyone heading out back to take a dip in the pool.

However, once I entered my bedroom, I realized that something was amiss: The closet door was ajar and the light inside switched on. A noted neatnik, I would never have left my room in such a flagrant state of disorder.

“Strange,” I thought, opening the door wider in order to put away a few belongings that I had brought with me.

Horrific was more like it. The closet was nearly empty; most of my summer wardrobe was gone. My Prada shifts, Chloe T-shirts, Calypso cover-ups and brand-new Claude Pierlot shorts had vanished. My entire bathing-suit collection—lovingly assembled over the years—was wiped out: the Christian Dior floral tankini with matching sarong; the Issey Miyake athletic black two-piece with mesh trim; the two Chanels, a strapless, metallic pink one-piece and another with a red, plaid-skirted bottom. Saddest of all, I would never again see my Ursula Andress camel-colored bikini—Tom Ford’s summer 2004 swan song for YSL. And all that remained of my pink, striped Missoni bikini was the tiny top. The bottom had been stolen.

Yes, stolen. My clothing had been ripped off, along with my Longchamp weekend duffel, which must have served as the loot bag. How could this happen in the Hamptons, that supposed oasis of serenity, gentility and civility?

It was 11 p.m., and I immediately called the Southampton Village police. A squad car showed up, delivering two officers—Romeo and Cornell—to my door. Searching for evidence, they noted that all TV’s and VCR’s were accounted for. Nothing of value (at least to them) had been filched. There was no damage to the house, which was very odd; crime in these parts comes with kicked-in screens and rummaged-through drawers. Local hoodlums are after cash and anything that can be hocked in Riverhead or Bellport for drug money. There had never been a heist of designer pool-wear. The cops were sure the burglar had to be someone I knew. What kind of company did I keep? My last houseguest, as it turned out, was an acclaimed writer and former drug addict.

“Could she also be a klepto?” Officer Cornell asked. He suggested that I set her up by inviting her to my Manhattan apartment to see if anything was missing after she departed.

I wasn’t sure which was worse: a friend with sticky fingers or a friend who would frame another. Besides, the writer couldn’t be a suspect. Aside from being recovered, she spent most of her time chain-smoking and was way too self-involved and disorganized to leave the city and go through the hassle of staging a break-in to schlep a mound of my clothes back home. Also, she didn’t know how to drive.

“What about a domestic?” Sergeant Romeo suggested.

“The housekeeper who cleans this place has been doing it for years. She has a key. Why would she bother to contort herself through window when she could simply unlock the door?”

Still dismissing the theft as an inside job, the police were about to leave until I succeeded in urging them to make one last tour of the property. And there it was, the forensic evidence: a small, dirty sneaker print on a window ledge located at the side of the house, under an air-conditioning unit. Evidently, the perp had climbed onto the ledge, stepped atop the unit, lowered the upper half of the window and then leaped cat-burglar style into the guest room below. The point of entry was no more than a foot high and 18 inches wide. Only a Chinese gymnast or Heather Locklear could have accomplished it.

“That explains why the crook took my clothes!” I deduced proudly. “We’re the same size. I wear a two.”

“Has anyone been stalking you, Ms. Hayt?” Officer Cornell asked.

Stalking me in Southampton? No one knows me there. I keep to myself and only wear my Pucci pareo in my cloistered backyard. Why would I be a target of crime? Granted, my house is located in the “village” of Southampton—a far cry from the estate section—but I do boast a geographically desirable location: “south of the highway,” or “S.O.H.,” the local code for status.

Well, in truth, my rental is only a 1/16th of a mile S.O.H. More humbling, the street is also just north of a Long Island Rail Road overpass—which, in effect, puts me on the wrong side of the tracks, a reality that Southampton Police Detective Sergeant Lamison later confirmed when I called him to find out if there were any leads on my case.

“I’ve got 13 open burglaries right now. Most of them are near you, though none are like yours,” he said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

My case is particularly perplexing. The thief didn’t take all my clothes; left behind were my shoes, as well as a Marc Jacobs lavender cashmere sweater, Gucci denim jacket and Chanel terrycloth beach jacket. Why forgo such high-ticket items?

“The thief was a woman and the shoes weren’t her size,” surmised my sleuth-minded friend Ellen. “The crime had to have happened on a broiling hot day, because all your swimwear and beach cover-ups were stolen. If it had been a cool day, the cashmere sweaters and jackets would be gone. It could have been someone who came out to the Hamptons for a long weekend and left her luggage on the Jitney. She didn’t have any clothes to wear, so she took yours out of need. It was an impulse theft—really prêt-à-porter, which may be French for ‘ready to wear’ but actually translates into English as ‘ready to carry.’”

Prêt-à-porter. Ellen was on to something. Because the S.O.H. bikini burglar was svelte enough to squeeze through the window and into my designer threads, it’s quite possible she once walked the straight and narrow, namely as a waif supermodel strutting a catwalk. Why else would someone leave behind the Toshiba but make off with a sample-size Tory Burch tunic? And if that were the case, then the crime was one of passion—a passion for fashion—and, I, the victim, might in other circumstances have committed it, too.

And the only thing worse than being a handbag whore is being a handbag whore in a world where there is no “It” bag.

To be an “It” bag, a bag must provoke the following in otherwise-normal handbag whores: 1) a propensity for cheerfully sitting on waiting lists; 2) hours spent trolling eBay hoping to find said bag for up to three times the retail price; and 3) begging publicists just for the chance to pay full price for the bag in question.

Tragically, this summer has been a long, cold “It”-bag-less summer. The optimists will say this isn't true. They'll point to the new Mulberry Notting Hill Roxanne bag (too cheap at $1,045); the Fendi beggar bag (though expensive enough to be an “It” bag at $3,320, it seems to me to be far too fleshy and flabby for “It” status); the sloppy, heavy Chloe homeless-but-really-I-live-in-Soho bag (which again is O.K., but it's been around nearly a year, so it's too old to be “It”).

What are the larger implications of this tragedy? Is the stock market about to plunge? Is this the beginning of the end?

Of course, my suggestion that the Upper East Side hasn't seen an “It” bag since last year's Chanel quilted Madonna bag was met with the staunchest denials at one high-end Fifth Avenue retail mecca. Like the boy whistling in the dark to keep himself from the inevitable panic attack, my fashionable gray-haired saleswoman insisted that the absence of an “It” bag was merely just journalistic wishful thinking.

"This season, there's a ton of cool bags,” she said. “My most favorite is this Gucci bag.” She smiled with a mouthful of alarmingly sharp teeth as she stroked the scary animal-looking skin of a Gucci medium shoulder bag in almond-colored python. “Look at this workmanship, the craftsmanship. Why, this seems almost handmade.”

Seems being the operative word. I journalistically looked at the price tag—slightly more than two grand. “But this isn't an ‘It' bag,” I said. “I've never seen anyone except some wind-blown wrinklies in Palm Beach carrying this sucker.” For a minute, we looked at each other—she a luscious, Botoxed and cellulite-free 47, I a pudgy and dimwitted 26. She realized that I was nothing more than a cheap harlot looking for a gossip fix. I had no bank, no bling, no black American Express and no reason to live.

But she was wrong; I have rich parents (though by Upper East Side standards they are nearly homeless). I can remember back as long ago as 1997 (a banner year for me, as I spent much of it in rehab). That year brought the Gucci hobo, lean and mean and very uncomfortable because of its bamboo handle. The following year ushered in the Fendi baguette (small and expensive, like a Miller sister), and the year after that was the year of the Prada nylon in fruity colors (a floopy mess of a bag that was way too easily copied). The golden years of 2000 through 2004 saw, in rapid succession, the Kate Spade nylon zip-top tote, the square $1,200 Tod's tote, the Marc Jacobs no-pocket hard-frame round bag, the Jimmy Choo hobo, the Luella Birkin style tote, the Chanel Madonna bag, the Marc Jacobs five-pocket hobo, the Balenciaga homeless-woman tote (made fashionable by my favorite New Yorkers, Mary-Kate and Ashley) and the Hogan tote.

Sitting outside J.G. Melon's on Third Avenue and 74th Street, I am dismayed. A woman passes carrying one of this season's pointy Tod's bags, which is nice but lacks a celebrity following or an influential fashion editor pushing it over the top. I'm carrying last year's Mary-Kate Balenciaga in green in a slightly smaller size (it's dirty and grungy and makes me want to weep into my salad). Its best quality is that its price won't show up on my credit-card bill because my mom bought it for me. There is no joy on Third Avenue! I feel it, or the lack of an “It,” as the case may be; the haggard soccer mom lugging a beat-up camel-colored Chanel feels it, too.

At the Bergdorf Goodman handbag sale, no fights break out. A year ago, Scoop on Third Avenue was unable to keep Marc Jacobs bags in stock, but now the store runneth over with Marc Jacobs. And by far the most distressing economic indicator—even worse than the absence of an “It” bag—is that the usually aloof salespeople at Scoop seem vaguely interested in my business.

Is it possible that, sometime in the future, apartments won't be a million dollars a bedroom? Is it conceivable that people might stop spending $5 on a cup of burnt coffee made by a surly teen in a green smock? Is it perhaps in the cards that one day soon, frugality will be more impressive than a fleet of $250,000 Maybachs, all of them driven by Yale-educated drivers? Will the Target credit card replace the American Express black card as the card of choice among the East Hampton set? Will frugality become our new “It” baggage, or will my shrink come back in September from Southampton (south of the highway, of course) and put me back on my medication?

And the only thing worse than being a handbag whore is being a handbag whore in a world where there is no "It" bag.

To be an "It" bag, a bag must provoke the following in otherwise-normal handbag whores: 1) a propensity for cheerfully sitting on waiting lists; 2) hours spent trolling eBay hoping to find said bag for up to three times the retail price; and 3) begging publicists just for the chance to pay full price for the bag in question.

Tragically, this summer has been a long, cold "It"-bag-less summer. The optimists will say this isn't true. They'll point to the new Mulberry Notting Hill Roxanne bag (too cheap at $1,045); the Fendi beggar bag (though expensive enough to be an "It" bag at $3,320, it seems to me to be far too fleshy and flabby for "It" status); the sloppy, heavy Chloe homeless-but-really-I-live-in-Soho bag (which again is O.K., but it's been around nearly a year, so it's too old to be "It").

What are the larger implications of this tragedy? Is the stock market about to plunge? Is this the beginning of the end?

Of course, my suggestion that the Upper East Side hasn't seen an "It" bag since last year's Chanel quilted Madonna bag was met with the staunchest denials at one high-end Fifth Avenue retail mecca. Like the boy whistling in the dark to keep himself from the inevitable panic attack, my fashionable gray-haired saleswoman insisted that the absence of an "It" bag was merely just journalistic wishful thinking.

"This season, there's a ton of cool bags," she said. "My most favorite is this Gucci bag." She smiled with a mouthful of alarmingly sharp teeth as she stroked the scary animal-looking skin of a Gucci medium shoulder bag in almond-colored python. "Look at this workmanship, the craftsmanship. Why, this seems almost handmade."

Seems being the operative word. I journalistically looked at the price tag-slightly more than two grand. "But this isn't an 'It' bag," I said. "I've never seen anyone except some wind-blown wrinklies in Palm Beach carrying this sucker." For a minute, we looked at each other-she a luscious, Botoxed and cellulite-free 47, I a pudgy and dimwitted 26. She realized that I was nothing more than a cheap harlot looking for a gossip fix. I had no bank, no bling, no black American Express and no reason to live.

But she was wrong; I have rich parents (though by Upper East Side standards they are nearly homeless). I can remember back as long ago as 1997 (a banner year for me, as I spent much of it in rehab). That year brought the Gucci hobo, lean and mean and very uncomfortable because of its bamboo handle. The following year ushered in the Fendi baguette (small and expensive, like a Miller sister), and the year after that was the year of the Prada nylon in fruity colors (a floopy mess of a bag that was way too easily copied). The golden years of 2000 through 2004 saw, in rapid succession, the Kate Spade nylon zip-top tote, the square $1,200 Tod's tote, the Marc Jacobs no-pocket hard-frame round bag, the Jimmy Choo hobo, the Luella Birkin style tote, the Chanel Madonna bag, the Marc Jacobs five-pocket hobo, the Balenciaga homeless-woman tote (made fashionable by my favorite New Yorkers, Mary-Kate and Ashley) and the Hogan tote.

Sitting outside J.G. Melon's on Third Avenue and 74th Street, I am dismayed. A woman passes carrying one of this season's pointy Tod's bags, which is nice but lacks a celebrity following or an influential fashion editor pushing it over the top. I'm carrying last year's Mary-Kate Balenciaga in green in a slightly smaller size (it's dirty and grungy and makes me want to weep into my salad). Its best quality is that its price won't show up on my credit-card bill because my mom bought it for me. There is no joy on Third Avenue! I feel it, or the lack of an "It," as the case may be; the haggard soccer mom lugging a beat-up camel-colored Chanel feels it, too.

At the Bergdorf Goodman handbag sale, no fights break out. A year ago, Scoop on Third Avenue was unable to keep Marc Jacobs bags in stock, but now the store runneth over with Marc Jacobs. And by far the most distressing economic indicator-even worse than the absence of an "It" bag-is that the usually aloof salespeople at Scoop seem vaguely interested in my business.

Is it possible that, sometime in the future, apartments won't be a million dollars a bedroom? Is it conceivable that people might stop spending $5 on a cup of burnt coffee made by a surly teen in a green smock? Is it perhaps in the cards that one day soon, frugality will be more impressive than a fleet of $250,000 Maybachs, all of them driven by Yale-educated drivers? Will the Target credit card replace the American Express black card as the card of choice among the East Hampton set? Will frugality become our new "It" baggage, or will my shrink come back in September from Southampton (south of the highway, of course) and put me back on my medication?