To be fair, Hotel Room wasn’t critically acclaimed when it premiered on HBO in 1993 (The New York Times called the three-part series a place “where stories go nowhere, anecdotes are pointlessly bizarre and lame quips are echoed emptily, as if banality were a form of wit), but some one-off projects are better enjoyed after a TV failure and rebirth.
Besides, David Lynch’s collaboration with Jay McInerney and Wild at Heart scriptwriter Barry Gifford is the kind of esoteric zeitgeist–not an oxymoron, at least in this context–that might actually be better with age. The tale involves a New York hotel room–number 603 of the Railroad Hotel–at three different points in time.
Fashion Week Observed
The Prada flagship store in Soho—oh, you know, that $40 million block-size Rem Koolhaas-designed imposition smothered in black glass that opened just weeks after 9/11—is not the place one wanders into expecting a quiet reading from established novelists.
And yet, against all odds, the temple to Italian couture staged such an event last week, even Read More
only in new york kids
How is it possible that the Boom Boom Room is still the Boom Boom Room? New York spots aren’t supposed to survive the winter after Fashion Week. But somehow the Top of the Standard, the golden canopy in Gotham’s skies, has lasted a half-decade.
“What makes it enduring?” Andre Balazs asked us during the rollicking five-year anniversary party he threw for his joint Thursday night. The proprietor of the fine cocktail spot and the hotel that houses it was standing steps away from the Boom Boom Room’s sprawling classic bar, its centerpiece bursting as always with gold-lit tubes like a giant warped church organ. “I think it’s the people, it’s like a child growing up. You can have all the great things, the great view and everything else, but the key to anything is attentiveness.”
INT. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY — EVENING CINDY ADAMS is standing with a friend among a crowd of hundreds, surveying the black-tie attendees at the PEN Literary Gala, who include Philip Roth, Zadie Smith, Jay McInerney, Jennifer Egan, Candace Bushnell, Joanna Coles and Peter Godwin.
Ms. Adams is wearing a splashy, graphic print jacket and a bun atop her head. A stream of partygoers greet her. She is approached by the Transom and asked how to work a room.
- The intimidatingly assiduous Peggy Siegal greets people at the door; thanks us for coming to celebrate party with The New York Observer. “We are The New York Observer!” We cry. She doesn’t even pause. “Well, it’s great to see you anyway.”
-Terry McDonell: I’ve always loved the Observer, I have great respect for Peter Kaplan. The coverage of everything I was interested in New York in the past 25 years was reflected in The Observer at the highest level.
- Ray Kelly recalls the last time he was at the Four Seasons. “[We] feel like you never leave,” we tell the Police Commissioner. His reply: “A lot of people feel that way.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Jay McInerney scoffed at The New York Observer at our 25th Anniversary Party last night at the Four Seasons. “I am not writing a book about The Great Gatsby.” We were baffled; we were sure that we had heard that the Bright Lights, Big City author was busy creating a modern adaptation of the famous F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, set in the Hamptons.
“Are you sure?” We prodded.
Friday, opening night at pop-up club Chez André at The Standard, East Village, found teenage dandy Peter Brant II and ex-porn star Nick Gruber, who was apparently taking a night off from writing a book and developing a TV show about his two-year relationship with Calvin Klein, on stage. The duo, joined at the mic by Andrew Warren and model Serena Marron, sang and mumbled their way through a live-band karaoke rendition of “Born to Be Wild.” We have the video evidence. Arguably, it is the best version of the song ever performed. Arguably!
Ever since Bret Easton Ellis decamped to Los Angeles, New York City’s lone prominent literary brat-packer, Jay McInerney, has ruled with an iron fist from atop his Hearst-cohabited Village penthouse over…young Bard graduates who aspire to be Dan Humphrey. But the author, Best New American Film Critic, and budding entertainment revolutionary still has a well-preserved plot of East Village apartment space, filled with the rarefied air that only the man who yielded American Psycho could have occupied. And now, you—yes, you—can live in it, if you so choose.
Yesterday, Mr. American Psycho Bret Easton Ellis used his highly entertaining Twitter account to comment on culturally relevant events by boasting about what we’re sure was a really fun and not totally disgusting party at the time.
[Editor's note: This article was first published in the March 9, 1992 issue of the New York Observer]
Hitchens hadn’t even finished reading Brightness Falls—it was late afternoon and he was de-icing the silver cocktail shaker preparatory to some old-fashioned, feet-up literary immersion—when his telephone trilled its urgent summons. A brisk voice inquired in a friendly but more than just inquisitive tone what precisely he meant by “profiling” Jay McInerney and what, in any case, he meant by reviewing a novel before its official publication date. This was Hitchens’ first ever call from Gary Fisketjon—he knew of people who had waited in vain for such a call from such a one—and the emotions of flattery and curiosity contended for mastery in his finely but oddly chiseled features. Cupping the mouthpiece, he whispered to the languid presence of Carol Azul, the exquisite screen-writer and Angeleña tour guide who had recently enhanced his happiness and undergirded his waning bicoastal appeal by consenting to become his bride, “Angel, it’s Fisketjon.” “Sometimes, pussy,” she purred, “you do say the strangest things. And don’t get me wrong, but isn’t it the teensiest bit early for that martini?”