Not to be outdone, Oprah sat down with porn impresario Jenna Jameson and after talking briefly about the "business," the two got into a—ahem—lengthy discussion about male porn stars.

Anyway! At the NCAA Tournament, the clock struck midnight for Cinderella as Cornell lost to Kentucky in the Sweet 16. Somewhere, Andy Bernard weeps.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEtZUGabk1s

But the big story of the night was Kansas State outlasting Xavier in double overtime. Even if you're not a hoops fan, CBS announcer Gus Johnson's histrionics may well jump-start your morning better than that second cup of coffee.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVEIeD91vIc&feature=channel

Wipe that disdainful expression off your face! If it’s good enough for Jenna Jameson, Hugh Downs, Barbara Eden, Leslie Nielsen, Ricky Schroder, former Vice President Dan Quayle and Alice Cooper, it’s certainly good enough for you. I’m talking about Scottsdale, Ariz., my new home away from home, and a place that you should seriously think about adding to your could-I-bear-to-live-there? list.

Thought it was just a sleepy retirement community? Geriatric, schmeriatric! Having just returned from yet another surprise-packed trip, I am telling you, Scottsdale is one surreal and crazy town. Stylish, too.

Did you know, for example, that Ms. Jameson, the porn star, is such a big fashion shopper that she has her very own dedicated parking spot at the Fashion Square Mall? No? Thought not.

There’s oodles of high culture, as well. At the labyrinthine Westin, where I sojourned last week, I was treated to the haunting spectacle of a Scottish bagpipe player. He appears on the golf course every day around 5, performing in 100-degree-plus heat while wearing a scratchy kilt. As if that weren’t decadent enough, the cocktail bar in the Westin lobby is named the Rim.

Everything in Scottsdale is much more louche and naughty than you might expect. Even the food. One of the principal local delicacies is, in fact, totally illegal. I am talking about the notorious bacon-wrapped Mexican hot dog. (Food safety codes prohibit the wrapping of uncooked pork products around a pre-cooked item.) This addictive Sonoran snack can be purchased on various street corners for $3. The illicit frisson only serves to fuel the ardor of the locals for this wildly decadent cholesterol-busting bargain treat. Ask for it “con todos” and you won’t be disappointed.

Why Scottsdale, why now?

My focus on Scottsdale results from the fact that there’s a Barneys flagship store opening in the aforementioned mall. I have been making reconnaissance trips to prepare for the Oct. 15 opening, and am starting to make quite an impression on the locals. I might be five feet four and a half inches in New York, but in Scottsdale I am Shaq-tastically gigantic. (He lives there, too!) Last week alone I was the featured guest on two local morning TV shows. A third appearance was canceled when word reached the station that rain was in the offing. All reporters were dispatched to various corners of the Scottsdale-Phoenix area to interview the locals about how they were coping with the possibility of rain. Mention the word “precipitation,” and everyone goes to pieces.

Speaking of dramas: Last week, I had my first Scottsdale health emergency. Here’s what went down: A colleague and I were taste-testing mini-desserts for the opening bash. The proffered stuffed raspberry looked innocent enough. But while masticating, a strange electrical tingle exploded in my head. I assumed the worst and prepared to collapse to the floor and transition into a vegetative state.

“Pop Rocks!” shouted the chef, who had cunningly inserted the weird 1970s candy into the offending fruit. I am telling you, nothing is too wild and crazy for the people of Scottsdale.

On my next trip, I fully intend to visit one of the Arizona Indian casinos, which lie on the outskirts of the city. Local TV commercials hosted by glamorous and otherwise “slot coordinators” have mesmerized me with their tantalizing descriptions of the newest innovations, including Star Trek– and Playboy-themed one-arm bandits.

Care to join? If you get lucky at the tables, you could snap up a foreclosed real estate bargain. Worst-case scenario, you can always get a job as a slot coordinator. We can celebrate with a Mexican hot dog. Say goodbye to the Highline and the Monkey Bar and lets go party down at the Rim!

sdoonan@observer.com 

Porn star Jenna Jameson is expecting twins with her boyfriend, UFC fighter Tito Oritz. We guess the two will split the playground taunts equally. [NYDN] 

Jenna Bush avoided the "George Bush" masks when she visited the Halloween Adventure store on Broadway.  [R&M, third item]

The search is on for stolen photos of Jamie Lynn Spears breastfeeding her new daughter Maddie. [US Weekly]

Meg Ryan is still talking about her breakup with Dennis Quaid. She said the dissolution of her marriage allowed her to "be totally under the radar and live [her] life," which seems, shall we say, inaccurate. [People]

Capote director Bennett Miller's new girlfriend and current employee Louisa Gamon emailed a bunch of his friends requesting job leads now that things have gotten "personal." [P6]

Page Six is reporting that adult-film icon Jenna Jameson and fashion designer Richie Rich are opening a new bar in Chinatown.

Exactly where the article doesn't say. It only provides this hint:

Called The General Store, the new nightspot will sell clothing in addition to booze. The bar is slated to open in 2008.

Andy Hilfiger, Tommy’s branding-wizard brother, crossed the runway. “Hey, boy—hey, girl,” he said to fashion commentator Robert Verdi and Janice Combs, mother of Sean. It was last week at Heatherette, in the Bryant Park tents.

“What’s goin’ on, Andy?” Mr. Verdi said. “We were just talkin’ about you today.”

“Hi, baby, how are you?” said Ms. Combs, raising her cheek for a smooch.

“I need two seats for Ashanti,” called the floor manager.

“Uh-oh, it’s the Holly-wood Shu-ffle!” Mr. Verdi sang, and his shoulders did a little dance beneath his brown mink coat.

Later. Amanda Lepore closed the show by marching down and up the runway, holding a sign above her head.

“It’s true dreams come true in New York?” Mr. Verdi asked Ms. Lepore backstage, referring to that sign.

“Oh, yah,” she said. Fastened tightly against her midsection was a plastic doll.

“Didja have fun? You doing anything exciting?” Mr. Verdi said.

“Just, I’m going to the after-party, Happy Valley.”

“No, I meant in general, in life …. ”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got a new doll out,” she said, and looked down.

“Oh, shit, how come I didn’t know about this?”

“Yeah, it’s coming out in March.”

“Who did it?”

“Jason Wu.”

“Is he the same guy who did RuPaul’s?”

“Yah.”

“Yes, ’cause that doll is flawless,” Mr. Verdi said.

“They’re selling it at Jeffrey’s,” she said.

“You have a weird smell,” said a woman who’d been standing nearby.

“Yah, mine’s perfumed,” said Ms. Lepore. “Like, smell it,” she said to Mr. Verdi. He bent over and stuck his nose in Ms. Lepore’s doll.

“Is it perfumed by your direction?” he asked.

“Yah,” Ms. Lepore giggled.

“So, what’s the fragrance?”

“That’s the one,” Ms. Lepore said. “I’m going to sell it.”

“Oh, you’re gonna release the fragrance with the doll?!”

“Yah, definitely.”

“Awesome!”

“That’s exciting. It’s a big thing. Who knew?!”

“Ooooh, wow, can I take your picture?” said the woman. “Who made this, did you say?”

Mr. Verdi drifted off through the crowd. He had spoken earlier of a desire to do talk television “about issues”—and then he spotted Jenna Jameson, the porn star and porn memoirist.

“Hi, Jenna,” he said.

“Hi, Robert,” she said. They greeted each other like old friends, but in fact they had never met before.

“Day to day, what do you count on?” Mr. Verdi asked.

There was a long pause. “Well, I’m pretty much, like, full on every day,” Ms. Jameson said.

“Really? Done, just done,” Mr. Verdi said, now talking clothes and make-up.

“If I leave the house,” said Ms. Jameson.

“Where would you wear this?” said Mr. Verdi. She wore a sleeveless, strapless Heatherette creation, exposing much of her cleavage.

“The mall?” she said, unsure herself. “I rock it everywhere I go,” she said.

On the back of her neck was a tattoo of a butterfly, the hues of which—blue, green and purple—perfectly matched her heavy eye make-up. “All my tattoos are a remembrance of each pivotal time in my life,” Ms. Jameson said. She extended a leg to show off another one.

“They’re all turning points?” Mr. Verdi said.

“Yeah. And some of them my ex-boyfriends have done.”

“Jenna, German television—the highest-rated,” said a woman, extending a microphone, her camera- and soundmen right behind her. “Is it true what we read today—are you going to be the face of Heatherette?”

“You know, yeah—I mean, it’s amazing,” Ms. Jameson said.

Mr. Verdi bumped into Miss U.S.A., 22-year-old Chelsea Cooley of Charlotte, N.C.

“I thought she was going to walk out,” Ms. Cooley said of Ms. Jameson, wondering why the newly named Heatherette face girl hadn’t taken an inaugural roll down the runway.

“So did I, Courtney,” Mr. Verdi said, astonished.

“Chelsea,” she said.

“ Uhp! Chelsea,” he said. “What did I say?”

“Courtney,” Ms. Cooley said perkily. “Same damn thing. Courtney, Chelsea—same thing, it’s all good.”

Mr. Verdi stroked her royal sash. “I was wearing it the other day,” he said.

“And I just had these on,” Ms. Cooley laughed, clasping a tangle of charms that hung at her bust line.

“This is Stella McCartney, am I right?” Mr. Verdi said, zeroing in on one of the pendants, an amber-colored thing in the shape of an animal.

“I don’t know—my stylist picked it out for me,” Ms. Cooley said.

The reigning Miss Universe, Natalie Glebova, soon joined them. “Are you Russian?” Mr. Verdi asked her. She nodded. In fact, Ms. Glebova won her title as Miss Canada, but then again, she was a brunette when she was crowned and she’s not now.

Mr. Verdi moved further into the tent, to a private room—a pre-after-party.

“[Jenna] called us and said she loves us,” said Richie Rich, half of the Heatherette design duo, “and we said, ‘Ah, we love you—why don’t you come over, we’ll give you a dress, and wanna come to the show?’ She’s gonna be part of our lingerie line, because she’s sexy and fun. Y’know. She lives life.”

Janice Dickinson was distributing business cards for a modeling agency that she’s founded. “I’m going to put American supermodels back on the front cover,” she said. “Models like what’s-her-name, from Georgia.”

She hurdled some furniture to jump into the scope of a photographer’s lens. “I’m in this one!” she yelled.

Ms. Jameson reappeared. “Now I’m doing a big push into mainstream, into fashion,” she said.

“Can I ask you a crazy question?” Mr. Verdi said. “What residue are you left with as a byproduct of your career?”

“Here’s the thing,” Ms. Jameson said. “Everybody knows me, everybody likes me. They’ve read my book, they feel good about who I am. But it’s just getting over that liiiittle hump of people taking the chance on me. That’s all. Richie said that I was cute for his lingerie line, so that’s really cool—really fun,” she said.

But, when sex is your job, “what is real life like after that?” Mr. Verdi asked.

“It’s all about being able to separate yourself,” she said.

“How do you do that?”

“I close myself off …. When I go home, I’m totally different. I’m married!” Ms. Jameson whipped out her pink Juicy Couture–designed Sidekick and displayed her husband’s picture. “We’ve been together eight years,” she said. “I just actually lost 30 pounds. Me and my husband, we’re trying to have a baby.”

“But, but, but—when you watch pornography,” Mr. Verdi said, “it’s so not in real time, it’s so staged, and, like, it stops, starts, stops, starts …. ”

“It really is—there’s no emotional connection at all,” Ms. Jameson agreed. “It’s all about pretty much making yourself look beautiful. You don’t think about what’s happening. It’s just like a job; it’s just like modeling.”

“So what’s the biggest misconception about you?” Mr. Verdi asked.

“That I’m a nymphomaniac sex fiend.”

“Do you ever say no to your husband?”

“He’s lucky if he gets it,” Ms. Jameson said, bursting into a laugh that sounded surprisingly goofy. “He calls me ‘the prude of porn.’”

—Nicholas Boston

The Pud-Pounder

“Damon’s work is very edgy, very hip,” said Doug Dechert at the party for his 49th birthday on Saturday night; it was billed as his 40th. “ Forbes magazine called him the hottest contemporary artist in the country.” Mr. Dechert, an agent of sorts, was clad in a leather duster and some ass-kicking black cowboy boots. He was steering an attractive young blonde toward his latest project, artist Damon Johnson, who is the son of Page Six gossip overlord Richard Johnson. “He’s got a B.A. from N.Y.U. in fine arts, so he’s a trained artist. I’m his manager; I know where he’s going. His work is still relatively cheap. And this is going to sound corny, but because you’re so beautiful, I could guarantee you a discount.”

By 10:30 p.m., blizzard and all, guests had begun to trickle through the velvet ropes of the nightclub NA. Some found that Mr. Dechert had a tendency to mix business with pleasure. “Wow, she was gorgeous,” he crowed after the blonde and her friend had sought refuge at the bar. “But don’t worry—there are going to be so many beautiful women here in an hour. You’re going to be amazed.”

The birthday boy appeared to have three modes—pumping a client, trying to get laid, or venting about people who he thought had betrayed him—although those three discrete circles of his behavioral Venn diagram often seemed to collapse entirely into one shared and mud-colored subset.

Among those betrayers mentioned on Saturday night were: Mr. Dechert’s 20-year-old former flame/client, the author Abigail Vona; Ms. Vona’s publicist, Jeanine Pepler; Mr. Dechert’s former drinking buddy and Ms. Pepler’s former boyfriend, Jay McInerney; Ms. Vona’s editor at Rugged Land, Webster Stone; and deposed Page Six writer Ian Spiegelman.

The short version: In June 2003, Ms. Vona, then 18, moved in with Mr. Dechert. Mr. Dechert acted as her boyfriend and manager. Ms. Vona sold a book after Mr. McInerney had brought her manuscript to his then girlfriend, Ms. Pepler, who in turn gave it to Mr. Stone, who in turn signed Ms. Vona.

Ms. Vona and Mr. Dechert split. Her book, Bad Girl, was published in August 2004, to little notice.

“It’s a classic story,” Mr. Dechert said. “It’s like every music-business story where the manager takes the band, gets them up there, gets them a record deal and then it’s ‘We’ll take you, we’re gonna make you big, but get rid of that manager!’ McInerney, his girlfriend Jeanine, who became my girlfriend’s publicist, and Web Stone—the moment she signed the publishing contract, they all said, ‘Get rid of Doug, you don’t need him anymore. We’re gonna help you now.’ Well, that pissed me off.”

And then. An item in Page Six, written by Mr. Spiegelman, accused Mr. Dechert of throwing Ms. Vona’s belongings out of his apartment window and other mayhem. A public feud played out in Lloyd Grove’s Daily News column; vicious e-mails were published; in June 2004, Mr. Spiegelman was fired from the New York Post. Now, Mr. Spiegelman has a book coming out in May.

“Doug, are you going to reach out to Ian?” asked Webster Hall promoter Baird Jones; he is an old friend of Mr. Dechert’s and knows how to push his buttons.

“Oh, yeah—I’m gonna reach out with my fist, right in that fuckin’ schnoz of his,” said Mr. Dechert. He gave his prepared (and likely well-worn) quote about Mr. Spiegelman: “He’s a little media mediocrity, and he has the instincts and countenance of a rodent.”

(Mr. Spiegelman, reached for comment, declined to be goaded into battle for a second time. “He seems a little obsessed with me. It’s kind of gross,” wrote Mr. Spiegelman in an e-mail. “I really don’t want to be associated with that person at all. And, no, he’s not in my book. I write dark, but not that dark.”)

Mr. Dechert claimed that Ms. Vona bothers him to this day—that, with some improbable magical all-knowingness, she bombards a number of Mr. Dechert’s newest conquests with phone messages and e-mails, telling them to keep away from him, that he’s trouble.

“The parallels with [James] Frey’s book and Bad Girl are incredible,” Mr. Dechert said. He went on, at length, to savage her book. “Web Stone said, quote, ‘The book will sell better if we call it nonfiction,’ end quote. I was there.”

Mr. Dechert said that Mr. Stone had wanted to include a memory of Ms. Vona being sexually abused; Ms. Vona didn’t want to. “I personally proposed a compromise. I said, ‘Instead of being fingered by your brother, we’ll have a passage where she walks into her bedroom and finds her brother beating off.’ And I put a marker in there, so that I could prove this was my idea. I had her refer to him as ‘the pud-pounder.’ Now that is a term that has an etymological pedigree going back to St. George’s in the early 70’s. In other words, I put that in there as a marker for future reference. It’s not a term that would come up in the mind of a teenage girl in Connecticut.”

Mr. Dechert went on to list other parallels with Mr. Frey. He claimed that Ms. Vona was at one point booked on Oprah, but then was dropped.

Oh, the night wore on—and how. To Mr. Dechert’s credit, there were more than a few beautiful women in attendance.

“Say what you will about Doug, he knows how to turn out a good crowd,” said club owner Noel Ashman, who will reopen the spot under a new name on March 20.

“I think it’s a very nice event; it’s a lovely crowd of people, and I wish Doug the best,” said Stephen Robson, a hedge-fund manager and apparently a friend. “But I would imagine this would be the same scene at his funeral.”

Mr. Dechert finished up the night by going to Bungalow 8, and then to Scores, though he may not have enjoyed that. “I’ve got no use for strippers,” he said. “I’d take an honest prostitute over a stripper any day, and you can quote me on that.”

—Spencer Morgan

Next Fashion Week: Sept. 8, 2006

“Give her some room, please! Give her some room!” Two big men with walkie-talkies shouted at the Vera Wang show.

“Can we give her some room?” one paparazzo repeated to another. “I mean, it’s Hilary Duff! She should be giving us some room.”

Nevertheless— pop, pop, pop!—the frenzied flashbulbs continued to crack around the pony-tailed pop star, perched in the front row in a bright blue sweater and diamond skull earrings (rocker street cred!). She had dragged along boyfriend Joel Madden of the band Good Charlotte, who sat next to her looking thoroughly unenthused.

On hands and knees, tape recorder in hand, The Transom crawled through the photographers’ legs for an interview. Up close, Ms. Duff—who had recently lost 15 or so pounds of “baby fat”—looked tired and a bit frail. We planned to ask The Anorexia Question, but first asked what she liked about Ms. Wang’s designs (you have to build up to these things, people). “I love her style. Her dresses are cut well for a woman’s body, and her daywear is really great. It’s a little more classic and simple, and I like that—” A yank on the arm! The Transom was being forcibly removed.

“Get her out of there!” the photographers shouted. “She’s ruining our shot!”

Across the way, Vogue czarina Anna Wintour was all glisteny in fresh highlights and a black fur coat. We asked if she’s ever had a fashion misstep. “Oh, I’ve made hundreds of mistakes,” she said. “My daughter”—Bee Shaffer—”always tells me.”

Soon after, Ms. Wang’s models padded down the runway in flats and short-sleeve structured jackets. For the person with no hips, tulip dresses were still alive and well. Almost everything came with a trench-coat belt. Capes were in effect, along with their gamine younger sister, the capelet. Overall, the collection was a bit cheerless, the color of a sky that promises to ruin your plans for the day.

In fact, gray and black dominated so much of the collection that, on the way out, one photographer joked to another, “Did you set your camera to black and white?”

And there was Glamour editor Cindi Leive. How is the baby? “God only knows—I haven’t seen him all week. I kissed my husband and the baby goodbye on Monday and haven’t seen them since.” How does she do it? “Drugs!”

—Noelle Hancock

Ladies’ Rankings

Week of Feb. 6 through Feb. 12:

Of the 62 women-about-town being tracked by The Transom, can it be said that any of them didn’t win the social competition that is Olympus Fashion Week?

Oh, Annelise Peterson in your shocking white gown at your Calvin Klein after-party! Oh, Tinsley Mortimer, pretty as a Texas doll in sea-foam mint, antique peach and a gown in the orange-red of a dying Duraflame log: Did you change outfits every hour in your town car all through Fashion Week?

But ah, Ms. Mortimer. We spied the moment you came of social age: You were hobnobbing with Agnes Gund at the Zac Posen party. Ta-da! Ra-sha-sha!

Too bad, though, about that weird moment when Getty Images captioned a photograph of you at Heatherette as Jenna Jameson. That’s a mistake that surely doesn’t happen too often! Still, they had a point: It wasn’t your best look of the week by any stretch ….

All through Fashion Week, B.F.F. and fave femme Zani Gugelmann put on a good show as the gal most likely to actually look friendly while posing with other girls and their “It”-ness. A medal of valor for her!

But indeed: the Alexandra Lind Roses, the Olivia Chantecailles, the Eliza Reed Bolens … most bewitching! A fool’s paradise! Lost in a reverie of grosgrain and silk … Aerin Lauder walking Michael Kors … Lucy Sykes making her final assertion of sororal primacy over sister Plum … Little front-row slices of honeyed melon and bias-cut wit, all in a city that, for just another moment now, has the foolish sense and time to glitter ….

Oh, who are we kidding? Ms. Mortimer, you have the win.

My friend Bill (not his real name) and I wanted to write a story about Jenna Jameson, the adult-film star. So one afternoon we telephoned Ms. Jameson's publicist, who suggested that we meet her client and screen Jenna's latest film, Dream Quest . That sounded like a pretty good idea. But a screening room wasn't immediately available, so Ms. Jameson's publicist suggested that Jenna could come over to one of our apartments. That sounded like a really good idea.

Then we began to worry. How does one host an adult-film star?

We chose Bill's apartment in Brooklyn, since it is bigger than mine. The night before Ms. Jameson was to come over, Bill had his place professionally cleaned. Bill is married, and he doesn't even do that for his in-laws.

Then we had to decide what to wear. I wanted to look cool for Ms. Jameson, but I didn't want to look as if I were auditioning for a part in her next film. I picked a pair of tight green suede pants, black boots and a sleeveless black turtleneck. (When I'm nervous I always wear a sleeveless top, in case I sweat.) My friend Louisa, whom I invited to join us, decided to wear pleather pants and a red blouse. Bill picked out a pair of ties and asked us to help him select the most appropriate one.

Food was another concern. Part of me wanted to serve nothing but cream-filled foods: Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, ravioli. That was too cute. I also considered bananas, cucumbers and Popsicles. Too obvious. We decided to just stock the fridge with beer and wine and order take-out when Jenna arrived. I also brought a bunch of biscotti made by my 93-year-old grandmother.

On the big night, we hired two cars to bring us to Bill's place. We picked Ms. Jameson up at her hotel in midtown. Like a lot of stars, she is much shorter in person and much skinnier, too. She was wearing tight black jeans, a "Playboy 55" T-shirt and a red jean jacket. She was with her assistant, Traci. Traci, a former masseuse, refers to herself as "Jenna's bitch."

We arrived at Bill's apartment 20 minutes later. Once inside, Ms. Jameson lit a Capri cigarette and slouched on the couch alongside Traci. She took out two cell phones and a BlackBerry pager and put them on Bill's coffee table. One of the cell phones was for business, Ms. Jameson explained, and the other was for "booty calls."

I took a seat next to Jenna and offered her one of my grandmother's biscotti. She took one. Then we all started talking. The conversation quickly turned into frank girl talk: We talked about menstruation, about penis size, about embarrassing noises during sex. It felt both naughty and strangely comfortable. Ms. Jameson talked about her technique for oral sex. Her secret is lots of saliva. In fact, Ms. Jameson said she was thinking of bottling and selling her saliva.

Then the phone rang. Bill picked it up. It was his pregnant wife, Natalie, calling from an airport in Seattle. "I hope you're having fun at your porn party," Natalie said before she slammed down the phone.

We decided to order dinner. We ordered sushi, which triggered some snickering. "Ohhhh yeah, sushi! Sushi girls, uh-huh," Ms. Jameson sang.

Then we popped Dream Quest into Bill's VCR. There was a lot of nervous laughing and giggling. Every time a sex scene would come up, Ms. Jameson would shriek, "Ohhhh, yeah! Wa-waw, bomp chicka bomp bomp, wa-waw." She also kept up a running commentary through the film, telling us who wasn't nice on the set and who wasn't particularly well-endowed.

For a while it was exciting, and definitely surreal. Then I got kind of bored. Having an adult-film star at your house was like visiting Amsterdam for the first time. At first you're giddy and you can't believe it. Then it gets to be too much and you long for something safe and warm, like bunny slippers.

At the end of the movie, we had Jenna sign our copies of Dream Quest . We posed for photos. Then we called Jenna and Traci a cab, walked them to the door and said goodnight.

–Christina Valhouli

Chelsea's R.V. Cowboy

James Chrystie drives a 1982 AirStream 310 that he bought off an old lady in upstate New York for $20,000 four years ago. It's your classic R.V.: gas range, queen-sized bed, couch, toilet, satellite TV, shower, auto-leveler, hydraulic jacks, CB radio, eight-foot awning. Thirty-one feet long, it's the same rig that NASA uses to shuttle astronauts to the launch pad.

"It's white trash," Mr. Chrystie said over a buffalo burger on a recent afternoon at Heartland Brewery on Union Square. "But it's the best of white trash–a beautiful monstrosity."

What's more impressive than the AirStream's accoutrements, however, is the fact that Mr. Chrystie always manages to find a free parking space–or rather, three free parking spaces–for his beautiful monstrosity on West 16th Street and Eighth Avenue, where he keeps an apartment.

"I always get a space," Mr. Chrystie said blithely. "The secret is to read the signs and, when they have street cleaning, be poised and ready to move in on the space once they've cleaned the streets. You've got maybe 15 or 20 minutes before the street starts to fill back up. Anywhere in the city you can do that. I mean, theoretically, I could leave it across from the Plaza if I wanted to." Mr. Chrystie claimed he can parallel park the AirStream, too.

Mr. Chrystie, who is brown-haired, clean-cut and still baby-faced at 36 years, is a kind of modern cowboy. He sells wild buffalo meat to restaurants in Manhattan, and he regularly travels to Montana to pick out animals for slaughter. While he's there, he lives in the AirStream.

But Mr. Chrystie won't rough it, R.V. style, in Manhattan. "The problem is that you got street noise, and you also got people all night knocking on it because they want to touch it." Not that he hasn't considered it. "I've thought about it. As a bachelor in the city, the chance to live in a party bus…."

Lately, however, Mr. Chrystie's party bus has been causing a fair amount of trouble. His AirStream, it seems, has become Chelsea's trailer non grata. Someone planted an angry fistprint on the RV's back panel. Irate neighbors have complained to the police so many times that the 10th Precinct doesn't return calls about him any more, he boasted. ( The Observer checked, and indeed, it's perfectly legal to take up three parking spaces with a single vehicle.)

"People have knocked on my window and yelled at me," Mr. Chrystie said. "Like, 'What the hell do you think you're doing parking in the street?'"

Mr. Chrystie scoffed at that criticism. "I'm like, 'I have an apartment here, too.' It's basically people being jealous that I have that rig. The fact that people think they own this street–it's absurd.

"I mean, it's a dog-eat-dog world, especially in New York. You know, the fact that I could get the spot, kudos to me. "

–Ian Blecher

Plimpton's Conviction

On a recent afternoon in Brooklyn, the author and Paris Review editor George Plimpton stood in the lobby of Brooklyn Family Court, right beside the metal detectors. Earlier that morning, a woman with a large gold chain around her waist had set off the detectors repeatedly; told to remove the chain, she began removing all her clothes, stripping almost to the waist before she was removed by a court officer. Now the elegant Mr. Plimpton was standing in roughly the same spot. He and nearly 20 others were in Brooklyn for "Day in Family Court," a principal-for-a-day type of affair sponsored by the group Legal Information for Families Today, in which outsiders are shown how the chaotic court works–or, in some cases, doesn't work.

Perching himself behind the family court judge, Mr. Plimpton sat in the courtroom and observed one of that day's sessions. He watched as a couple argued over visitation. He listened as a woman told the judge how her ex-husband smacked her, choked her and shoved her into a metal gate outside her doctor's office, causing her to miscarry.

When the session was over, Mr. Plimpton stood up painfully and walked slowly out into a waiting room packed with shouting, sulking, angry, miserable people and then stood there, swaying slightly, looking sternly left and right like an old raptor.

Afterward, Mr. Plimpton and his fellow participants packed into a van to head back to Manhattan. Most of the passengers sat silently, a little stunned. Turning sidewise, Mr. Plimpton regarded a reporter for a moment and offered: "Well, there's certainly no love lost between these people, is there?"

Mr. Plimpton nodded at Liberty Aldrich, the domestic-violence lawyer (and daughter of Paris Review contributing editor Nelson Aldrich) who had convinced him to come that day. He frowned. "I don't know what she expects me to do about all this," he confided.

–Annia Ciezadlo