Chelsea resident Katie Holmes.

If a typical break-up calls for vats of Ben & Jerry’s and repeated viewings of The Notebook, then we suppose a highly publicized divorce from a top Hollywood actor and devout Scientologist calls for a cross-country move and a gorgeous new apartment. That’s pretty much what Katie Holmes got last summer when she took up residence at the Chelsea Mercantile—the spectacular, star-infused, 21-story building at 252 Seventh Avenue. The actress reportedly signed the lease just a few days after announcing her split from husband Tom Cruise in June 2012.

As you might expect from Ms. Holmes, who has also transmitted her fashion sense to daughter Suri, these are some stylish digs. The actress has been settling into her New York lifestyle pretty well since then. Last winter, Ms. Holmes took the stage as Lorna in Theresa Rebeck’s Dead Accounts, which ran from late November to early January at the Music Box Theatre. Though the show received mixed reviews, Ms. Holmes’s performance stood out, at least to The New York Times. Ms. Holmes “appears much more at ease playing a worn-down country mouse to the hyped-up city mouse of [Norbert Leo Butz],” Ben Brantley wrote. “Ms. Holmes and Mr. Butz summon an appealingly natural family rapport … You may even forget that Ms. Holmes is Katie Holmes for a moment.”

It’s no problem that Dead Accounts closed earlier than expected—Ms. Holmes is already at work acting in another project, a Spike Lee production called Mania Days. In the film, which has been shooting in different locations around New York City, Ms. Holmes plays Carla, a manic-depressive poet who forms a romantic relationship (and later a pregnancy) with a manic-depressive rapper, played by Luke Kirby.

Katie and Suri strolling and riding.

If you’re looking to spot Ms. Holmes on the streets of New York City, it’s unlikely—the star leads a private life (or as private as possible when you are being stalked by paparazzi). The most reliable place to spot the celeb is the H. Stern store on Fifth Avenue, where larger-than-life, nearly nude billboards of the gorgeous Ms. Holmes grace the windows on either side of the doors. Since moving to New York, Ms. Holmes has also been made the face of Bobbi Brown; she’s the company’s first-ever celebrity spokesmodel.

When Ms. Holmes isn’t performing onstage or posing on-camera, she’s playing the role of mother to daughter Suri. Ms. Holmes reportedly enrolled the stylish seven-year-old in the prestigious Avenues school, located near their home in Chelsea.  The school is very new, and has an educational philosophy that might appeal to jetsetters able to pay its slightly higher-than-usual tuition costs.

“In addition to teaching traditional subjects,” Avenues CEO and co-founder Chris Whittle has said, “the school takes seriously its mission to prepare students for the world through intensive classes in Spanish or Mandarin and by providing them with a global view of geography, history, religion, demographics and economic development across many cultures and countries.”

We always knew that Suri could out-dress us any day, but from the looks of her new school, we’re pretty sure she’ll soon be able to outsmart us, too.

But Back to Those Digs

The Chelsea Mercantile was originally built as a fabric manufactory in 1908 (that’s exactly 90 years before the premiere of Dawson’s Creek, the show that marks Ms. Holmes’ debut, in case you slept through that pop culture moment). Nowadays—with the influx of trendy galleries, restaurants and shopping spots in the neighborhood—the historic textile building has been transformed into more than 350 luxury condos that house the likes of Marc Jacobs, Jane Fonda and Lance Bass, along with Katie and Suri. It boasts an interior garden, full gym, parking garage, and a 10,000-square-foot roof deck, and yet still retains charming elements of its turn-of-the-century origins.

“The Chelsea Mercantile is really cool,” says Corinne Pulitzer, executive vice president of Douglas Elliman Real Estate, which has sold a number of units at the Chelsea Mercantile in recent years. “The building has the infrastructure of a factory building, with the very high nine-foot ceilings. Some of the apartments have exposed brick walls.”

Sensible Katie probably chose the apartment for the distinctly downtown flavor but slightly

Entrance to the Chelsea Mercantile, home of Holmes.

more convenient location. She’s not a kid anymore, after all. “The apartments have a loft feel, but you don’t have to go down to Soho or Tribeca, which I think is a big pull for people,” Ms. Pulitzer says. “It’s great to live down there, [but] it’s a hard lifestyle selection if someone’s in the theater, or [working] in midtown.”

The Chelsea Mercantile is also perfect for anyone with a seven-year-old daughter. “The building has a children’s playroom,” says Ms. Pulitzer. “I can see how [Ms. Holmes] came to choose it.”

The diversity of the Chelsea neighborhood may also be responsible for attracting celebrities like Ms. Holmes. From the threshold of the Chelsea Mercantile, residents can reach avant-garde art galleries, elite eateries and fine retail all on foot (or by chauffeur, of course). “The neighborhood has such diverse attractions that it gets a really good mix of different types of people who are seeking [something] cool and edgy,” Ms. Pulitzer says, “as opposed to the Upper East Side, which I wouldn’t call cool or edgy.”

The Star Grocery Shops, Too

On the ground floor of Ms. Holmes’s apartment building is a cozy Whole Foods Market, where the actress is known to regularly shop. The Daily News photographed her there last summer, trying on  cowboy hats with daughter Suri as the pair shopped for a Fourth of July meal.

Though she had been spotted inside the organic food mecca, reporters last summer—who crowded Ms. Holmes’s building shortly after she moved in—were wondering why they rarely spotted their target entering Whole Foods. Hillary Reinsberg, a staff member at BuzzFeed, explained the popular theory that gradually circulated among the crowd of Holmes seekers: “Nearly every lingering photographer seemed to have figured out that Holmes has a way of getting into the store from inside her swanky apartment building,” Ms. Reinsberg wrote in a July 2012 article.

We needed to know: Is it a secret revolving bookshelf, activated by touching a certain tome? Does she enter through a nondescript girls’ bathroom, á la Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets? Can Katie Holmes teleport?

We ask a Whole Foods employee if Ms. Holmes really has a private entrance to the grocery store. He laughs—he has heard the rumor before. But, he says, there’s definitely no secret entrance for the rich and famous. “There’s no Batcave in here, there’s only one door.” Like almost everyone else we spoke to for this story, except the vocal Ms. Pulitzer, the real estate agent, this employee declines to be named, citing company policy.

While Ms. Holmes shops at Whole Foods, her “team” reportedly favors the more casual deli across the street. According to Amen, who does give his first name, and works behind the counter at Chelsea Gourmet Deli, “She sends her bodyguard in every morning—it’s one major guy who comes in.” He notes that the bodyguard frequently buys sandwiches, drinks and snacks.

And when it comes to eating out, Ms. Holmes has no shortage of choices in Chelsea. “The restaurants—my God, you never have to cook!” Ms. Pulitzer gushes.

Back in Beverly Hills, Ms. Holmes was known to be a fan of Crumbs Bakery. Luckily for Ms. Holmes, she can feed her sweet tooth on the East Coast, too; there’s a Crumbs a block away from her Chelsea apartment.  And indeed she has visited the cupcake shop. “It wasn’t a big interaction, but she was very nice,” says the manager of Crumbs when asked about Ms. Holmes’s visit to the bakery. She admits feeling a little star-struck: “I pretended like it wasn’t Katie Holmes!”

Nearby is also the trendy Meatpacking District, whose cobblestone streets are clustered with the hottest bars and restaurants in the city. “I’m sure [Ms. Holmes] hangs out there a lot,” Ms. Pulitzer says. “You have the Ganesvoort, all of these fabulous hotels and clubs. The Standard is there too, and they have that beer garden in the summer. It’s a really high-energy neighborhood.”

Living the Active Life

Of course, for a celebrity with a physique like Ms. Holmes’ and modeling and film contracts, along with great cupcakes come great demands for cardio. Though Ms. Holmes ventures outside of Chelsea to attend spin classes at SoulCycle, the actress is also known to frequent the Chelsea Piers, an expansive, multi-purpose athletic complex along the Hudson River, just blocks from her apartment, although this might be more for Suri’s benefit than her mother’s. Last summer, photographers spotted Ms. Holmes taking Suri to a Chelsea Piers gymnastics class.

If Suri tires of gymnastics, there’s always ice skating to try (and adorable skating dresses to wear while doing it), golf, bowling, boating and facilities for just about any kind of kid party.

But there is at least one sport Ms. Holmes enjoys partaking of at Chelsea Piers. An employee at Chelsea Brewing Company—a microbrewery and restaurant that’s part of the Chelsea Piers—says that Ms. Holmes is reportedly quite the alley cat.

“She goes bowling,” the employee says. “What’s interesting is they offer the private room—they have a private room with eight lanes—but they don’t want it. They want to be in

Crumbs, a favorite of Katie's and Suri's.

public.” Bowling in plain sight. Pretty brave.

Shopping Around

Ms. Holmes is known to be a long-time fan of Anthropologie; lucky for her, the store has a retail space in Chelsea Market, an easy walk from Ms. Holmes’s apartment.

We swing by Anthropologie’s Chelsea location in the hopes of spotting the actress—or at least finding out if she’s a frequent visitor. A friendly employee confirms our suspicions, noting that Ms. Holmes often comes into the store to grab a few things. “She’s a loyal customer,” the sales representative says. “She’s an Anthro girl!”

One Columbia grad student and frequent Anthropologie shopper describes the time she and her roommate spotted Ms. Holmes at the Chelsea Market store: “I was admiring bowls and glasses and first saw her from the periphery,” the source says. “I walked over to my roommate and asked her to look for me again to confirm. Katie Holmes said, ‘Let’s go, sweetie’—she was with Suri, and they were looking at plates. I also checked out next to them and she asked about different colors for table settings.”

The student also reports that on that day in November, Ms. Holmes’s overall style was pretty casual. “From what I remember, [she wore] a long gray cardigan, jeans and short boots,” she says.

Ms. Holmes has also been seen checking out other spots in the famed indoor market, which houses popular joints like Morimoto, Friedman’s Lunch and Sarabeth’s Kitchen.

Walk a little farther south to the Meatpacking District and you’ll hit even more high-end clothing shopping destinations: Diane von Furstenberg, Tory Burch, Alexander McQueen and Stella McCartney all have shops there. And the shopping options are only continuing to grow: “On the corner of 14th Street toward the West Side Highway, one of my favorite gas stations is now going to be 20,000 square feet of retail right by the Highline,” Ms. Pulitzer says. It’s a market that’s certainly perfect for a fashionista like Ms. Holmes—or even a budding fashionista or a budding one.

jtaylor@observer.com

Katie Holmes and Mayor Michael Bloomberg at The New York Observer's 25th anniversary party.

Last Thursday evening at New York’s perch of power dining, the Four Seasons Restaurant, billionaires could be found clinking glasses with politicians, actors could be seen rubbing shoulders with news correspondents, and throngs of notable wordsmiths quaffed copious amounts of liquor at The New York Observer’s 25th anniversary soiree.

“I think this is the best collection of New Yorkers I’ve seen in 20 years!” effused Ronald Perelman, who leered lustily at our highball glass.

“Can I ask you one question?” he continued. “Where’s the bar?”

It’s thataway, just behind Katie Couric, we assured the business tycoon. Or if he preferred, he could hit the bar on the other side of the restaurant’s famous pool room, where Harvey Weinstein had posted up and Spike Lee, who declined to take off his puffy coat, had helped himself to the generous spread of gourmet goodies before chatting up Katie Holmes and Donald Trump.

(Sadly, Shindigger caught only the tail end of that conversation. Mr. Lee saying to Mr. Trump: “Well, that’s one thing we can agree on.”)

Observer editors past and present—Peter Kaplan, Elizabeth Spiers and Ken Kurson—circled the room, while publisher Jared Kushner greeted guests with wife Ivanka Trump at the door. And from the worlds of business, politics, entertainment, fashion and beyond, the stars just kept pouring in. Even Mayor Michael Bloomberg was impressed with the turnout. “The Observer does throw a hell of a party,” he said in his opening remarks, before dubbing attendee Cory Booker “the handsomest mayor in America—west of the Hudson River.”

Here came Terry McDonell and Danny Strong and Jay McInerney and Audrey Gelman and Larry Gagosian and Ray Kelly and Joel Klein and George Pataki and Eric Schmidt and Kevin Ryan and—oh my!—Rupert Murdoch.

We just had to talk to Rupert Murdoch

“Mr. Murdoch? Mr. Murdoch?” Shindigger beckoned.

“What?” said the cantankerous billionaire, walking right on by with wife Wendi Murdoch.

“Can we ask you a few questions, sir?”

“No!” barked Mr. Murdoch, before making a dramatic swat in our direction. Shindigger agilely ducked for safety, silently chuckling at the news baron’s aversion to the press.

In no time at all, we found friendlier prey. “Someone from The Observer already observed me,” said Broadway favorite Christine Baranski, who was chatting with fashion consultant Fern Mallis under the floral protection of one of the poolside trees.

“New York is just the coolest city, and I love the fact that this paper really makes New York seem cool,” Ms. Baranski said. “The Observer touches on the sophistication and fun of the city. I just like the tone of it.”

Just then, we re-encountered Mr. Perelman, who had been paired with a cocktail, and who had his own take on The Observer. “The only bad moment I ever had was when they wrote a story about a little synagogue,” Mr. Perelman said, referring to Chloé Malle’s prickly 2010 article about the billionaire’s lavish private synagogue.

“I wish they didn’t, but they did, so that’s the end of it,” he said. “I still love The Observer, even besides that.”

Very gracious, we thought, bumping then into Observer alum George Gurley, with whom we had pre-gamed earlier in the evening at Jean and Martin Shafiroff’s glitzy Saint Patrick’s Day cocktail party. The suavely fuddled Mr. Gurley made the perfect VIP-fixer for Shindigger when PR maven Peggy Siegal was hand-holding elsewhere.

“He does Shindigger, he’s trustworthy,” Mr. Gurley assured José “Pepe” Fanjul, the president of Fanjul Corp. and Florida Crystals Corporation.

“I think this is the best event!” exclaimed Mr. Fanjul’s Carolina Herrera-clad wife, Emilia Fanjul.

We danced past the couple then to catch up with model Hilary Rhoda, who was getting a kick out of the bash.

“Oh, it’s a great party!” she said, holding a plate of Christian Albin’s Italian gourmet cibo. “I love the room, it’s gorgeous. I love the band. Obviously getting into the food situation.”

Ms. Rhoda, also dressed in a Carolina Herrera creation, had just returned from the runways of Paris, where she had walked for Céline. “Now I’m back and on photo shoots,” she said.

Photorealistic artist Chuck Close was also taking advantage of the buffet.

“I love The Observer almost in spite of myself,” he said. “At first it was a guilty pleasure, and then one day they endorsed Mitt Romney. I almost canceled my subscription. What were they thinking?”

What brought you back onboard, we wondered?

“When I go to Europe and can’t read you, I get really upset,” he confessed. “It went from being a guilty pleasure to a real pleasure.”

A cocktail later, we found ourselves yelling: “Ms. Herrera, we saw you at the School of American Ballet’s Winter Ball, and you were dancing!”

Shindigger had never witnessed her quite so zippy.

“Yes, I know. I’m South American,” Carolina Herrera retorted sassily.

Cuchi-Cuchi!

Back to the bar we traipsed.

“Do you have a white wine or champagne?” Padma Lakshmi pressed a barman.

“Rosé or brut?” he asked.

“Brut,” the foodie stated assuredly.

Ms. Lakshmi wanted to know our thoughts about her Blossom Ball. “Did you have fun?” she asked.

“We did, “Shindigger said.

“I’m glad!” she said. And then the Maison Martin Margiela-wearing TV host told us about the previous day, which she had spent in Albany: “I was recognized by the State Senate. Every State senator was there, because it’s budget time,” she dished, lowering her voice to a serious, husky tone. Though she lost us at “budget.”

When the band was replaced by DJ Chelsea Leyland’s turntables, things had officially strayed, and Shindigger was impressed (and a tad disappointed) that not a single sloshed attendee plummeted into the white marble pool. Cases in point: when perpetually grabby Four Seasons proprietor Julian Niccolini began frisking two attractive slabs of meat, offering to shower them with pricey pours of Bordeaux. Or when Gawker founder Nick Denton resorted to flirting with a pride of hungry tech lionesses, having already refused to be photographed with Mr. Murdoch because “it’s too obvious.”

Shindigger sidled up to the bar for last call with Ashleigh Banfield of CNN and Fox News’s Kimberly Guilfoyle.

“We’re together,” Ms. Banfield joked about their warring media outlets. “I’ve known her for eight years. We use to work at Court TV together.”

“Did you see Rupert Murdoch? He didn’t want to talk to us,” we bemoaned.

“Because I work at CNN, he didn’t want to talk to me, either,” said Ms. Banfield.

“No, he’s great! God bless him!” Ms. Guilfoyle cut in, right on cue.

As Rihanna’s “Diamonds” thundered over the speakers, Ms. Banfield revealed that she had gotten a smooch from the Newark mayor.

“We had a Cory Booker sandwich,” swooned Ms. Guilfoyle.

As things were wrapping up, at least one guest took on a reflective air. Mr. Close told us that he was overwhelmed by the turnout and notable faces. “I’ll make sure to be at the 50th anniversary,” he promised. “I’ll be 98.”

Shindigger likes a man who can forecast that far ahead—or, for that matter, with any type of math skills.

Here’s to the next 25 years!

Jared Kushner, Katie Holmes and Mike Bloomberg (PMc)

- 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."

- Spike Lee keeps on puffy coat all evening, talks to Katie Holmes, Donald Trump. Catch tail end of his conversation with Mr. Trump: "Well, that's one thing we agree on."

- Mayor Bloomberg gets onstage, proceeds to riff about slipping Harvey Weinstein a script (Bloomie on Bloomie), Cory Booker ("The handsomest mayor West of the Hudson") and The Observer ("It's OK when you needle somebody else, but not me.")

- Michael Shannon confounds half the party with his celebrity status. "What famous person is that?" we are asked more than several times. We finally after give up and refer them to Boardwalk Empire after several of our "the Future General Zod" joke receives blank stares.

- Nick Denton refuses to take photo with Rupert Murdoch because it's "too obvious."

-Chuck Close: I love the Observer almost in spite of myself. At first it was a guilty pleasure. When I go to Europe and can't read you, I get really upset.

- Mayor Cory Booker meets Manhattan Borough President Scott Stringer’s press secretary/Girls actress Audrey Gelman. Mr. Booker finds a way to bring the conversation back around to Star Trek.

- Game Change’s Emmy-winning screenwriter Danny Strong still getting recognized for his years on the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But he's a good sport, and challenges fanboy to name the one episode of the hit show that was nominated for an Emmy. (Answer: "Hush.")

-Former editor Peter Kaplan begs off with the excuse that he is trying to wean himself off of anti-anxiety medication.

-Ronald Perelman: I love the publication! I think everybody here is great. I think this is the best collection of New Yorkers I've seen in 20 years!

- Jay McInerney inquires about the after-party; never shows up.

By Alex Fine.

Basketball is back. Three weeks after opening night was canceled in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, four months after the Knicks let Jeremy Lin slip out of town, 13 years since the Knicks’ fluke run to the NBA finals, and two decades since Pat Riley’s tough-guy team captivated New York in the early years of the Giuliani era, fans in the world’s greatest basketball city care without cynicism again.

The Isiah Thomas era and the Knicks’ failed pursuit of LeBron James are old news. The Nets’ long struggle for big-city relevance got lost somewhere in New York harbor. When the teams squared off Monday night in Brooklyn’s new Barclays Center, the city had plenty to cheer about: real stars, the top two spots in the Atlantic Division standings and the eyes of millions upon us.

“Brooooooklyn,” they sang in the style of Biggie Smalls—the best rallying cry in American sports—when the Nets scored a bucket. “MVP!” they chanted when Knicks star Carmelo Anthony stepped to the free throw line. The crowd was so loud at times it was hard to believe that the 17,000-plus fans weren’t all cheering for the same side.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg was among them, as were Michael Strahan, Charlie Rose, Richard Gere and, of course, Nets part-owner Jay-Z and his wife Beyoncé. By our count, there were 100 members of the press on hand, including representatives from Chinese, German and Italian outlets. ESPN had 12 journalists at the game, in case you were wondering how the sports network gauged its importance.

In the end, Mr. Anthony missed a jumper that would have won the game in regulation, and the Nets outlasted the Knicks in overtime. It didn’t matter, much.

For a night, we could forget that the Knicks hadn’t won a title in 40 years, forget about Bernard King’s balky knees and Patrick Ewing’s shaky nerves, forget about anything having to do with Mr. Thomas.
New York was back where it belonged, as the basketball center of the universe.

New York is a basketball town, God help us. There’s something in the collective DNA that tells us hoops is the most important sport, some vague understanding that there are neighborhoods where a kid can still become immortal on a playground, some distant memory of the days when teams traveled to media and not vice versa, the days when the Garden earned the right to be called Mecca.

So what if it’s an empty boast? So it’s been 40 years since Willis and Clyde led the team to glory, longer still since the city produced a truly elite player. (Best New York City product in the last 25 years is ... Stephon Marbury?) Basketball is the ultimate confidence sport, and New York is the fake-it-till-you-make-it confidence town. Don’t forget the darker days when the city’s greatness wasn’t a given, the days of “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there,” when we could swap tales of Earl “the Goat” Manigault snatching quarters off Harlem backboards—or Willis Reed staggering onto the court for game seven of the 1970 finals, John Starks rising high over Jordan and Grant for a left-handed jam—and recognize a grace and gall and toughness we imagined in ourselves.

Suffice it to say the psychic stakes were high for us Knicks fans setting foot in the Barclays Center on Monday night. Indeed, in the years since Bruce Ratner first broke ground, I often feared that the Knicks’ woes would continue, that the hangover from Mr. Thomas’s tenure, when the team collected overweight players with fatter contracts, would never abate, that James Dolan would remain a pox on the franchise. And that, in the absence of a team they cared about, the fickle masses would give in to the allure of the hottest borough, the newer arena, the team with one owner who’s rich enough to run for Russian president and another who doesn’t simply not suck, but doesn’t suck so much that he’s married to Beyoncé.

Would I blame them? No. Excommunicate? Probably. But something would tear loose from the fabric of my city if New York were no longer a Knicks town.

I can report that a trip to the Nets’ new arena offers temptation enough for a lesser-willed fan to cross over: High ceilings (this is Brooklyn, so exposed ducts, natch) and open sightlines; a thoughtfully curated selection of local food (Spumoni Gardens for the natives, Fatty ’Cue for the arrivistes, Nathan’s for the tourists); instead of the light shows that often mar pregame introductions, a dignified volley of fireworks. Instead of stadium anthems, music that reminds you that Brooklyn belongs to the world. (We have to wonder, though, how big a cut the sound man is getting from Roc-A-Fella Records: with the exception of the periodic Biggie track, it was almost entirely Jay-Z’s catalog.)

Slick Rick played at halftime. He was pudgy, and some of the words were lost in the acoustics, but still, it was a classy nod to New York City’s hip-hop history, and something that’s hard to imagine going down at corporatized Madison Square Garden.

I can also report, happily, that on the evidence of one evening, the fan exodus isn’t happening. Led by Mr. Anthony—reinspired, the sportswriters say, and leaner at the waist after playing alongside Mr. James in the London Olympics—and Tyson Chandler, the biggest man on the court, if not tip to toe, then certainly by the size of his heart, the Knicks have the look of a title contender. Maybe not a favorite, but at least a plausible long shot. It’s not just the fans who think so: the team filled out its roster for this season with veterans like Jason Kidd and Rasheed Wallace, the type of already-rich players lured not by the biggest paycheck but by the best title shot.

So the Nets fans were more numerous, more conspicuous in their “Fan Since Day One” badges (oh really?) and black-and-white Brooklyn gear. Knicks fans were, if not louder, better at the business of being fans. They chanted “Defense” from the first possession and serenaded Mr. Anthony at the free-throw line. Maybe it was simple sports loyalty, as Spike Lee, the world’s most public Knicks fan, tweeted at Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz: “With All Due Respect I’ve Been A NEW YORK KNICERBOCKERS Devotee Since 1967, Not Gonna Switch.” And as Mike Williams, a Knicks fan from East New York, Brooklyn, told us in the spacious bowels of the arena, “Knicks fans have been Knicks fans forever. The Nets are just a novelty.”

But let’s not overindulge in name-calling, at least not in the afterglow of this happy new rivalry. Who cares if the black-and-white-clad masses remember nothing of the Drazen Petrovic tragedy, the Derrick Coleman disappointment, if they had to read the banners hanging from the rafters to know the Nets won a pair of ABA titles in the days before the merger?

Instead, let’s celebrate for a moment the improbable course that led these two teams to their current exalted status. Nets general manager Billy King, who achieved middling results as the decision-maker for the Philadelphia 76ers, bet that by paying heavily for swingman Joe Johnson, late of the Atlanta Hawks, he could convince Deron Williams, his star free agent point guard, to re-sign with the Nets.

Meanwhile, if the Knicks are as good as their early play has promised, the fans will owe the team’s salvation (or at least, above-averageness) to the last figure they’d expect: current GM Glen Grunwald didn’t just play college ball with Isiah Thomas at Indiana University, he was hired by Zeke on two separate occasions. The Knicks are wont to downplay the relationship between the pair, lest they stoke our suspicions that the former GM is still conspiring to ruin the team. Mr. Thomas isn’t so coy: “I love Glen, he’s one of my favorite people on earth,” he told ESPN Radio last summer.

Who cares? Like players, executives come and go: love and hatred for them are fleeting emotions, and for the moment, Mr. Grunwald’s free-agent signing of shot-blocker Mr. Chandler and installation of defensive-minded head coach Mike Woodson (another one of Mr. Thomas’s Indiana pals), are all anyone needs to know.

The Brooklyn partisans can speak for themselves. Mark Anise, a Brooklyn resident who loves his borough so much he had a Nets ‘B’ tattooed on his right bicep on the ground floor of the Barclays Center, told me: “Basketball was the one sport where I always rooted for the name on the back of the jersey. I always said if Brooklyn got a team, then I’d root for the name on the front.”

Never one to mince words when it comes to his love for his hometown, Mr. Markowitz emailed The Observer, “Our fans are so wild, so over-the-top, so proud and so loud that even residents of the outer borough of Manhattan will hear us cheering for the best team in New York and the best team in the NBA, the Brooklyn Nets.”

On the way down to the postgame press conference, I passed an usher with his hands clasped in the air in the shape of the Roc-A-Fella diamond in an homage to Jay-Z. “We’re coming for you, Spike,” a colleague usher said to Mr. Lee, who wasn’t in the arena, or to no one. Or everyone.

Well, let them come—it’s good to have a rival. The great Knicks team of my youth, Pat Riley’s boys, tapped into the ethos of 1990s New York: tough as Charles Oakley, the man who used to ride an exercise bike to the point of tears, and cocky as John Starks, who played his college ball in nowhere Oklahoma, and believed even then that he was better than any of the anointed kings of the NBA. And so we loved them for it.

In the hearts of the city’s sports fans, they were displaced by Derek Jeter’s Yankees: brilliant hardworking men who made their fortune in New York City, tapped in less to the town’s blue collar roots than to the Wall Street princes who defined a revitalized city.

These Knicks aren’t that tough or that classy, and neither are these Nets. But the city doesn’t need an NBA title. Yet. For the moment, it’s enough to care.

pclark@observer.com

Only Sherri and Barbara escaped unscathed!

Apparently drama works in daytime. E-Poll Market Research has released a study (unscientific, it would seem) of the most politically divisive celebrities--those preferred disproportionately by either Republicans or Democrats. Elisabeth Hasselbeck, the conservative voice on The View, is the most disproportionately loved by GOP members--with a difference of 51 percent in her approval by right- and left-wingers. Other celebrities appealing more to Republicans, in order: Hank Williams Jr., Tim Tebow, Ted Nugent, and Amy Grant. Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg, her couch counterparts in the kaffeeklatsch, are the third and fifth most disproportionately Democrat-beloved among celebrities, respectively. They are only less divisive than Spike Lee, Mo'Nique and, in fourth place, Forest Whitaker. (While Mr. Whitaker may seem anodyne, here's a fun fact: 7 of the 10 celebrities found to be most disproportionately appealing to Democrats are nonwhite, including who-knew-people-cared picks like Malcolm Jamal Warner!)

Spike Lee and Mike Tyson on 'Today' (NBC)

We're starting to believe that Spike Lee is either a genius or has gone absolutely insane. (Kind of like Peter Jackson, n'est pas?)

First he spends years jerking us around about an American version of Old Boy, even threatening to put Steven Spielberg in charge and giving Will Smith the lead role of Oh Dae-Su. (For those who haven't seen the film, that's akin to doing a remake of Schindler's List where Zac Efron plays Oskar. And it's directed by Rob Reiner.)

Thankfully, this idea was scrapped and the two leads will now be Josh Brolin and the South African guy from District 9. Still iffy, but it has the potential for genius.

And then we read what Mike Tyson is saying about his upcoming Broadway show, which Spike Lee directed, and the needle swings back to "crazy."

Premiering July 31st after its successful run in Vegas, Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth will have audiences struggling to understand an hour and a half (give or take, intermission...maybe?) of Mr. Tyson's unique diction in his one-man show. We're sure that Mr. Tyson's reviews are well-earned, but this is all we're imagining:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbj6SeznHVg
This play is going to be raw, but "“not raw in a vulgar sense," as Mr. Tyson explained. Just "raw" like a "prostitute hunter."
Seriously, just watch this video from the Today show and tell us: Is Spike Lee crazy, or crazy like a fox? And how many doves, exactly, will this show be using over the course of it's run? That's our other question, obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving right along: The Gansevoort gifting thing

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

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

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

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

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

Park City Live: Let there be Deadmau5

Deadmau5 takes Park City Live by storm.

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

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

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

Inside the Great Hall guests convened to celebrate the institution’s dedication multiculturalism and diversity. The evening honored several people who have shown a commitment to multiculturalism and the arts, among them La Tanya Richardson and Samuel L. Jackson, as well as Robert De Niro and his wife Grace Hightower De Niro.

Guests arrived and mingled in the hall, snacking on mango shrimp, apple smoked trout, and, somewhat unusually, French toast bites with brie and apple, all the while taking advantage of the dual open-bar setup. Waiters flew around serving their hors d’oeuvres with speed and an impressive amount of agility.  We saw one waitress nearly lose her tray of truffled mac and cheese bites on the floor before deftly catching it.  There was just one casualty, “That’s for you,” she said with a laugh before giving the fallen appetizer a vigorous kick into the coatroom. The pharonic statue, a newcomer to the Met on loan from Berlin, sat stoically on the North end of the Hall, hovering over the party with a regal gaze and the shadow of a smile.

Meanwhile, Steven and Daryl Roth, Star Jones, Al Roker and the Met’s president Emily Rafferty hobnobbed with guests, several perching on the startling gold vinyl couches that the museum had rented for the occasion.  The De Niros and the Jacksons were ushered in through side doors, avoiding the ruckus outside. Strange for people who have made fortunes as screen actors, both Mr. Jackson and Mr. De Niro proved elusive and camera shy. They kept to themselves, refusing interviews and passing the entire cocktail hour off in a corner near the bar.

The Observer ran into director Spike Lee who implored us to take a walk with him as he made his way across the Great Hall. We asked how the Met could increase diversity among its patrons. “It’s not just the Met, it’s everything. Have you seen the latest report by the United States Census?” He asked us, peering over the edges of his circular tortoise shell glasses as he waited for a response. What about the Census?, we wondered. “By as early as 2035 white Americans will be a minority in this country,” he said flatly. “It’s not inviting, you know,” he said of the museum, gesturing vaguely to the vaulted ceilings, a giant cross pendant swinging slightly around his neck. “It’s the high art and stuff like that. So we got to go out and really reach out, which they’re doing but just have to do more of it,” the director added before disappearing into the crowd.

As the goal of the evening was to highlight the museum’s diverse holdings, a special collection of traditional African art was made available for guests throughout the evening. The exhibit, “Heroic Africans: Legendary Leaders, Iconic Sculptures” featured a wide array of wooden commemorative statues from West and Central Africa. The vast collection sheds little seen light on pre-Colonial African figureheads, memorialized by contemporary artists through intricately carved wooden statuettes.

Former White House social secretary Desirée Rogers soon appeared on the scene, dazzling in a short champagne colored dress. “I’m excited to not only celebrate the Met but also to celebrate the honorees,” she said, looking across the room at Mr. De Niro and Mr. Jackson who were deep in conversation. Ms. Rogers also expounded on the virtues of diversifying the museum’s visitorship. “The more you can get that word out, the more you can kind of open the arms of the museum and make certain that people continue to visit,” she said.

A New York newcomer, Lala Anthony also entered, looking elegant in a strapless blue gown. “I want to plan a day with my husband here, because he was traded to the Knicks, and our life was just crazy,” she said, referring to her basketballer husband Carmelo Anthony. “Now that things are starting to settle down it would be nice to come, you know, take a walk through here.” And how is New York treating Ms. Anthony? “It’s been wonderful, it’s definitely kind of settling in now… and it’s feeling really good,” she said before heading back to cocktail hour.

Later after a dinner in Temple of Dendur, guests re-entered the Great Hall for late night cocktails.  We caught up with Colombian artist Olga de Amaral best-known for her gold-thread filigreed tapestries. Ms. de Amaral was one of the artists to be honored along with Mr. De Niro and Mr. Jackson.  “I feel very, very proud,” she said. “It’s like a dream,” she added with a smile. She admitted that when she told her friends about the award, everyone wanted to know if she would meet Mr. De Niro. “He’s wonderful,” she said of their brief encounter.

Her husband, Jim Amaral, had a slightly different take. “I remember De Niro very young, so it was a little different to see him old,” Mr. Amaral noted. “No, but he’s great,” he said with a good natured laugh.

Diligent waiters were once again crisscrossing the giant room, this time with delectable desserts in hand. Tiny s’mores, churros, and mini-ricotta cheese cakes were eagerly consumed by guests. A DJ was playing classic party hits, and a few brave guests were dancing near the booth. Most, however, preferred to chat while continuing to make the best possible use of the bar.

We left around 10:30, walking down the steps which by that time had been cleared of protestors. Several joggers ran past, breaking their stride to gawk at the black-tie clad guests who were spilling forth from the museum.

eknutsen@observer.com

Inside, the Observer waited to collect a press ticket for Justin Bieber: Never Say Never, sure to be a movie worth waiting for. Not before, though, getting cut in line by Spike Lee, in a Knicks cap. Lee brushed off both our own stunned attempts to start a conversation and a theater employee's greeting, "Hey, man, I'll try to do the right thing."

"This is for Scooter," Lee said, pressing a package into a publicist's hands. "Make sure he gets this. And tell him it's from Spike!" He floated out of the theater, unmolested by the teens who'd already gotten in with their well-coiffed parents. (On Tuesday, Bieber Tweeted about his premiere, noting the location and saying "....maybe Spike Lee will come. Spike Lee is the man." Bieber was born the year Crooklyn was released.)

Scooter is Scooter Braun, the record executive and manager responsible for Bieber's career, a onetime so-called "party promoter" whose duties on this evening included introducing the party to a group of tweens (and nonplussed critics) impatient for the film to begin on schedule. Braun seemed familiar with the crowd, telling jokes about the Toronto premiere the night before and introducing Island Def Jam executives as they entered, late. "We love you, Scooter!" scattered girls yelled, and they weren't joking. They did!

Bieber himself entered, at long last, once the Island executives were seated. He handed off a cup of soda to an assistant and said "Wassup." The crowd was, based on the Observer's expectations, well-behaved, probably because they'd been told they'd be removed if they came close to him, or used cameras at all. Or maybe their energy had been sapped during Braun's presentation. To buy into Bieber fandom, one must know his entourage. Bieber's "swagger coach" did the Dougie, to the delectation of the non-critic half of the audience. Scooter allowed the film's director, Jon Chu, to say one word before laughing and pulling the mic away. Though he was, in time, allowed to finish his introduction of his own film, this wasn't the director's show.

In one of Braun's innumerable talking-head interviews in the film, he raises a compelling argument against the probability of Bieber's success: the absence of a giant media apparatus behind him—he did not have a Nickelodeon, like Selena Gomez, or a Disney, like Miley Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers. (Miley does a duet in the movie, looking like she could eat Bieber alive; a critic seated next to the Observer mentioned that the Jonases' 2009 concert film hadn't had nearly the pomp of this screening. No indoor red carpet, for one thing.) But he has been able to promote Bieberworld by his use of social networking (documented throughout the film, in 3D). During the film, each new member of the entourage's first appearance merited a cheer, particularly Braun, who acts as a de facto narrator. Concertgoers cheer an act—concert-film-goers cheer an apparatus.

And yet rarely does it all seem so naked! Certainly, without getting too specific about the details of Bieber's not-yet-released film, Madonna's Truth or Dare (for instance) was more ambivalent on the subject of its subject's ambition, or at least made a bigger show of thinking about it. Bieber, we learn, wants to sing professionally; there is nothing more to see here, except a number of gratuitous, uncomfortable shirtless sequences. Braun talks to the camera perhaps three times as much as does Bieber: about his act's "underdog" nature, and the role everyone in the entourage plays.

Something more clear and hard than just singing is at stake here. For without mass recognition, Bieber's singing was just juvenilia -- unformed in terms of persona, he's defined by the fantasies of his fans. During an archival video of Bieber's first recording, the audience was mute while their hero hit the high notes but shrieked when consigliere Usher entered the studio and told the camera that Bieber would be a huge success. Fame itself is the star, it seems; Bieber just the vehicle.

The movie ended, leaving the Observer with more questions than when we'd entered. For one, wasn't the movie's notion of following one's dreams a bit misplaced, given the number of tween girls interviewed whose only dream is to marry Bieber? (No matter—they have Taylor Swift to teach them ambition.) Over the end credits, Bieber announced that he would play a new song for the crowd. After the song started, the Observer ran out of the room, discarding 3D glasses somewhere. Then the screaming began. We could hear it from the subway entrance across the street, the screaming. Somewhere, for Justin and for Scooter, the girls scream still.

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

According to the Daily News, Paterson tried a joke about the hierarchy within the sprawling kingdom of Sharpton supporters.

"It's kind of like a family, and he's like the prince," Paterson joked. "I've moved up to king."

At which point, Sharpton grabbed the mic and said: "The only way I can be king is to kill the king."

Paterson said: "I hope my security team is (nearby)."

Then there was nervous laughter from the crowd. And while Paterson might be getting used to that kind of response, it doesn't bode especially well for the governor, given that Sharpton's dogged support has waned quite a bit in recent months.