Hussies … Hess … Hesser: You know summer has outstayed its welcome when the women of New York, in a fruitless bid to appear “sultry,” begin donning heinous one-shouldered tops that make them look like Red Cross refugees …. And speaking of bosoms, tonight Wonderbra (mid-90’s “post-feminist” lingerie company owned by the same people who grind out Hillshire Farm sausage) is throwing a party to launch AirWonder, which sounds like a cross between an Air Jordan sneaker and a simply bad idea: a bra that you p-u-m-p up to make your breasts bigger and bigger and bigger and … KA-BLOUIE! Meanwhile, a bit further uptown, it’s a party at publishing heir Christopher Cerf’s swell Upper East Side digs for the spunky graduates of the 2001 Columbia Publishing Course (previously the Radcliffe Publishing Course)-pay a few thousand bucks and schmooze and wiggle your way right into a cushy internship at Field & Stream! (Advice to the more ambitious of you young ladies: skip the bra at tonight’s fête and you’ll be a pert New Yorker centerfold with a six-figure book deal in no time.) We called course director Lindy Hess to find out how summer in big bad New York went for her young charges. “It was wonderful,” she said. “For one thing, we went to Condé Nast for sherry hour! Steve Florio gave a wonderful welcoming party where he invited the whole class to the room near the cafeteria. Every editor and publisher of every magazine was there-Graydon Carter, David Remnick. It was so wonderful, and it sent such a wonderful message to the students that they were welcomed by Condé Nast.” Oh, if they only knew …. Class projects included inventing a celebrity magazine called Bill (as in Clinton). “We’re trying to get him to come down and see it,” said Ms. Hess. Considering that the course is more than 80 percent female, she should have no problem. In closing, please consider this naughty excerpt from New York Times food writer Amanda Hesser’s most recent column: “He sampled my firm, sweet … beets.”
[Wonderbra, Cipriani, 110 East 42nd Street, 6 p.m. cocktails, 6:45 p.m. fashion show, by invitation only, 485-6857; Columbia Publishing Course, at the home of Christopher Cerf, somewhere on the Upper East Side, 6 p.m., by invitation only, 854-0016.]
Ummm … Why do we suddenly feel like it’s 1984 all over again? Is it those aforementioned one-shouldered tops? Is it that the secretly sexy Kenny Rogers, who is due for a big, big comeback, is playing tonight in Seaside Park, Brooklyn? Or could it be that, in a scene reminiscent of Footloose, a coalition-uh-oh-is gathering on the Upper West Side tonight to protest an obscure Prohibition-era law that prohibits three or more people moving in a synchronized fashion without a license? Did you know that? Here’s what’s going to happen: At 7:30 p.m., filmmakers Juli Berg and Candace Corelli are going to present a portion of their upcoming documentary, No Dancing Allowed. Then, at 8 p.m., there will be a panel discussion with experts on the cabaret laws. (C’mon, isn’t this really all about stripping?) Finally, there’s a big “slamming” dance party with house music. If you hurry, you can still catch the last Jitney ….
[Makor, 35 West 67th Street, 7:30 p.m., 601-1009.]
More proof that tubby, ambisexual, baseball-capped MTV personality Carson Daly is doing just fine after his broken engagement with goofy-looking actress Tara Reid: Tonight he hosts a secret screening of a movie called Session 9. The plot: Five men, one played by premature NYPD alumnus David Caruso-can we all have a moment of silence for his would-be movie career?-enter an abandoned mental hospital in Danvers, Mass.; high jinks ensue. Why is Carson Daly at tonight’s opening? Because he can be.
[Tribeca Grand Screening Room, Tribeca Grand Hotel, 2 Sixth Avenue, 7:30 p.m., by invitation only-we guess!-539-4025.]
We like our fringe on Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy, but the other kind of fringe is about to swarm over the Lower East Side for 16-count ’em, sixteen-days. The New York International Fringe Festival will include about 2,345 one-woman shows with names like Often I Find That I Am Naked. Then there’s Balls, Balls, Balls, staged by the Eva Dean Dance company. “It’s really a whimsical, fun piece that is engaging truly for people of all ages,” said Ms. Dean. “We spent months exploring creative ways of using balls in a different fashion than what people are used to. It goes from using small balls that are the size of tennis balls to large balls that are 60 centimeters in diameter, like large physioballs …. When they use the big physioballs, it’s very athletic-and that culminates in a section we call the ‘dolphin dive,’ where dancers are running and diving over the balls, and we call it the ‘dolphin dive’ because we slither over the balls and slide onto the floor. It’s the kind of piece where people are going to want to run out and get balls and play with them.” It’s enough to make any sane person go see American Pie 2.
[Balls, Balls, Balls; Present Company Theatorium, 198 Stanton Street, 11 p.m., 420-8877; American Pie 2, 777-FILM.]
Hamptons home stretch! Just a few more steamy weeks and New York can forget all about that conspicuous white-trash paradise, the Hamptons …. But until then, there’s money to be raised! Tonight, famous people like Yoko Ono, Russell Simmons and Rosie O’Donnell design plates to be auctioned for Artists Against Abuse-hope Ms. O’Donnell doesn’t show up and start throwing the plates …. If you’re in more of a kitsch mood, you may attend the Michael Bolton Charities Summer Event with Hamptons publisher Jason (Squeaky) Binn and Clinton crumpet Denise Rich in
[Plate benefit, somewhere in Bridgehampton, 7 p.m., 631-329-4398; Michael Bolton Charities Summer Event, somewhere in Water Mill, 7 p.m., 631-325-3565; Millennium Kids Foundation, somewhere in Southampton, 7 p.m., 317-1473; birthday party, Conscience Point, do we have to tell you?]
Sampras midlife malaise? Another mid-August Sunday-the air is as thick as porridge, your ankles are too thick for the fall’s forthcoming barrage of boots, the air-conditioner is broken, your roommate brought home what looks like a human last night, and tennis superstar Pete Sampras (whose apparent decline marks the end of any poetry in men’s tennis, which is now-let’s face it-just about tan guys with waxed chests) is turning a shoulder-slumping, slightly balding, blond-starlet-marrying 30. Stay home and pull the covers over your head; the U.S. Open starts in a fortnight! (That’s “two weeks” to you Yanks.)
If you’re like us, you’ve lived your entire life in this wacky city without ever taking one of those slumming, “spontaneous” trips that a certain brand of urban hipster likes to take to Coney Island. Today, 26-year-old Albany native and non-hipster Geoffrey Chorbajian rides for as long as he can bear it on the Cyclone roller coaster to kick off a weeklong Cyclone Survival Challenge and raise awareness for CARE, the relief and humanitarian organization for which he toils. “I have been a roller-coaster junkie all my life-the first one was probably the Dracula on the Jersey shore in Wildwood-but it was all downhill from Six Flags,” said Mr. Chorbajian, a member of American Coaster Enthusiasts. “I’ve been to Toronto [and] Sandusky, Ohio-sometimes referred to as America’s ‘Roller Coast.’ It’s an amazing scene, all sorts of people … not to knock roller-coast people, but you don’t need to be in seriously good shape or anything-you just have to be an adrenaline junkie.” If you find yourself behind Mr. Chorbajian on the roller coaster, don’t worry: “I’m not a screamer, I’m a laugher,” he said.
[Coney Island, take the F train-or maybe one of those new horrible trains with the strange, unfamiliar letters?-noon, 686-3110.]
Seagull sickness? Tired of walking by tourists camping out in Central Park with bottles of
[Henry Street Settlement, Harry De Jur Playhouse, 466 Grand Street, 7:15 p.m., 420-8877.]
Tired of your toes? So is the rest of Manhattan, honey! And your toe rings and your tattoos and your one-shouldered tops and-dare we say it?-your midriff! Well, we can all relax: The fall “toe-relief” shipment of Manolo Blahniks arrives on or about today-and guess what, assistant editors? Your $300 tax-relief check won’t even buy you one pair. Call Mumsy and have her wire you some Benjamins. (That’s “$100 bills” to you Yanks.)
[31 West 54th Street, 10:30 a.m., 582-3007.]
-additional reporting by Beth Satkin