She’s the One
“It’s a great book, you know what I mean?” said Harvey Weinstein. “Rob Weisbach”—the honcho of Miramax Books—“brought it into the company, with Jonathan Burnham”—Mr. Weisbach’s predecessor, who is also the man-friend of Star editor Joe Dolce—“and I read it. Actually, we didn’t even read it! We just interviewed Kathy. She’s so great. We read her other book. It’s a really smart read, and I think it’s what’s on people’s minds.”
“It’s my second book, but I gotta tell you, this one really meant a lot to me,” said Kathy Freston of the book in question, The One: Finding Soul Mate Love and Making It Last. “Now to be kind of out of my pajamas, you know, and kind of climbing out of my cage to be out and about is really exciting …. ”
It was last Thursday at a reception in celebration of Ms. Freston’s sophomore literary achievement at the Core Club in midtown. (The establishment, which began operations last fall in an elevator building on East 55th Street, takes Soho House’s members-only concept and bumps it up a few notches on the exclusivity index. Price of membership: upward of $100,000.)
“ … so, in the book, I try to get people to understand that it’s really within us; that if we work on ourselves and shift our energy, everything around us shifts. You know, whether you’re single or whether you’re married or whether you’re dating someone, when you work on yourself and you change your magnetism, everything around you shifts and changes.”
Ms. Freston is appreciably tall and svelte, and the palazzo style of pant she wore further accentuated her lines. As “spiritual influences,” she named Marianne Williamson, Deepak Chopra and Carl Jung. “But,” she quickly pointed out, “I get inspiration everywhere. I get inspiration from cab drivers, or waiters. Everybody has that wisdom inside of them, and that’s the thing—there are soul mates all around us.”
“You kidding?” said Rolling Stone’s Jann Wenner, in response to the question of whether he thought it difficult to find and keep a mate in New York. “Yah, I think so.”
Brian Grazer, whose latest film production, The Da Vinci Code, premieres this month, showed his ring finger. “I’m still wearing my wedding ring,” he said, despite his very recent separation from wife Gigi Levangie Grazer.
“Find relationships?” said a pinstriped Calvin Klein. “Oh my God, then I’ve gotta read this book really fast. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“But it’s really not about just one person,” Ms. Freston said. “It’s about taking the potential between people when you have an attraction, where there is physical chemistry or shared lifestyle ideals or whatever it is, and then taking that plane and really sort of feeding it so that it becomes this thing that runs throughout your life.
“Tom’s kids, my stepchildren, are definitely soul mates of a different sort,” she said.
Gil Freston, a son of Viacom shot-caller Tom Freston—Ms. Freston’s husband of eight years—was in attendance. He sported a teen-chic outfit: an untucked white shirt with a loosely knotted tie and Vans.
His MySpace page said that he is 16 years old, attends the Dwight School and has 341 friends, one of whom recently left him a message that read, “If Damon Dash keeps following in you [sic] older brother’s footsteps (re: Page Six), how long will we have to wait until Dash starts dressing up in drag, walking the streets of Chelsea at 3am?”
Oh, but 16 is such a tough age.
Barbara Guggenheim, the party’s co-hostess, approached him.
“Hi, Barbara, thank you for this,” Mr. Freston said. A big kiss. “How are you? You didn’t have to do this. This is lovely.”
Ms. Guggenheim gripped his hand assuringly.
“We all have The One!” said MTV dev dude John Sykes. His wife, Laurie, wore a black-and-white ensemble with pearls. Beside him was Jane Buffett, wife of Jimmy. “I’ve been married to a rock star for 35 years,” she said. “I got the one.”
“Really, what I would say, to make things work: no expectations,” Ms. Buffett said. “Because every expectation is a predestined resentment.”
The couple was separated for nine years, but reconciled in 1991 and remain happily married.
“I think all the art on the wall are owned by the members,” Ms. Freston said to Ahmet Ertegun. “Isn’t it amazing?!” she said, admiring an outsized Basquiat, to which someone else had drawn her attention.
“It’s very claustrophobic, too” Graydon Carter, tucked into one corner of the room, was heard saying to his wife, Anna Scott, and another attractive blonde.
“Never had more compliments on an issue,” he said of Vanity Fair’s current “Green Issue.” “I’ve always been an environmentalist, and this is the great time to do it. It’s the biggest issue of our age.” (In this instance, by “issue,” he meant a matter of concern, not that actual periodical.)
Carole Daly hopped onto a chair to thank everyone for coming, “on behalf of Rupert and Wendi, Burt and Barbara, and Bob and myself.”
“Neil Simon once said, when I married Bob, that ‘Carole Bayer Sager Bacharach Daly’ could have been a great law firm,” she said. “I want to say that if Kathy had written this book in her early teens and I had a chance to read it, I think I’d be standing here with a few less names.”
“I’m so completely humbled,” Ms. Freston said. “It’s so amazing to be among all of you people who are such bright lights. So much talent, so much creativity, so much accomplishment, such interesting people. Especially Harvey Weinstein—I am so honored to be a part of your house,” she said, extending both her hands to Mr. Weinstein, who was standing beyond her grasp. “Harvey’s a real miracle worker, it’s true. He takes any creative project and he adds his magic and things happen beyond your wildest dreams and I am, I’m the lucky one.”
After she’d thanked everyone—nearly—and the guests were returning to their conversations, Ms. Freston swung around to discover her husband.
“Oh, my husband!” she shrieked. “Tom! I want to thank him! Tom!”
“The old Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe case,” joked a man nearby.
The Mets’ Costume Gala
The Transom sought high and low for a reporter who had attended the always-glamorous Metropolitan Museum’s annual Costume Institute Gala on Monday, hosted by Vogue editor Anna Wintour. (This year’s theme: Anglomania!) At last, it found one; and here is his report.
The most notable innovation at the Mets’ costume gala May 1 was in the headgear: Now that batting helmets have become ridged and indented, rather than smoothly curved, their decoration has become more than a rounded, gleaming replica of an ordinary baseball cap.
The Mets favor a two-tone look, with blue on the higher elevations in front and black on the sunken parts in the rear. The effect is subtle and eye-confusing; some batters looked as if their helmets were filthy with pine tar, while others, showing blue or black at different angles, suggested the color-shifting prismatic paint on auto-show concept cars. (It is past time for that technology to reach the consumer market—not in the flashy blue-to-pink form of some custom cars, but in, perhaps, iron gray to silver, or deep blue to black, as the final touch on, say, a Lincoln Continental.)
The visiting Washington Nationals, meanwhile, wore grim navy hats and socks with their gray road uniforms. They looked like a completely different team than the one that had posed in jaunty red caps for the individual portraits that showed on the giant video screen. Alfonso Soriano—newly converted to the outfield this year—wore his socks high, the way he’d done as the Yankees’ second baseman, back when the Yankees started losing the World Series instead of winning it. In left field, he had moments of utter staggering confusion; at the plate, he struck out with his old confident, sweeping swing. The crowd jeered either way. Nick Johnson, his fellow ex-Yankee, wore his socks high too, but nobody cared.
In the stands, Mets blankets were the accessory of choice, and layers were abundant. There was a cold wind blowing straight in from center field. It untied one end of a Venezuelan flag draped over the loge railing in honor of Mets pitcher Víctor Zambrano—the old reactionary flag, with the horse on the coat of arms running rightward, not the newly redesigned Hugo Chávez flag with the horse galloping boldly left. But the wind did Zambrano a favor, knocking down the Nationals’ hardest-hit drive of the night for an easy fly out.
Other costuming notes: Mr. Met wore his usual baseball head, lovable and a tiny bit disquieting. The prize patrol bombarded the stands with their T-shirt guns, launching at least one bundled T-shirt clear into the top deck. The designated theme of the evening, Anglomania, was not immediately evident.
But what is the essence of Anglophile style, if not bearing and endurance? Julio Franco, age 47, pinch-hit for the Mets in the bottom of the ninth and stood gracefully still. The score was 1-1. He was batting for closer Billy Wagner, who had pitched without the lead, against the book, overpowering the Nationals to keep the game tied. Mr. Franco watched ball one, ball two, ball three. A gimme strike one. And then ball four. A pinch runner took his place at first base. Two batters later, with the pinch runner on second, the Nationals’ pitcher fielded a tailor-made double-play ball and threw it wildly into center field. Franco’s runner sprinted home with the victory.