The ‘Observer’ Makes Fun of Us, We Shrug In Agreement

How you like that? We show a bunch of smarmy New Yorkers nothing but hospitality, and how do they repay us? By running three smarmy pieces about how lame our big party was on Saturday in their smarmiest and most financially unstable paper. Sure, we love the attention, but the Observer seems to be acting all superior to us just because they’re skinnier and dress better.

First off, Chris Lehmann’s review of the Prom reception, dinner, and afterparty. We remember him skulking around Bloomberg — seemed like a shifty and untrustworthy sort. But this anecdote rings true to us:

The day’s festivities stretched all the way back to noon, with the kickoff brunch hosted by MSNBC producer Tammy Haddad. The defining moment of that event was the arrival of former Niger Ambassador Joe Wilson, husband of C.I.A. officer Valerie Plame. He walked up Ms. Haddad’s slate sidewalk in D.C.’s swank Palisades neighborhood; he sported a Palm Beach-style untucked Hawaiian shirt and brandished a cigar. He approached the tent where D.C.’s various media personages, pols and celebrity-esque hangers-on congregated.

Mr. Wilson took a quick, disenchanted look at his lit stogie and tossed it into Ms. Haddad’s flowerbed.

It wasn’t a gesture of confrontation so much as simple ambient sourness. But it served as another signature moment, six years into a flailing Bush Presidency, where the Washington zeitgeist might best be summed up in two words: “Fuck it.”

Hell, we’ll agree with that. We’re pretty sure the only person in Washington who still likes their job is Patrick Fitzgerald.

After the jump, the assault continues with a knock on our style and a trip to an Adams-Morgan Young Republican party.

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How to Sneak Into Bloomberg

(Yeah, we shoulda run it last week, but we didn’t actually have any experience with it until Saturday. Clip ‘n’ save for next year.)

So you met a real happenin’ chick at the Atlantic reception, you just bonded over margaritas at Lauriol while waiting for important people to finish their catered dinners, but now there’s a bit of a conundrum. You’re on the list, but she’s a nobody. What do you do?

• Lie. One veteran Washington reporter told us of a Correspondents Dinner long past, in which said reporter and companion trolled the receptions looking for invitees. They found two, introduced themselves, and eventually entered the Vanity Fair party as Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Friedman. Nowadays, though, they card at the door.
• Stalk. Follow people entering alone and declare yourself a “plus one.” Most people didn’t know they had plus ones. See how far you can extend this — at the Capitol File party, we were ushered past the doorman with “this is my plus one, and his photographer.” Having your own photographer = you are important.
• Be Famous. The ones who didn’t have to go through the indignities of the line arrived via limo and went straight up the red carpet. If you can mange a convincing imitation of a well-known pundit, you’re golden. Because no one’s gonna stop Ann Curry. They can only hope to contain her.
• Plead. Bloomberg’s Judith Czelusniak has the final say on who gets in. If the other methods don’t work, and she’s outside by the entrance (as she was for part of the night), she’s your last, best hope. But honestly, if you didn’t manage to sweet talk her in the month leading up to prom, it’s probably too late now. Better luck next year. Reuters is letting anyone in, we hear.

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