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.
Rebecca Dana, you're cruel. You know that?
On the way, one can spy what's really in. Teal, darling! On 18th Street, near Lauriol Plaza -- where they serve margaritas just as delightfully big as your head -- the women are all in teal shirts and boot-cut jeans. Blonde highlights abound. For the men, the equivalent of highlights is now the newest bracelet -- not in yellow, like the Lance Armstrong one for testicular-cancer awareness, but in lime green, for Darfur awareness!
All the restaurants now give waiting diners those light-up buzzers. On a spring evening, the streets are thronged with young and old alike, clutching their maître d' beepers, making D.C. feel just like one big fun theme restaurant.
Though she does note that Tucker Carlson's put on a bit of weight, which dilutes the 12-year-old on dress-like-a-Buckley day look a bit, she didn't comment on his alarming tan. Seriously, he was like a pair of Ugg boots and oversized sunglasses away from being a sophomore coed. If he's moving the show down to DC (which, we'll remind you, we mentioned on Monday), he'll need to make like Chris Matthews, who looked paler than a Morrissey fan, though much more well-fed. Though hell, maybe Dana's right and bottle-tans are the new power-player move. Welcome to Boehnerland.
Finally, Jason Horowitz goes to a neo-con party house, with
hilarious depressing results.
What makes a party? Mr. Colby noted the "well-furbished house," the "neat neighborhood" and the "good backyard." Debauchery, he explained, was unlikely. "Politics and government are inherently less flashy," Mr. Colby said.
Dude, no, you're just lame. Debauchery is Washington's middle name. Duke Cunningham is partying with hookers and guys named "Dusty" at the Watergate, think tank staffers are blowing rails with congressional aides, this town runs on booze and loose lips. Just because you can't throw a decent party, don't blame it on the culture.
By the way, an attendee of this party shot us an email earlier today, to point out that despite the tone of the article, some of the guests didn't quite buy the "this party as microcosm for the spirit of the town" angle:
The funny thing is, I was at that party, with a few friends from school (none of whom ever expected to hear themselves described as "D.C.'s brightest young conservatives," let's just say). We totally never noticed that we'd apparently shown up at the Junior Tucker Carlson-Anne Coulter Mixer. But I did turn to one of my friends at one point and point out how awkward it was that everyone at the party was crowded around the food table and the entire living room ('the "dancing room") was totally empty.
And we thought young Republicans knew how to party. Prove us wrong, kids. We're growing disillusioned.
Full disclosure: Chris Lehmann is Mr. Original Wonkette, but you knew that.