“The Boom Boom Room again?” We groaned as we checked our phone last night. “God, if we had a nickel for every time we had to drag ourselves to the top of The Standard to rub elbows with celebrities and taste-makers, we’d have enough money to actually afford a drink there.”
“That is, if we ever had to pay for drinks,” we added, looking around in the Standard’s trippy elevator to make sure everyone was sufficiently impressed by our glamorous lifestyle. Strangely, no one seemed to be paying us that much attention. Rude! But we’ll forgive them…after all, it was an exciting night. Jay-Z, the part-owner of the Brooklyn Nets, was rumored to be attending the launch of D’USSE cognac that evening.
When the doors opened to the standard view overlooking the Hudson, we breezed through coat-check. We were regular patrons (as previously noted), so they only needed our initials.
“Put it on our tab!” We scoffed. Since it was such a big evening, maybe the club had employed new help, since they only stared at us blankly. Rolling our eyes, we gave them our initials.
“Keep the change!” We said on our way to the main room.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” One of the women called after us.
Whatever. We strode into the crowded room, wondering not for the first time why they didn’t just knock down Le Bain and make the entire floor a swanky lounge. “But then, where would the commoners party?” We asked ourselves. Touche, us.
Our entrance was followed by the obligatory flashing of 1,000 cameras, momentarily blinding us. People were screaming our name, begging us to smile for the camera.
“Look, we don’t mind posing,” we told our admirers. “But at least get our name right. It’s not pronounced ‘Pharrell.’”
Grabbing one of the D’USSE cocktails, we snaked our way through the writhing crowd, several of whom seemed so excited to see us that they would collide directly into us, spilling their drinks onto our ensemble. Humiliated, they wouldn’t even stop and apologize, but would disappear into the crowd as quickly as possible to avoid making eye contact. Settle down, fellas!
Finally we found our friends sitting near the fire place in the back of the room. “We’re here!” We announced.
“I overheard Jay-Z tell someone that they should be rooting for the Knicks this season,” a member of our entourage was telling a gossip columnist.
“Wasn’t so long ago he was telling people to switch their alliance over to his new team,” we mused, grateful not to be the center of attention for once. “Team owners are so fickle…look at Mark Cuban!”
We made our way over to the roped-off area where Jay-Z was standing with his wife’s sister, Solange Knowles, actor Jake Gyllenhaal, and a young man whose name, coincidentally, also sounded like Pharrell.
We made eye-contact with Jay-Z, and made a face like “Can you believe this mob?” He looked confused, maybe because he wasn’t as used to be surrounded by sycophants as we were. As we made our way over to the Nets owner, we were stopped by a big, burly security guard.
“No photos, no press,” he growled.
We completely understood. How would it look, if tomorrow’s Page Six featured photos of us glad-handing with a man who went into busines with Mikhail Prokhorov and Bruce Ratner.
“Good point. Thanks, friend!” We shouted over the ruckus. “Now, will you please escort us back to our table?”
The music must have been too loud though, since security gave us a long look before turning back around.
“This is why we hate going to the Standard,” we reminded ourselves.
(Photo via Patrick McMullan)