Leonardo DiCaprio
[PatrickMcMullan.com]

The scene is otherworldly outside the Ziegfeld Theatre, the police barricading all of 54th Street—the crowd of onlookers worked up into a froth as triple A-list actors disembark from their black cars, stepping to the beat of the crowds rally cry: “I’m your biggest fan!” a mathematically impossible, yet emphatically announced concept.

Taking my seat I could have no idea what I would be in store for when Harvey Weinstein took the stage, introducing Quentin Tarantino to a packed house. The director, approaching his 50th year could not have been more electric “How the f— is everybody doing tonight?” the crowd roared, beginning an incredible call and repeat that even Reverend Al Sharpton would be proud of. Each of the cast is in the building, dressed to the nines—Leo Dicaprio (whose hand I shake as he returns to his seat, a hand I have yet to wash for fear of losing its effervescent glow) looking every bit the Gatsby he’s become both on screen and off, Jamie Foxx owning his badass impresario grin, Christoph Waltz marinating in his own genius.

Without giving anything away, the film is absolutely absorbing—a riveting plot driven antebellum action thriller, but that is just the beginning. There is still the after-party.

The door to The Standard Biergarten is a mob scene, equipped with its very own crew of autograph seekers, each of them with very good reason to be there, I personally shuffle in with Jeremy Piven, Naomi Campbell, Zosia Mamet, Stavros Niarchos and his sexpot girlfriend Jessica Hart. I take up a post at a picnic table and watch half of the movie world swirl around us.

Cameron Diaz and Andrew Saffir [PatrickMcMullan.com]

I pop by the DJ booth to give my respects to DJ Irie, when things suddenly became very…very real. Jamie Foxx grabs Quentin and Uma before seizing the microphone and stopping the music. Jamie gives me a knowing nod before belting into the microphone, calling everyone’s attention center stage—I back away to watch the show unfold as he meticulously builds the party into a fever pitch, taking over the DJ booth and live remixing songs from Kill Bill with other Tarantino Classics before dropping straight into thumping bass rap music. Uma and Quentin throw their hands in the air as hundreds of cell phone cameras fire at once. This is one of those moments even a photograph can’t do justice.

Scott Lipps and Byrdie Bell [Patrick McMullan]

Finally, back in the capable hands of Andrew Saffir, I find myself at the star-studded premiere of Rust and Bone, a delightfully brutal tale of survival, amputation, and mixed martial arts set in the south of France. The screening finds my pal Sophie Sumner doubled over, cringing at the impeccable portrayal of raw human emotion put forward by insanely handsome leading duo Marion Cotillard and Matthias Schoenaerts.

I remind Schoenaerts that after such a performance he could likely have his pick of any girl in the room, to which he cracks a wide smile and insists that I meet his fiancée.

As I settle into a typically fantastic after party the usual suspects roll in, Gregg Bello with his penchant for all things female, Isiah Whitlock Jr., rocking a truly fantastic black watch blazer and KashmirSnowdon-Jones displaying her signature single finger salute.

The evening took a turn from innocuous after party with Amy Sacco at No. 8, to a full-on black tie blow-out as I found myself exchanging war stories with the ever-leathered Nur Khan at his club, Electric Room, until the break of dawn (a feat I would pay for through the weekend).

On Sunday, I hop onto a Mercedes Benz shuttle and scoot up to Greenwich to see what my industrious friends Peter Brant and Nate Lowman have up their sleeves. I arrive ahead of the crowd, which bought me a little face time with what would be the breakout hit of the exhibition, OJ Simpson ’s white Ford Bronco. I will say that again: OJ Simpson’s white Ford Bronco.

Brant reveals to me, as some of the most impressive names in art today pull up (Jeffrey Deitch, Larry Gagosian, Elizabeth Peyton, and Simon de Pury, to name a few), that the car had been rented from the owner, who after learning that it was sought after by anything but your average Joes, increased the asking price roughly ten-fold: “It was crazy, but even just renting it to have here has been such a great addition to the show,” remarked Brant.

I mull about the grounds, champagne in hand with my compatriot Dan Duray from The New York Observer—a more than capable translator for the less initiated in the art world (me). We aren’t the only ones there in search of pure spectacle, of course: Johan Lindeberg has his daughter with him, Terry Richardson has his camera with him, Fiona Byrne has her McDonald’s French fry-shaped purse with her, all of whom feel impeccably at home in the grassy fields and crisp air on an afternoon in Greenwich.

The ageless Stephanie Seymour straps on her smile for the day, exchanging warm and tender remarks with our host, while maintaining cool and aloof deflections to my inquiries into the socially ubiquitous and ravenous brothers Peter Brant Jr. and Harry Brant’s suboptimal social media personae.

As the sun begins its trot westward it is time for an early supper, and the clear tent which has remained roughly empty throughout the early afternoon is swarmed with cultural relevancy and some of the best burrata I’ve ever tasted this side of the Duomo. I catch Anthony Haden-Guest, who reminds me that it was the eve of the unveiling of his latest musical side project, refilling his plate more than once—a crime I, too, am guilty of.

As all great picnics with bold-faced names do, this one comes to a close on the eve of a truly fantastic week on the town, kicking off with Max Mara and MSKCC’s sellout  event: the Fall Party at The Four Seasons Restaurant.

I am greeted by the gravity defying cheekbones of the impossibly beautiful Lauren Remington Platt, who in turn is leading the way for some exceptionally gorgeous women and the average-looking Zegna-suited men who are chasing after them. The sprightly DJ Harley Viera Newton, who I confirm is no relation to Olivia Newton John, is on hand to serenade the leggy crowd with a perfect mixture of music for young and old, a classification that Teen Vogue’s Andrew Bevan seems to perpetually avoid.

The clock ticking, I bolt cross-town to my dear friend Byrdie Bell’s dinner party at Kristalbelli, the hidden gem of Korea town. It’s a rare treat to wrangle some of your favorite people into a room for Korean BBQ, which evidently was a sentiment shared by my tablemates DJ Brendan Fallis and girlfriend Hannah Bronfman, Lauren Powell, Cory Kennedy, Scott Lipps, Julian Ungano and Julia Collier—sometimes it takes a bi-coastal Byrdie to get us all in one room, but without question it is a lovely evening.

The week is just beginning as I take on our second back-to-back evening, first stop: the launch of Etro’s new fragrance: Greene Street and the celebration of SCENE’s November Issue—with cover girl of cover girls Rachelle Hruska, who to this day we cannot believe at one point had a baby hidden somewhere on her stunning frame. The party turns into the perfect reunion tour of all our favorites, writer Martin Marks in his thick frames (who reveals that he has just decided to move to Los Angeles), designer Monika Chiang and DJ May Kwok, to name a few.

Sensing the night slipping away from me, I make my Irish exit and hop in a car uptown to the Met for the Apollo Circle and a special toast to Carolina Herrera, who manages to drape some of the most beautiful girls in the world head to toe in her eponymous stitching. I scour the room and find my pal, supermodel Hilary Rhoda, ravishing in Herrera—she’s just back from Mexico, a little jet lagged, but every bit as ebullient as I’ve known her to be. Rhoda is teaming up with fellow members of the leggy set, Martha Hunt, Barbara Fialho, and Zen Sevastyanova for a few snaps in front of the Temple of Dendur—a sight far too infrequent in this world.

While not everyone in the room was a bikini model, there were most definitely some standouts—Melanie Lazenby, daughter of 007’s George Lazenby, looked impeccable in floor length pink; the elegant Natalie Obradovich is always in something of a Rorschach sequin dress; and one of Manhattan’s most stylish stand-outs: Lauren Santo Domingo.

Events like the Apollo Circle are rare for their ability to assemble so many young New Yorkers cut from the same cloth into such an iconic space. This year of course was no disappointment. See you next month!

Solange Knowles at the MOMA [Photo by PatrickMcmullan.com]

We start out the season at a fete to remember: the 2012 Annual Brazil Foundation Gala. Donning my red dinner jacket and matching Stubbs, I hop in a cab to the American Museum of Natural History where I am immediately greeted by a remarkably trim, post-baby Uma Thurman on the arm of handsome hubby (and keynote speaker) Arpad Busson.

Quickly catching up with DJ pal Orazio Rispo, I made a beeline to the bar—conveniently situated next to a hulking brontosaurus skeleton. Martini in hand, I finagle out of my seat assignment and over to the cool kids table, joining the rat pack of Greek shipping stud Stavros Niarchos (and boyfriend of SCENE cover beauty Jessica Hart), Colombian gazillionaire
Andres Santo Domingo, Count Ludi Salm, Luke Weil, art world hotshot Alex Acquavella—each of whom had neatly wrangled a supermodel companion for the eve.

The endless flow of wine and spirits kept my attention away from the stage as I started to craft the plan for the after party with a few of the lovely leggy beauties in the room, none the least of which included Hart (who has really stolen Niarchos’ heart, pun intended) and gal-pal Lily Kwong.

Over the last cigarette break on the massive steps of the museum, Stavros hatches a plan to hijack the jet black party bus stationed before us, quickly wrangling Lauren Remington Platt, Annelise Peterson, Olympia Rizzo, writer Chloe Malle (the talented daughter of Louis Malle and Candice Bergen) and the entire aforementioned posse on board with a few stolen bottles of bubbly.

On our ride down to hip hangout ACME’s basement in NoHo, Stavros egged half the boys into a rousing game of Liars Poker, fresh from his recent re-reading of Michael Lewis’ classic. The clear victor could not be determined. As the night continued down the rabbit hole, we land at a sprawling penthouse loft on Gramercy Park where along with nightlife war stories from Ludi Salm, we instructed Ms. Hart on how to properly tie her beau’s bow tie—a feat he admits he cannot accomplish on his own.

Recovering from an evening with the Ipanema set led me to the second highlight of the month, Vanity Fair and Epix’s screening of Everything or Nothing: The Untold Story of 007. I rang up my dear friend, America’s Next Top Model Sophie Sumner to tag along, and she happily obliges—after all, it was a chance for us to brush up on her countryman’s history, and take a peek at girl-of-the-minute Kate Upton in the flesh.

The movie is legendary; showcasing everything I’ve always wanted to know about 007 while seated next to some of the most epic characters in Bond history—including Jeffrey Wright (Felix Leiter), über-80s villain Robert Davi (License To Kill), and twice over Bond Girl: Maud Adams.

It turns out Miss Upton has had her eye on becoming the next Bond girl for some time, revealing to me that she thinks she definitely has what it takes to play opposite Daniel Craig, something that I can’t say I wouldn’t want to see.

Musical Renaissance man Theophilus London cruises in with his signature strut wearing incredible leather pants and black crystal studded loafers—the word "envy" does not even begin to describe my feelings.

I grab a drink with restaurateur and all around heartbreaker Donal Brophy who introduces me to his very own James Bond—the ever-handsome Gabriel Beaton, both of whom were dressed to kill. The night continues to gain momentum, inevitably finding me at Amy Sacco’s record coated den of sexy sin: No. 8. P.S.: If you don’t know the infamous doorman, Disco, don’t bother trying to get into Sacco’s sanctuary of social stars and celebrities.

The next night finds me again in black tie for the 50th anniversary of the New York Film Festival, and the premiere of Ang Lee’s epic: Life of Pi. I grab a moment to chat with the prolific director who explains that while the movie was a massive undertaking, “it was worth every second of the struggle.” I share this sentiment with our pal Tony Danza, who never seems to tire of my tireless misuse of Elton John’s classic lyric: “Hold us closer Tony Danza.”

The cavernous Harvard Club made it difficult to pick out the pretty faces, but I can be sure that notorious bombshell and honoree of the NYFF, Nicole Kidman was in strong and statuesque attendance.

Days later, I find myself eye to eye with the leader of The Colbert Nation, none other than Stephen Colbert himself. He has forwarded an invite to his America Again launch party at Brooks Brothers’ Madison Avenue mega-store. Naturally my first question is in the form of a rephrased Ethel Merman quote: How does Stephen Colbert always give them the old fire? The answer, as he stares deep into my eyes, is simple: “You’ll recall Alistair Cooke, the host of Masterpiece Theater—he once said that a professional is someone who can do his best work, even when he doesn’t feel like it. I’m what he would call a professional.”

Next I’m brushing shoulders with the motion picture set at the first Cinema Society screening of the month, a special showing of Seven Psychopaths, the latest from In Bruges director Martin Mcdonaugh. The film is a screaming riot—pitting my seatmates Christopher Walken and Sam Rockwell and the rest of the star-studded cast against each other in a beautifully written, sidesplittingly funny comedic thriller.

The after party was at my old haunt, No. 8 where I did my fair share of liver damage at the bar with Gerard Butler and Scarlett Johansson—both of whom share my sentiments that Abbie Cornish is the most beautifully dressed celebrity in the room. Oh—did I mention that Jewel is here too? Because yeah, she is, and it is awesome.

Next on my docket is a burlesque evening at La Maison Cointreau, a pop-up party palace in the West Village created by that infamous orange liqueur, where I find myself having what partygoer Perez Hilton would refer to as a “Kiki”—something of a naughty lock in that we were all too happy to join.

The star of the evening is Dita Von Teese who takes a few minutes out of her insanely sexy life to sit down with me, spilling all the details about her suite at The Carlyle, which has been equipped with a beautiful piano, and more liquor than she can shake a stick at. Take it from me: sitting face to face with Dita is the ultimate exercise in self-control.

The highlight of the calendar this month is the 111th anniversary of Bergdorf Goodman, and for the first 20 minutes of black tie action at The Plaza, it certainly is. Off the bat we rub shoulders with some of the biggest names in the fashion world today: Carolina Herrera, Roberto Cavalli, Michael Kors, Zac Posen, Gilles Mendel, Peter Dundas, Georgina Chapman and Keren Craig of Marchesa, Joseph Altuzarra, Mark Badgley and James Mischka,  Jason Wu, Stacey Bendet,
Eddie Borgo, BG’s star Linda Fargo, Vittorio Missoni to name just a few—all of whom jostle in line to finagle a cocktail from one of the many overrun bars at what was essentially half of The Plaza Hotel.

The premise is simple: pack as many of the biggest and best names in the world of haute-style into one room and see what happens—the issue became that there were just too many beautiful people. We find solace in a corner with friends Hilary Rhoda and Lily Kwong—both of whom are doing everything in their power not to spill the drinks I just handed them.

People watching with supermodels from the corner of a legendary party is good sport as it turns out, but we decide to swing by Andrew Saffir’s Cinema Society after party for Alex Cross at Graydon Carter’s newly refurbished, super-buzzed about Beatrice Inn (now a restaurant and not the Olsen twins’ hangout of yesteryear).

Along with Debbie Harry, Ed Burns, Theophilius London, Mario Lopez, Tika Sumpter, the Brit wits Euan Rellie and Tom Sykes, Princess Alexandria of Greece, Olympian fencer Tim Morehouse, I did some significant damage at the Grey Goose stocked bar—all of us saddened by the inevitable early end thanks to Beatrice’s virgin liquor license, a necessary reminder of the decadence of days past. See you next month.

Anna Wintour, Karl Lagerfeld and Ingrid Sischy and the Gordon Parks Centennial Gala. (Leandro Justen/PatrickMcMullan.com)

We strolled into the Museum of Modern Art last Tuesday, for a gala honoring the centennial of the birth of the renowned photojournalist Gordon Parks, who passed away at 93 in 2006.

A quick nod to the door guy, and then promptly to the bar. Still off the sauce, we grabbed a seltzer and turned around to survey the scene, only to be immediately interrupted by a bronzed figure that had surveyed our less than macho bar order. “Did you just order a sparkling water, m’boy?” photographer Peter Beard asked us.

“Regrettably so,” we admitted to the man whose legendary life-long bender makes Bowie’s Thin White Duke phase look like rehab.

“Very sorry to hear that,” he said, extending a hand, the very one that he touched Cheryl Tiegs with so many years prior.

Mr. Beard spoke to us about the Gordon Parks Foundation. “I’ve been involved with it since before you were born, but it’s my wife Nejma who’s on the advisory board,” he replied proudly.

We noticed a wrinkle in the space-time continuum out of the corner of our eye. It was the monochromatic septuagenarian sun god of fashion: Karl Lagerfeld. He cut a swath through the crowd in his calculated yet effortless way that we’ve come to know and love, signaling that it was, in fact, time to sit down.

As we climbed the stairs to the second-floor atrium, it became clear that the seat-to-guest ratio was a bit off.  What should have been a subdued sit-down process quickly becomes a game of sudden-death musical chairs, but this wasn’t a pack of snotnose asthmatics in an elementary classroom. We were playing with Sarah Jessica Parker, Russell Simmons, and Anna Wintour.

Waiters and busboys frantically searched for extra chairs as more than a few tables, who’d paid big bucks for plates of filet, found themselves short a seat or two.

While extra chairs maintained a holding pattern above the heads of the rich and famous, we’d been cleared for landing. We sat next to James Murphy, of LCD Soundsystem, who was serving as the evening’s DJ. He admitted that he’s been a bit overworked lately, despite his retirement from the band.

“Originally we had no intention of filming the four-hour ‘last’ concert at Madison Square Garden, but at the eleventh hour we did. I’m still editing the thing together.”

We noted that the last concert was pseudo-religious evening for us, and Mr. Murphy hinted that was the idea behind the film, titled Shut Up and Play the Hits, which will be playing in theaters across the globe July 18, one night only.

“It’s for the people who didn’t get to experience it the way it was meant to be,” he said, seemingly still apologetic for the online ticket-sales debacle that caused the band to add three additional shows before the final performance last spring.

Anderson Cooper, son of Gloria Vanderbilt who was a long-time friend of Mr. Parks, took the stage and cued up the rest of the evening with a few anecdotes the man of the evening: “The guy made Shaft, people!” he exclaimed, leading into a heartwarming recounting of his interactions with the photographer as a young man.

Clive Davis, Annie Leibovitz, and John Legend followed, giving speeches laden with anecdotes, professional and personal, about Mr. Parks, whose body of work was expansive and will continue to touch many.

The Real Housewives of New York City: Sonja Morgan, Heather Thomson, Ramona Singer, Carole Radziwill. Not pictured: Aviva Drescher, LuAnn de Lesseps, Daniel J. Boorstin. (Mireya Acierto/PatrickMcMullan.com)

What allows reality TV to exist so plentifully, and to be so successfully engineered, is perhaps our human tendency to experience the same event different ways. Liquoring up scared, fame-hungry young people gets you most of the way there, but it’s the producer-prodded endless parsing of what historian Daniel J. Boorstin termed “pseudo-events” that fill the hours and hours of cable programming we so happily consume: fights over who is a drunk, fights over who said who is a drunk, fights over what actually happened when everyone was drunk, and so on. (Mr. Boorstin also gave us a handy phrasing for the contemporary definition of a celebrity: “a person who is known for his well-knownness.”)

To test these theories, on Monday, The Observer embraced a full evening’s schedule of pseudo-events featuring celebrities and took a Rashomonic approach to the premiere of the fifth season of the wildly, bafflingly successful reality show, The Real Housewives of New York City. We sent three correspondents with varying degrees of RHONY knowledge to three premiere parties hosted by Housewives, and asked them to write honestly of their experiences.

What we learned: Despite perhaps being unwelcome, ex-Housewife Jill Zarin made the rounds. A couple of the Housewives will really miss their extra-large Diet Cokes (thanks a lot, Mayor Bloomberg). If you hang around with a Housewife long enough, you might run into someone actually famous (Liza Minnelli!?). And the show, when viewed with the celebrity cast members present, is even more uncomfortably hyperreal.

Thus we present: the Occasional Viewer’s Story, the Fanboy’s Story, and the Party Crasher’s Story.

The Occasional Viewer’s Story
Setting: Aviva Drescher’s viewing party at Frames

It’s always a bit embarrassing when you blindly shout cross streets to your cabbie, and more embarrassing still when the address you feed the cabbie turns out to be Port Authority Bus Terminal. But what really took the cake was when we realized that we’d be watching the Real Housewives of New York City season premiere from a bowling alley called “Frames” in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, with none other than Aviva Drescher.

First stop: the bar.

We’d been off the sauce for a week or so, and as tempting as the cheeky open bar items seemed to be, it would be Diet Coke with a lemon for us, an order we gave a leggy redhead who was quick to inform: “I’m very sorry sir, but they didn’t opt to cover sodas and juices in the open bar package. That will be three dollars.” Brilliant.

As we settled up our tab, in walked Ex-RHONY Jill Zarin, seemingly doing the step and repeat for no one. We were informed by our blonde co-pilot (an admitted fangirl of the series) that there’s no way Ms. Zarin would stay for the premiere: “She’s probably so pissed that she’s off the show.” Being totally uninformed about the past few seasons, we asked why.  “These chicks love it! It’s like a bizarre little club,” our friend managed to scream into our ear above deafening club music.

We headed toward the main ball of action over by lanes 10-12, drawn by the crowd and by the absolutely insane amount of jewelry on display on party guests’ extremities. Can you say Pavé? Before we could count the carats, we were dealt a deafening blow by the sound system as the screen at the end of our lane crackled to life. The room was instantly lit up by our host’s face as she introduced herself on the show, and allegedly, to much of America.

The whole thing was rather unceremonious, no introduction, no preface to the premiere, not even so much as a big wave to the diamond studded crowd. We almost got the impression that Ms. Drescher couldn’t care less about the show, choosing instead to pop about the room, kissing cheeks, hugging all, doing almost everything in her power to not look at the screen. We noticed R. Couri Hay meandering in her direction and we decided it was time to move in for a slice of Ms. Drescher.

Seems you’re not paying much attention to the premiere, Ms. Drescher, we said. Why’s that?

Ms. Drescher replied, “Seen it, honey. Here watch this next scene--it’s great!” She pointed knowingly at a screen, a scene of her evidently making a pithy remark at a cocktail party, overemphasized by the reality show editing style we’ve come to know.

Thinking of the three dollars we’d left at the bar, we pressed Ms. Drescher, who, by the way, carries a disproportionately small amount of weight for her height, on if she’d be affected by the soft drink ban Bloomberg’s been mulling over.

“Oh god no, we haven’t allowed any soda in our house for years. It causes cancer, you know. I used to be a total Diet Coke fiend, though...” Ms. Drescher trailed off.

Mr. Hay piped up. “If we’re talking about cancer, you know what else is scary--all these poor kids getting autism from their injections!”

Ms. Drescher and The Observer replied, almost in unison, “Hmm, not so sure about that, Couri.”

We elected to move the topic of conversation away from possible carcinogens, where it inevitably and somewhat thankfully petered out. We creeped for the exit with our minds slightly scrambled by the odd chorus of Ms. Drescher trying to speak over her own televised voice.

The Fanboy’s Story
Setting: The Countess LuAnn de Lesseps’s party at the Lantern’s Keep, and later, Liza Minnelli’s arms

“I can’t believe she showed up.” A middle-aged woman whispered spitefully about an unknown “she” to her companion in between sips of chardonnay. From head to toe she was a walking talking Louis Vuitton ad. Never in my life had I seen so many red soles in one room.

I was in housewife heaven. The Countess, LuAnn de Lesseps, stood towering in the middle of the room greeting her guests with grace and poise. Her gold-sequined dress shimmered through her champagne glass as she made rounds. The mood in the bar was nowhere near as tense as I had prepared myself for, knowing that just a few blocks away Ramona Singer and Sonja Morgan were hosting their own premiere party.

“I will not be attending Ramona and Sonja’s party because I’m an honorary chair tonight at the Fred and Adele Astaire awards.” Ms. de Lesseps confided. “Ramona told me she didn’t even know I was hosting a party tonight.”

I was waiting for Ms. Singer to jump out from behind the bar and start defending herself. Andy Cohen would bust in and an impromptu reunion would take place in the middle of Lantern’s Keep. A boy can dream, right? The Countess started talking to us about her single “Money Can’t Buy You Class,” as if I didn’t know every word to the song. Waiters circled the small space offering hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne. A small camera crew filming for Bravo shadowed the Countess.

As I reached for a mini hamburger, Heather Thomson, one of the show’s new cast members walked in. I approached, hoping to get some dirt on Ramona, and judging from the promos I knew that Ms. Thomson would be the perfect source. I’d been dying to know what new alliances might occur and who among the cast would be deemed an alcoholic this year. (It’s an annual tradition.) Heather was extremely careful with everything she said about the other housewives and only made one pinot reference.

I was beginning to become disappointed with the lack of drama in the air. Just then I was sent a gift from the Bravo gods, a gift in the form of Jill Zarin. The ex-Housewife stormed toward the bar in a bright blue corset and demanded a Diet Coke. She recognized me from a past event and, grabbing my hand, introduced me to her husband.

“Look at the shapewear!” He pointed to Ms. Zarin’s corset.

Ms. Zarin continued, “Yes! My shapewear, that’s what I’ve been focusing on. Skweez Couture.”

The intro for the new season played on a flat screen behind her. Pursing her lips, Ms. Zarin confided, “I’m not going to Ramona and Sonja’s tonight. I have plans.”

As the night continued, we found ourselves at the Fred and Adele Astaire Awards watching Ms. de Lesseps present as an honorary chair. I sat in awe as icon after icon walked across the stage. Marvin Hamlisch, Tony Danza, Chita Rivera, Albert Maysles, and Liza Minnelli. That wasn’t a typo, Liza and the Countess were on the same stage. I just about died. After the awards ceremony, I joined Ms. de Lesseps at her table for the reception, which just so happened to be the table next to Ms. Minnelli’s. Singer Sylvia Tosun, a guest at Ms. de Lesseps table, introduced me to Ms. Minnelli. I couldn’t resist fawning over her like a schoolgirl when she grabbed my arm and told us our jacket was fabulous. While we never did get to witness any true housewife drama as hoped, I did spend the rest of the night gabbing with all of the guests at Ms. de Lesseps table in true housewives fashion.

The Party Crasher's Story
Setting: Sonja Morgan and Ramona Singer's party at Serafina Upper West

At the door: a throwback, young girls with clipboards instead of iPads. They look overwhelmed and barely put up a fight as several of us brush past, shouting out our names as we nudge through. "R. Couri Hay, Cassandra Seidenfeld, and this is Drew Grant, she is from The Observer!" No, no, don't say that! Technically, we are not supposed to be here. The party for Ramona Singer and Sonja Morgan is fraught with social peril due to some choice quotes we ran in a recent blog post. We are Not Invited. We have never seen The Real Housewives of New York City except in Real Life, where they are not as fun when they fight. And yet, here we are.

Front room is bare, despite presence of bar and a screen, showing the premiere of The Real Housewives. There is no audio, but if we wanted to hear what the Housewives were saying we could always move into the back room, where hundreds of identical blonde women seem to be talking at once, snapping photos, having their photos snapped.

We hear: "Is that Ivanka?!" (It is not Ivanka.)

We are scared. The men here are strange. Are they on the show as well? Ms. Singer sees us, and her eyes open, like, "Wuh-oh." She knows we are Not Invited. But it is okay! Ms. Singer is nice to us, and we are grateful when she grabs our hand and leads us over to the white wine station.

Nobody is servicing. Too busy networking, perhaps, those actors and reality-show stars in catering apparel, only proffering the shrimp-pineapple skewers to the important and famous. Follow them, and you will be able to map out the trajectory of Those Who Matter as they air-kiss around the room.

"It's my party, I will open the wine myself!" Ms. Singer laughs. We have a glass poured; the moment we set it down, it is whisked away. Still, we are grateful for something to do, like wait around for someone to pour us another.

It is Sonja and Ramona's party. We are Not Invited. But we are here. So are Caroline Radziwell and Heather Thomson, because people say they are. We cannot be sure. At least Ms. Radziwell is a brunette, easier to pick out in the sea of blondes.

Many people here have been on the show in some capacity, and the rest would like to be. Including us? Possibly. Kelly Rowland, from Nuke 'Em High 2, addresses rumors that she's the 6th Housewife this season.

"No, but I'll be on a couple episodes," Ms. Rowland said.

"I was also on a couple episodes," Ms. Seidenfeld told us.

We are the only ones who have not been on "a couple episodes," or so we think. Since we have never seen the show, maybe we have been on an episode already and don't even know it. Maybe this evening will be an episode. Maybe this is all reality TV.

We check the sprinklers for hidden cameras.

Mr. Hay introduces us to Dr. Howard Sobel, a famed cosmetic dermatologist. He tells us to give him a call tomorrow. We are flattered! Wait, should we be flattered?

There are children here, and men, and one dog. Some girls are the children of the Housewives and their friends, some are merely their assistants. We meet one who is an ex-assistant to Ms. Morgan.

"It was not that bad," she said. Now she is at school to be a fashion buyer at LIM, which, according to her, doesn't stand for anything.

Who are the men? Some, we assume, are husbands or boyfriends. A tall, dapper man wears a hat with crazy feathers in it, so we follow him around for awhile. Later we find out he's Andretti Andretti, but what does that mean?

Leesa Rowland hugs us several times. Wendy Diamond invites several people to the July wedding of her dog, Lucky. A woman claiming to be friends with Ms. Radziwell says that she thinks we could write the script for her friend's movie about drag racing. "It's a sequel, and also it will be a reality show," she says. Her boyfriend is an extra virgin olive oil baron.

We have had two drinks. We were Not Invited. At this point, it doesn't matter. Ms. Singer smiles at us, while flickering on the screen in the back corner, her visage is yelling at Ms. Thomson. In real life, the two of them embrace. No one is paying attention to the show. Everyone is watching real life.

With pockets too shallow for his $7,500 bail, the equally diminutive De Silva was forced to spend his last weeks leading up to trial behind bars. SCENE contacted the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, who was more than happy to provide us with Priyantha’s most recent misdeeds:

1. PL170.25    Criminal Possession of a Forged Instrument in the Second Degree
(1 count)
2. PL155.30 (1) Grand Larceny in the Fourth Degree
(1 count)

But how does one man go from annoying social gnat to convicted felon? As it turns out, the acceleration was rather exponential.

De Silva took to the streets in 2006 after registering the surprisingly clever domain name www.CondeNastOnline.com, which, as any coffee addled, sleep deprived PR intern can attest, might allow a phony RSVP to sneak by the virtual velvet rope on its way to a guest list database, granting De Silva unfettered access to those gilded elbows that he so desperately wanted to rub against. PR veteran Cristina Civetta had more than one of his business cards thrust at her. “Each time was a different story, once he was a music industry executive, next time it was a talent agent, then the inevitable magazine editor. We caught on to the guy pretty early on and put his picture on every clipboard in sight.”

Nadine Johnson, one of the most powerful publicists and event planners on the planet, echoed Civetta's strategy. “We all have guests' photos on iPads. We had the ‘Zkipster’ programmer build a special field for this. They peek at the list and try to read a name aloud which is very hard to do with iPads. A big favorite is ‘I work with Russell Simmons' or that notorious RSVP that comes from a fake LVMH address in Paris.”

Gawker managed to wrangle a first hand account from a savvy bartender at the after party of the New York Surf Film Festival in 2008: “He drank vodka straight all night like it was water, and sweat like he was on fire. After learning that I was an actress, he gave me a professionally printed business card claiming him a Managing Partner of Red Wagon Films and said, ‘We can get you a SAG award, you're very pretty.’ Several vodkas later, he asked for my email address so that he could take me to the premiere of Changeling on Wednesday.”

As most guys will admit, drunkenly scamming on pretty girls doesn’t exactly qualify as a game changer. What does set De Silva apart however, is his almost sloppy The Talented Mr. Ripley meets Catch Me If You Can's bombed Frank Abagnale Jr.'s ability to assume new identities, a talent that caught the attention of actor/legend Tony Danza at a recent cocktail party SCENE attended. “I love guys like this, they fascinate me—it’s almost a perverted art form,” he began, instantly remembering a tale from his past. “There was this shmuck running around town for years pretending to be my brother. He would use it everywhere, you name it: nightclubs, cocktail parties, industry stuff, he even used it to get into a hospital I was in just to say he did it! The best part though, he called himself Jeffrey Danza. I mean, come on, Jeffrey Danza? I think they locked the guy up years ago.”

It’s pretty ballsy to strut up to an event uninvited, it’s really ballsy to strut up to an event uninvited and pretend that you’re a loved one of someone inside, or in Cinema Society founder Andrew Saffir’s case, the partner of the guy throwing the party: “A really swift crasher came to the door and told my team, who have heard it all, that he was Daniel Benedict [Saffir’s longtime partner]. They looked at him and laughed and basically said, ‘You picked the wrong name to crash with.’”

When an invented title failed to pass the litmus test, De Silva would often result to brute force: “Do you know who I am? I could destroy you!” Journalist Jennifer Wright would recall in an exchange she overheard between De Silva and an unassuming door girl, adding, “I used to run into him occasionally at parties and he would mention that he made Slumdog Millionaire. For a second I always paused and wondered ‘Is this what Jay Gatsby would do? Is this the 21st century equivalent of saying you hunt tigers on the Bois de Boulogne?’”

It would make sense that De Silva would seek out the Jay Gatsby model of the American dream: create your own myth, and then become it. But where Gatsby succeeds, De Silva fails. Gatsby is a lovable character that fills his summer evenings with fascinatingly beautiful people eager to be in his presence; he is charming, graceful, and yes, a bit mysterious. De Silva, on the other hand, is a man incapable of having a good time even at the parties he crashes. “They found him asleep on a table, somewhat disoriented. The guards offered him medical assistance, which was refused, and he was helped into a taxi,” a rep for the American Antiques Gala Preview told the gossip column “Page Six.”

So why even bother? What’s the point of sneaking into a bigwig party if only to pass out next to Martha Stewart? To help us put De Silva into perspective, we must turn our attention to an even more legendary party crasher: Steve Kaplan, aka “Shaggy.”

"Shaggy"

Hiding behind a massive mop of curly blond hair, Shaggy has been a fixture on the party circuit for more than a decade. The guy is rarely officially invited, with more than one press outlet labeling him the “world’s most famous party crasher,” a title he seems to wear with pride. One thing is for sure, when you saw Shaggy, he was there for a good time. Society publicist R. Couri Hay recalled one of the many, many interactions he had with the blond bombard: “Oh God, he was getting so bold. I remember one time he rolled up to a party, surely not invited, with three girls on his arm and a huge grin on his face, his hair a total mess.”

It would seem however, that a non-invited Shaggy has become the exception, not the rule. He’s been around for so long now that people look to him as something of a party barometer, and as writer George Gurley would describe; a good omen. “Shaggy slipped into my book launch party without us noticing, and all of a sudden the PR girl we had working the event ran over and picked him out of the crowd in disgust: ‘Do you want us to throw him out? He clearly wasn’t invited.' I immediately recognized who it was, and informed the girl: ‘Shaggy can stay—if he’s crashing my book party, it’s somewhat of an honor!’” Gurley’s tale of pseudo-admiration for Shaggy is not unique; by all accounts our feather-haired friend is actually a fun party guest, exceptionally gracious, quick with a joke, even going so far as to be humble when being asked to vacate the premises.

SCENE wanted to like Shaggy as the somewhat lesser of two evils that he and De Silva represent, but the deeper we dug into the Internet gossip grave, the more skeletons we found. Shaggy, it would seem, has a thing for food: “He was devouring gnocchi with truffles at such a rate that the waiters could not keep up with him,” said a witness at the opening of La Masseria. “If Shaggy was at the party, he was there to eat. I remember catching him gorging himself at a buffet, practically lining his pockets with food, it was incredible how much this guy would try to eat in one sitting,” remembered Hay, who’d reminded The New York Times years ago: “There’s a very famous saying: Put out a lamb chop and they’ll all come.”

Gastronomic grievances aside, it’s not hard to wonder why the Elizabeth Seton Pediatric Center would have preferred Shaggy to Priyantha De Silva as designated crasher on the evening of November 11, 2010. The event was slated to be a grand fundraiser to aid the rehabilitation programs for gravely ill children throughout the hospital network. The location was set at the luxurious Harold Pratt House at 68th Street and Park Avenue. The theme: Going Gatsby.

November 10th was a gusty day, high 40’s—stay-inside weather.

One could almost picture a slovenly De Silva in a dark apartment, brooding over an ancient laptop, party photographer Patrick McMullan's website flickering across his screen. He looks down, dozens of crumpled business cards across the table, tiny trophies of evenings past. Back to the computer he digs through the online repository of pomp and circumstance, scouting potential guests, quickly scrawling out talking points, sketching together a spider web of social networks he’s all too eager to infiltrate.

He pauses to take a swig from a flask of bargain basement vodka; closing his eyes he briefly recalls a seminal Nick Carraway quote that he reads as directive:  “I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went there.” He reaches into his pocket, running his fingers over the surreptitiously obtained Bank of America debit card, exhaling deeply. On November 11th, Priyantha De Silva would not be invited to the Harold Pratt House, but he would go there.

After a late lunch, Priyantha would return home to prepare for the evening. He would feverishly through his closet before settling on a red velvet smoking jacket. Reaching for a nearby lint roller he begins his ritual, pulse quickening with every caress of the sticky wand. Donning his velveteen casing he cracks open his laptop, remembering to scout the silent auction items online before heading out the door—and there it was: the leather Prada bag that was overheard to be destined for one of his many, many, young girlfriends. The very same leather Prada bag that would land De Silva behind bars, where he will remain for up to three years.

Photo from Guest of a Guest

Tinsley Mortimer is an American socialite whose Wikipedia page describes her as a descendant of “Thomas Jefferson (on her mother’s side) and relatives of Patrick Henry and James Madison (on her father’s side).” She has written a tidy little roman à clef titled Southern Charm, and last night, as International Workers’ Day came to a close, she celebrated its release with a party.

At 6:15AM the day prior, Tinsley, daughter of real estate speculator George Mercer Jr., slept soundly while six NYPD officers broke down the door of Occupy Wall Street protestor Zachary Dempster’s Bushwick apartment with a warrant to arrest his roommate for a six-year-old open container violation: a thinly veiled attempt to interrogate the two on activities planned for May Day.

On the morning of Tinsley’s book launch, police in riot gear lined up in front of the Bank of America building on W. 42^nd Street as protesters gathered. CBS News spoke to a young protester, Julian Kilner, who stated that the protesters’ main issue with the banking giant was “how many people the Bank of America foreclosed on as a result of predatory lending.”

Nearby, at 1211 Ave of the Americas, the Wall Street Journal and Fox News received copies of the same letter that also met the hands of Mayor Michael Bloomberg, its message simple, vague:

“Happy May Day”

This is a reminder that you are not in control. Just in case you needed some incentive to stop working.

Tinsley, scion of an American dynasty, did not comply with this directive. There were Lauderée macarons to be picked up, boxes of champagne to be dealt with, flowers to be arranged, hair to be done, nails to be lacquered, interviews to be tackled, and books to be signed. May 1^st would be her day.

Finding our way to the (admittedly beautiful) event at Castle & Pierpont was near impossible. At every turn we found a street blocked off, cars static, police in contrapposto, protest signs whipping the air into a frenzy. The road to Tinsley’s party was an uphill battle in the middle of an Occupy Wall Street war. Finally arriving at the Ludlow Street space, we made a beeline to the bar. Gin, soda, rocks.

Overhearing a guest who wished to remain nameless, we learned what effect the heirs (but not descendants) of Jefferson were having on the Upper East Side: “Oh my god it was terrible, I mean I had a driver coming down, but it took us nearly half an hour with all those damn hippies marching. It’s like, give up losers…we’re sick of you stinking up our city.”

Thomas Jefferson said: "I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just."

Just then two professional looking film crews charged in, thrusting their foamy robotic phalluses into Tinsley’s face, forcing Malik So-Chic, Tinsley’s former co-star on High Society, to ogle her spotlight from a safe distance. We were unsurprised to find the setting typically Tinsley: manicured, primped, coated in lavender tones, layered thick with sugary treats--the Marie Antoinette parallel was almost uncanny.

“Let them eat macarons!” we desperately wanted her to say.

As of this morning, you could find the book positioned at #3,489 on the Amazon bestseller list, and for sale both in stores and online.

The marathon that is Tribeca Film Festival has come to a close, so while we gently nurse our livers off life support, you're invited to click through the gallery for a rundown of our interactions with the ultimate motley crew: HRH The Prince Edward, George Lucas, Bobby De Niro, Ed Burns, Geoffrey Fletcher and a litany of others...

The Food: Dubbed The Supper Club, Bombay has decked out a quarter of the space on west 26th to evoke a modernist chalet meets chelsea loft - and they've brought in some heavy hitters to hammer out the menu, none other than Velvet Roper's favorite: The Fat Radish. An exquisite little menu of perfectly sized plates fly out from behind the scenes at the pop up kitchen - carpaccio, deviled crab, Welsh Rarebit, melt in your mouth salmon. Take our advice and do whatever it is you have to do to get a seat at this thing, you won't regret it.

The Bar: The aptly named "Gin Palace" is playing host to a smattering of gin based drinks (surprise surprise) whipped up by a cadre of mixologists who appear to have been flown in from around the world for this thing. As you might expect, a gin bar manned by experts without a single cash register in sight might be our favorite thing...ever.

The Scene:  As we were sneaking out on the early side, we caught Olivia Wilde popping in to see what the Short Filmmakers Party (a night typically reserved for the creative minds that reside just outside the spotlight) We took a peek at the upcoming schedule for the week, and while we can't reveal it here, there are going to be some BIG names coming through.

Click through the gallery for a taste of the space, and please take our advice and do whatever it is you have to do to check this spot out.

Female Friend: "So wait...you had the chance to squeeze his butt, and you didn't?"

Velvet Roper: "The timing was off; it wasn't meant to be."

FF: "That's like saying you had a gun to Hitler's head, but forgot to pull the trigger."

VR: "Hang on, you're equating Zac Efron's butt - to Hitler?"

FF: "Yeah but in like, the hottest way possible"

Reflecting on our inability to execute, it was time for a drink—something we could have used during the shower sex scenes recently endured during the screening (Spoiler: They gave Efron a back tattoo. Sorry ladies)

Drink in hand we back away from the bar, landing ourselves right in the court of the king: Tony Freakin' Danza.

Having skipped the movie for a night class he's been taking, The Brooklyn Bomber pleaded with us for a brief synopsis, which we all too happily obliged:

VR: "Ok, so look, all you really need to know is: marine, shower scene, dogs, dickhead sheriff."

Tony Danza: "Ok, ok. Gotta make it seem like I was there. What do you think of Zac?"

VR: "The guy seems to be beating women off with a stick"

TD: "Hey man, you might not know this but there was a time when I was beating women off with a stick." As he said this, two women walk over to Danza, hands extended, giggling with excitement—the dude still has it. "It was different back then though," he continues, "Nobody had AIDS, everyone was on the pill...man it was a total free-for-all."

Hold us closer, Tony Danza.