After graduating, The Observer vowed that if we should ever step inside a library again, it must be for a classy party and nothing less. (Well, maybe for a scene reminiscent of the one in Atonement.)
And Gawker’s third annual “silent disco,” held at the New York Public Library, offered us a rare occasion to go back inside, with the musical accompaniment of DJs Dapwell of Das Racist, DJ Kalkutta, and Yeasayer being broadcast into the bulky headphones provided.
The vast library hall was decked in gold. Gold masquerade masks, bows, ribbons and Big Apple Shandy cocktails littered the tables. All the girls working the party also seemed to have gold-blonde hair.
Like a magpie, we were drawn to the shiniest individuals at the party. One guest appeared to be jamming on the dance floor with a golden walking stick, the strangest accessory to have lying around the house. Naturally, we demanded an explanation.
The seats were filled with the type of people who pair fancy garb with worn sneakers or vintage loafers. Pabst Blue Ribbon, Brooklyn Lager and a couple glasses of wine circulated through the book-rimmed room while several speakers took their respective turns at the mic.
FluxBlog, a unique pinprick on the blogosphere upstarted by Matthew Perpetua (who will start his gig as BuzzFeed’s first music editor next Monday) that satiates the MP3 appetite of the music niche, celebrated its 10 years “of perfect tunes” at Housing Works Monday evening, inviting speakers like Gawker’s former co-editor Emily Gould and an editor at Rolling Stone, Rob Sheffield, to each play a carefully selected single for the relaxed crowd.
“He was like, ‘I’m so excited someone’s going to talk about a song that’s so uncool to admit you like,’” exclaimed Amanda Petrusich, recounting a remark she received from Mr. Sheffield at the start of the evening.
As Seen in SCENE
If you haven’t met Priyantha De Silva, there’s still a good chance you’ve encountered him, perhaps when he was pretending to be someone else: cherubic cocktail chaser, uncredited Academy Award-winning producer, conspicuous Condé Nast editor, philandering philanthropist, ICM agent or the creator of the Kardashians. Some say that if you put your ear to a martini, you can almost hear his overdone debonair voice: “What do you mean I’m not on the list? Don’t you know who I am?” Priyantha De Silva was that really, really sweaty guy of Sri Lankan descent who successfully crowbarred his way into progressively higher social circles, ultimately crashing down into of Manhattan’s most closely guarded venues: Rikers Island.