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.

A Faustian bargain!

Becoming a socialite is a grueling slog even in the best of circumstances. And I’m not in the best of circumstances. I don’t really know anyone or have any money, and while I’ve gotten plenty of ink over the years, it’s not the kind on the society pages (it’s on my shoulders, calves, upper arms, forearms...).

But nobody does it alone. Cinderella had a Fairy Godmother and a bunch of little birds. I had an editor, a stylist and a photographer lending occasional advice, but it wasn’t enough. I needed a publicist. And I knew of only one man for the job: R. Couri Hay.

Mr. Hay is a press agent, but he’s more than that. He’s a fixer, a connector, a Park Avenue Tom Hagen. He has been navigating New York’s toniest social spheres since the last time they wiped down the banquettes at Studio. He’s represented Prada, Veuve Clicquot, the Sanctuary Hotel, and The Hamptons Players Club, along with movie stars, socialites, artists, and authors. Mr. Hay can trace his vast circle of New York “friends” (no one is referred to as a client unless they are in the middle of selling something, throwing a party, or beset by public scandal) back to Andy Warhol, a dozen of whose works—a Marilyn silkscreen, nude sketches of Mr. Hay and a particularly naughty phallic collage among them—are in his collection.

My first invitation to Mr. Hay’s opulent home was to celebrate the christening of his dog, Webster Westbrook Alexander Hay, a long-haired Cavalier King Charles. A few weeks later I emailed Mr. Hay and told him I needed to speak to him about a “proposal.”

“Drew,” he replied, “I wanted to extend an invite to an event that we are having tomorrow night with Janna Bullock and Jay McInerney. If you would like to stop by we can chat there.”
Now, there was no way Mr. Hay could have known that I had spent my recent vacation poring over the entire McInerney oeuvre, or that I was writing a work of fan-fiction combining Mr. McInerney’s Story of My Life with The Hunger Games. (It’s called “You Can’t Reap the Willing,” and it’s going to be huge on the Internet.)

The intimate dinner of 20 proved an awkward occasion for shop talk. I found myself seated across from the avant-garde theater director Robert Wilson. Mr. McInerney was sitting two seats away. Nicole Miller was close by. Patricia Duff was one seat to my left.

Drew Grant, Kim Taipale at Janna Bullock's "Allegories & Experiences"

"So...what did you want to talk to me about?” Mr. Hay asked, leaning over conspiratorially, as the appetizer was served.
“Well, you know that I do this column, about um, trying to become a socialite...”

“Don’t say ‘socialite,’” Mr. Hay gently corrected. “It’s got a bad connotation to it.”

“Okay, I’m trying to become...a person...of...social standing,” I faltered, desperately trying to the think of suitable synonyms for whatever Byrdie Bell is. “I was kind of hoping you would be my publicist?”

Mr. Hay speared a piece of lobster, and smiled at a guest. “So how would that work?” he replied nonchalantly. “How would you pay me? What would I be representing you as? What would you like to learn from me?”

This guy was good.

“I can’t pay you in money,” I said, “but I can pay you in press.”

Well, that felt sleazy, but I’d finally gotten it out in the open. Mr. Hay kept eating.

“While you’re helping me advance my social career, I’ll be writing about it in The Observer. You and your clients would wind up in the column. It’s mutually beneficial.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw Mr. McInerney snickering.

Mr. Hay smiled, and then promptly changed the subject.
The next day, the phone rang. “Drew!” a voice chided me from across the line. “It was very obvious that you did not know who Robert Wilson was. If I’m going to be helping you with these columns, you can’t be making mistakes like that!”

“Oh, good,” I began.

“And I was reading your write-up of the event last night...look, you can’t just feature whoever was the most chatty at dinner on the top of the page. It’s an insult to the bigger names.”

“Oh, but I didn’t really talk to—”

“I’m having one of my assistants send you over the guest list right now. Then I want you to change the order, and then send it back. She can print it out for me, and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay, but—”

“Don’t worry,” he continued. “I know that there is a line you can’t cross. This is just how I would write it, if I wanted people to pay attention. People love reading about themselves, but it has to be the right people. Also, more pictures: people want to see photos!”

“I think that’s doable,” I said, glad to have gotten a whole sentence in.

“Great. And I have you down for the Hale event on Monday, Tuesday we have the Harboring Hearts Spring Gala and the National Lung Association thing, and then we’ll see about the rest of the week. I’ll try to get you on some boards, but these people have to like you...which means that you can’t just write mean things about them.”

Mr. Hay, who has written some columns himself, would know.
“At least, not until you’re established,” he added, thoughtfully. “And look, if I’m ever overstepping boundaries just tell me.”

Maybe a little. But did I want a pushover or a publicist? If he was half this aggressive on my behalf, I’d be golden.
Still, I felt like a sell-out, imagining myself writing glowing items about self-important people in order to maintain my precarious social standing. It would be like having two editors.
Over the next week, every day, sometimes every hour, Mr. Hay would call and check up on me, give me my schedule for the evening, and walk me through the guest list.

“What should I tell the Times about our relationship?” he asked during one call. “They’re doing a profile on me, and it could be good press for you. Also, I got you a gig as a style expert on this fashion website, so just send them your headshots, and they’ll be in touch.”

But Mr. Hay wasn’t totally a task-masker with a whip. When I balked at double-booking two galas on a Tuesday for fear of exhaustion, he took pity on me: I only had to attend one—my choice! And those spreadsheets of attendees, listed in order of importance, actually made my job that much easier. (As to which were also his clients, I tried to remain innocent.) Whereas previously I had shown up at parties and simply talked to anyone who seemed friendly, now I zeroed in on the social fixtures.

“You’re young, and you’re beautiful...you’ll be easy,” Mr. Hay had pronounced when he’d agreed to represent me. I’m still not sure if that was a promise or a threat.
dgrant@observer.com

Eric Trump, Michelle Javian, Yuki Kotani, Clay Aiken at Harboring Hearts Spring Gala

"You know, I don't even think she did charity work before the show," Real Housewives of New York star Sonja Morgan whispered to The New York Observer last night during Harboring Hearts first annual Spring Gala. Ms. Morgan was complaining about one of her fellow co-stars. "I asked her ex-husband, and he was like, 'She never did charity work.'"

Ms. Morgan wanted us to know that she, on the other hand, was fully devoted to her causes, including New Yorkers for Children,  the ASPCA, and a new project with her daughters involving her former house-turned-French American museum, the Blérancourt.

And, after all, weren't we all gathered at the Rubin Museum of Art (with its amazing exhibit of Tibetan comic books in the basement) that evening to toast two young women--Michelle Javian and Yuki Kotani--for their charity? Harboring Hearts places heart patients and their families in "home-like environments" while they are in New York receiving treatment. The charity also provides a network of support and a community of resources for those suffering from the physically and financially draining experience of heart transplant surgery.

Nancy Silberkleit, Sonja Morgan

Ms. Javian and Ms. Kotani met at New York Presbyterian, after both their fathers suffered from heart attacks that required immediate surgery. Ms. Kotani's father survived, Ms. Javian's didn't. A year later, in 2008, the two founded Harboring Hearts. Last night they celebrated Dr. Yoshifumi Naka and Dr. Donna Mancini for their work in the field of medicine. The gala was co-chaired by Hope Geier Smith and Claudia Chan, and although Dr. Oz couldn't make it, he did send a video greeting. ZocDoc co-founder Cyrus Massoumi also took the mic to praise the young women's initiative.

The first musical entertainment of the evening was provided by Clay Aiken, American Idol winner and Celebrity Apprentice runner-up. He was introduced by Eric Trump, who noted that Mr. Aiken was the only contestant in the history of the show to ever make it through without the audience hating them. Mr. Aiken sang two songs, one of which was "Can't Help Falling in Love with You."

Mr. Trump had gone to Georgetown with Ms. Javian, and used his considerable clout to get the attendees to cough up more money. Noting that the charity had already raised $220,000 for the evening, Mr. Trump took up the bidding to raise an extra $50,000. After several hands were raised, Mr. Trump singled out Stewart Rahr, the former pharmaceutical giant and current philanthropist. (Mr. Rahr is the largest donor to the Make-A-Wish Foundation ever, and was listed by  Forbes as #960 of the world's billionaires.)

"I know you're going to give something, Stewart!" Mr. Trump proclaimed. Mr. Rahr did indeed make a donation...of $100,000.

"When I saw what these young women were doing, it was so inspiring," Mr. Rahr told us, before noting that our publication had once written a piece about him.

Also on hand for the evening were Archie Comics publisher Nancy Silberkleit, Forbes' G2 Investment Group's Kevin Murray,  Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark's Mat Devine, Lou Dembrow and Jon Dembrow, Alexandra Richards (who also DJ'd part of the evening along with Nick Cohen of Upper Echelon Shoes), and R. Couri Hay. The liquor was provided in light-up form, courtesy of the LED-bottle vodka, Medea.

Over bites of fried sage and copious amounts of vodka, we mingled with some of New York's artistic jet-setters, surrounding the two hosts of the evening, Ms. Bullock and Jay McInerney.

"I've been up at 7 a.m. every morning, preparing for my ice-skating routine," Nicole Miller told us, never removing her iconic dark sunglasses. The stylist was performing for Ice Theater's Celebrity Skate at the Chelsea Piers this morning; an event we unfortunately had to miss out on.

Common Good's Patricia Duff's extended an invitation for a small gathering with Mark Ruffalo, also this evening. Artist and director Robert Wilson had us save the date for the opening exhibition for his Waterfall Laboratory's Summer Program on Long Island. Real estate agent Paola Bacchini, looking like the quintessential Italian beauty in a leopard print dress, extended an invite to El Museo's annual gala this evening. We've never felt so popular!

JANNA BULLOCK and JAY MCINERNEY

Once the guests made their ways upstairs, publicist R. Couri Hay introduced the two hosts (both to the guests, and previously to each other), whose satirical exhibit adorned the walls behind the dinner table. Giant prints of news stories about Vladmir Putin's tyranny were overlayed with a scrim featuring famous titles: "Shrek," "The Hounds of Baskerville," and "Alina in Wonderland" (a reference to Alina Kabaeva, the gymnast once rumored to marry President Putin). A small area toward the front of the room served as an impromptu dance floor, as Charles Askegard and Michelle Wiles of BalletNext performed a paux de deux from Swan Lake.

Among those clapping were jeweler Prince Dimitri of Yugoslavia, Cristina Cuomo, Somers Farkas, former ballerina Angela Ho, CNN's Felicia Taylor, style icons Tim Schifter and Helen Schifter, interior designer Milly de Cabrol,  financier George Farias,  yoga priestess Robin Coffer, and Ms. Bullock's daughter Zoe Remmel. Helping to produce the evening was publicist Alison Mazzola.

"There's a long history in Russia of using satirical fables to explain current issues," Ms. Bullock, whose family had their assets stolen by Russian corporate raiders in 2010, told us. Mr. McInernery, who introduced himself to us by reiterating the baffling performance at McKittrick this weekend, the consummate dinner guest, was as comfortable discussing Russian politics as the recent John Edwards trial and the tweets of his friend Bret Easton Ellis.

"It was the 80s, I'm sure there were times when things almost happened with Rielle and Bret and me," Mr. McInerney said, rolling his eyes. "But what does 'almost' mean? Anything can 'almost' happen."

We asked Mr. McInerney, who just released his latest book on wine, The Juice: Vinous Veritas, and is working on a new novel about the Hamptons, based on themes on Great Gatsby. if we'd be seeing another story about Alison Poole, Ms. Hunter's alter-ego in Mr. McInerney and Mr. Ellis's fiction. (Penelope on the Pond, a 2004 short story by Mr. McInerney, revisited the heroine of his 1988 novel Story of My Life as she hid out in a lake house to avoid a scandal with a married Southern politician running for president.)

"Ha, possibly!" Mr. McInerney told us. "You know, I wrote that story before the National Enquirer got wind of the whole affair. She [Ms. Hunter] called me up the day after she first met John, and I just had this image of Alison Poole coming back as Penelope from the Odyssey, waiting for her husband to come home."

"It's probably a good thing the defense rested without calling her to the stand," he mused about the Edwards trial.

As the night wore down, we found ourselves discussing one of our favorite subjects--cults-- with former reporter Charles Krause, owner of the sociopolitical art gallery Reporting Fine Art in D.C. His current exhibition, "Lest We Forget," also deals with Soviet art and President Putin's controversial third term. Mr. Krause, then a Washington Post reporter, had been on the Port Kaitum tarmac with Congressman Leo Ryan when they were shot by members of Jonestown cult.

"I'm the person who brought 'drinking the Kool-Aid,' into America" he said, somewhat proudly. "I'm that guy."

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.

"Have you ever met the Mad Russian?" Animal Fair founder and dog lover Wendy Diamond asked The Observer at dinner last night. We had been covertly smoking outside on the lush patio of publicist R. Couri Hay's Upper West Side apartment after watching "Hindu Priest" Robin Cofer christen Mr. Hay's dog, Webster Westbrook Alexander Hay, by rubbing behind the long-haired Cavalier King Charles Spaniel's ears and whispering something in his ear.

Webster was being named after Mr. Hay's good friend, Roger Webster, who died last year. Earlier in the evening, Mr. Hay had lead a group sing-along to classics like "No Business Like Show Business."

We had not heard of the Mad Russian, but it seemed like that kind of night.
We followed Ms. Diamond to a dark table, lit on only by candles, where she was sitting with a bottle of chilled champagne, and introduced me to her dinner partners: Greta Giordano director of membership at the Core Club; model Kurt Lingenfelter, and Erik Bottcher from Mayor Cuomo's office.

"So if you ever want to quit smoking, you go to the Mad Russian," Ms. Diamond told us. "I went to the White House Correspondents' Dinner and was asking Graydon Carter if he had gone yet, and Salma Hayek walked by and said 'I love the Mad Russian!'"

The Mad Russian, Ms. Diamond continued, could also get us to drop 15 pounds, work out three times a week, and be happy for the rest of our lives. All in one session.

"I did it eight years ago, and have never smoked another cigarette!" Ms. Diamond concluded. With the flickering lights, and the seance-quiet table, we felt like we were listening to a ghost story. Or maybe Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Mad Russian. It didn't help that we couldn't figure out what the Mad Russian did, exactly, although we (correctly, as it turned out) assumed he was some sort of hypnotist.

Ms. Diamond invited us to the wedding of her Maltese, Lucky, which she promised would be the most expensive wedding ever held for a dog. Lucky was already in the Guinness Book of World Records, we were told, for ‘Most Photographed Animal with Celebrities.’

We promised to save the date. A christening, a wedding...we just hoped our next invite wouldn't be to a doggie wake. We doubt we'd be able to handle it, Mad Russian or not.

(Photo via Patrick McMullan)

My mother once told me that I avoided joining large playgroups because I had a fear of “disappearing” into them. Apparently I was a very metaphysical child, noticing at an early age that girls who hung out together inevitably developed a sort of hive-mind mentality—dressing the same, talking the same, laughing (at me) the same.

In my recent bid to increase my social standing and ingratiate myself into a group of fancy ladies, I have resolved to hit the charity circuit. But it’s not as easy as it sounds.

The sheer number of organizations throwing fundraisers on any given night is mind-boggling, and one misstep could lead a budding socialite to donate her time, energy and money to an unfashionable cause.

As in high school, everyone wants to be part of the cool kids’ table. (Unlike high school, however, that table will now set you back $75,000.) The Frick, New Yorkers for Children, the Metropolitan Museum, City Harvest, Save Venice, The Museum of the City of New York, The Society of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, The New York Botanical Gardens: These are some of the more desirable charities, as famous for their glittery, star-studded fêtes as for the causes themselves, which are unquestionably, without a doubt, “the reason we’re all here.”

Luckily, you don’t need a million dollars in order to start your social career. Just a couple hundred to join a juniors group. These organizations are the training wheels for future socials: where young men and women learn how to plan the perfect party, fill tables and woo A-listers to show up and be photographed.

For advice on how to be chicly charitable, I turned to publicist R. Couri Hay, who has worked with most of the Hearst children, Lauren Bush, Harry Winston, Sloan-Kettering, Bergdorf Goodman and Bulgari. Mr. Hay suggested I start with museums: the Apollo Circle for the Met, Whitney Contemporaries, Junior Associates of MoMA. The biggest requirement to being on a junior board (league, committee, whatever), he said, wasn’t money but age.

“I’m the one you can blame for cutting the age limit down,” the sprightly PR machine said. “I started it years ago, when I was the junior committee co-chairman of American Ballet Theatre. I noticed that people were creeping in not just over 30 or 35—but over 40! When I was on the board for the Bronx Zoo event where we actually moved it into the zoo, I put my foot down. I was like ‘Forget it! Juniors are 21 and under!’”

In Mr. Hay’s ideal world, the drinking age would be the cut-off for Juniors; 35, for Associates and beyond. “But there was hell to pay for that, because everyone wanted the cheap tickets,” he recalled. Events held by junior committees are less expensive than their adult counterparts, and they tend to be less formal. Youthful, even. “I don’t want to name names, but I would look around a room at a junior event, and there were these very big figures who argued that they went out every night and didn’t want to pay big ticket prices.
“Plus, the old group always wants to mingle with the young,” he added ruefully.

The biggest tragedy, in Mr. Hay’s opinion, occurred when Anna Wintour took over the Met’s annual Costume Institute Gala in 1995 as co-chair and canceled the post-party dance the following year. Under former co-chairs Diana Vreeland and Pat Buckley, the after-party attracted a younger set, who could spare the $100 for the late-night dance. But under Anna, even buying a place in the Met’s $1,000-per-year Apollo Circle (age limit: 39) won’t guarantee you an invite to the Costume Ball. (Though you might get invited to their unofficial after-party on the roof of The Standard.)

Looking back, Ms. Wintour told The Wall Street Journal in 2011, “It was much more fashion industry before. When I became involved, I started to invite the Nicole Kidmans and the Cate Blanchetts, and then tried to bring in the worlds of politics, literature, painting and music.”

Today, at $25,000 a head and $250,000 a table, the gala brings in a lot more money than it used to. The problem is it’s all old money now. Literally.

“That was the Armageddon for the biggest junior party there ever was,” Mr. Hay said sadly, referring to Ms. Wintour’s reign at the Met. “She thought it was ‘unseemly’ to have her celebrities walk past these ‘freaks’ partying all night, but there really was this fabulous fashion on display. Young people cutting up their own clothes and creating whole new looks.” Besides, in Mr. Hay’s opinion, those “freaks” were going to be the people donating millions in a few years. “I always said today’s juniors are tomorrow’s seniors, and the museums have mostly picked up on that.”
So how does one get on a board? “You go to parties, you buy tickets and tables, and you spend money,” Mr. Hay explained, as if I were a small child. “It is charity, after all.”

Well, some of us have a hard time raising taxi money for the trip home to Brooklyn, let alone getting our nonexistent friends to pony up thousands of dollars to buy tables. But baby steps. What do junior committee members even do?

“For me, being on a board meant raising money, since raising money means raising awareness,” Mr. Hay said. Mr. Hay worked to rope in co-chairs with last names like Hearst, Rockefeller and Roosevelt.
“My job was to gather around me a circle of my friends whose names meant something,” he continued, “Because let’s face it, New York isn’t just one big club for anyone to join. People came to these events because they wanted to rub elbows with socially prominent young people; they wanted to gawk at them, dance next to them and network with them. And then if it was a great party, Emily Smith would write it up, and that would raise awareness.”

The nuances between different sorts of events became clear to me the other night. Clutching my invitation to the Spring Thaw party, thrown by the Young Members Circle of the Museum of the City of New York, I rushed uptown for what I thought would be a repeat performance of the museum’s lavish Winter Ball. The previous month, the Director’s Council (presided over by social arbiter Mark Gilbertson) held a dazzling fête at the Plaza for the same institution. I arrived at the Museum’s UES location, breathless in a flouncy Betsey Johnson cupcake dress, looking like a debutante in frosting.

When the doors opened, I was greeted by men and women in after-work attire. Some were in jeans. The open bar was serving only gin, wine and beer, and the food was limited to some nuts and candy. I felt ridiculously out of place—one of the first times in my life I might have actually overdressed.

It turns out the Young Members Circle is a totally different breed of junior philanthropy than its more exclusive brethren. Membership is $100, and events usually run about $40-$50 for nonmembers. Since most members are young professionals with full-time jobs, committee chairs are simply whoever volunteers, and most of the event planning is done via a shared Google Doc, according to current committee co-chair David Semanoff. Last year the group raised $40,000 for the museum, including membership fees. In comparison, the Winter Ball raised $445,000 in one evening.

It seemed clear that joining the Young Members Circle would not help me grasp another rung on on the social ladder. As my editor pointed out, I could become a member of the zoo and get a free t-shirt and parking passes, but that wouldn’t make me a socialite.

Still, as I stood around people of my own age and tax bracket (all of whom were down-to-earth, relaxed and fun—three strikes against them on the Social Register), I began to see the appeal in the Young Member’s Circle’s approach. There’s something refreshing about a charity group that openly courts new blood, whether or not it’s blue.

Posing on the red carpet is an art, and most of the rich and fabulous have already mastered select "looks" that they know accentuate their best features.

Because these stances are done hundreds of times per year, its tough to teach old dogs new tricks. Or to put it another way, you can't teach socialites how to react to having old dogs shoved at them as props. (Because let's be honest, there's very few ways to look elegant when holding someone else's baby or pet on the red carpet.)

That's why it's always fun to check out how the glitterati handle events like this weekend's Humane Society of New York party, hosted by law firm Smith Vallerie LLP (last seen suing Governor Cuomo for trying to initiate a Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative). Watch as the beautiful people try to grin and bear it while holding a shedding animal as far away as possible to their Versace dress.