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Historical Party Fouls

I’d just puked into a giant potted plant in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, outside Truman’s Black and White. I was looking for a place to stash my now-soiled pocket square and thinking distantly about a palate-cleansing Bellini when some guy I didn’t...

Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball, New York City, 1966

I’d just puked into a giant potted plant in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, outside Truman’s Black and White. I was looking for a place to stash my now-soiled pocket square and thinking distantly about a palate-cleansing bellini when some guy I didn’t recognize sidled up. We spent a moment observing the hubbub surrounding the coat check. “What in the world is going on over there?” he asked. Man, Cisco and Bambam were pumping coke hand over fist out of that thing. Of course, the guy wound up being J. Edgar Hoover. Bambam got shanked during a prison riot, but I think Cisco’s up for parole next year.


Woodstock, New York, 1969

“No worries, brothers and sisters, I’ve got this,” I assured my friends, right before I mixed up my slang and bought a shit-ton of steroids on the first day—the first hour, basically—of Woodstock. The ratty dealer looked wary but complied, and I spent the whole weekend trying to get rid of the stuff. Nobody was into it, not even the bikers or roadies. I didn’t have any money to pitch in for gas on the long ride home. Everyone was grumpy and muddy. They ignored my apologies, sing-a-long prompts, and requests for water. The traffic was brutal, an endless row of filthy wagons.

Liberty Island, New York, August 1999

I clogged the toilet at the Talk magazine party. The Statue of Liberty blushed beneath George Plimpton’s booming, blooming fireworks. I was standing in the cramped space between the toilet and the door, the sewage pooling around my borrowed shoes. All available paper towels were already on the floor. “Occupido,” I cried out softly from atop the sink, once the fevered knocking began.

Sardinia, June 2001

Dennis Kozlowski’s wife’s birthday was truly an epic, “let them eat cake”-style barnburner. Still, I thought for sure I’d gone too far when I snapped the vodka-spouting erect penis off an ice statue and stabbed it into the blowhole of a baby dolphin cavorting nearby in the shallow Mediterranean waters. But the place erupted. Everybody went absolutely nuts. Someone had the whole thing on videotape, but I think they probably destroyed it when the subpoenas began circulating.


East Hampton, New York, September 2004

I got my period at P. Diddy’s White Party. This was spectacularly bad luck, seeing as how I’m a dude. Probably the worst part was the half-hour I spent by the pool, oblivious, meeting the stares of glamorous strangers and celebrities with confident nods of the head.

Durham, North Carolina, March 2006

I blew the surprise for Lily Honeycutt’s 21st at the Beefcake Depository. I didn’t see her behind me in the bleachers at the lax game. Busted. My bad. Sincerely. Also, I adamantly deny referring to her as a “two-bit Bridgeport slag.” You see, I’d been talking about a different Lily, someone I knew from home. I wish Lily Honeycutt could have overheard the rest of my conversation for some helpful added context, because, I mean, no way. I consider her a good friend.

New York City, February 2007

After some troubles with my dry cleaner and Discover card I managed to rent a last-minute tux and make it to Steve Schwarzman’s 60th. I drank a cloudy cocktail, grooved to Rod Stewart, and tooted up in the corner with a dictator’s baby-faced son. Before long, the stimulant rattled my bladder and I slipped off to the restroom, where I blathered to the attendant about rampant book cookery, boardroom chicanery, and various murder-for-hire schemes. In my defense, it was mostly old news, well known to anyone in the industry. Still, I managed to implicate many of the distinguished guests. Turned out the guy was a total narc, planted by over-zealous legislators. After a tongue lashing (quite literally, the whip was fashioned from the severed tongues of female Russian tennis academy dropouts) from Steve, I walked the city streets in a despondent fog. I sat on the steps of the public library and drunkenly ran a hand over Fortitude’s marbled mane. His stoic grace and strong shoulders elicited further confessions. I listed discrepancies in my tax returns due to a secret second family, described an embarrassing and painfully botched overseas surgery and revealed the terms behind my luxury car’s short-term lease. I took a deep, cleansing breath. I felt giddily unburdened. Then the grand lion began to tremble and crack. A federal agent emerged, brandishing a tape recorder and a smile, shaking fine stone from his suit.