Adventures in Mid- to High Society

NEW YORK—I spent a week as a society reporter for The New York Sun, where I’m interning this summer. My dishy diary follows:

Wednesday

I attend a very fancy charity ball held at the opulent Pierre hotel (61st and 5th Avenue). Amid an Athenian interior (complete with wall-size paintings depicting leisurely Greek life) I make my way through a packed ballroom of record executives, rising starlets, a parade of publicists and assorted hangers-on—including a paralegal named (I am not making this up) Jennifer Justice.

I spot Denise Rich, noted songwriter, socialite, philanthropist and ex-wife of Clinton pardonee Marc Rich. We chat for a few minutes; she’s wearing a solid gold coin around her neck that keeps distracting me. Next up is the jazz singer Anita Baker, who performs a soulful tune for the enthusiastic audience. I interview later about her musical childhood. Lastly I meet a few New York gossip columnists, and then generally stare in awe at the blinding light of superficiality and wealth. Honestly, these “charity” gatherings (this one is raising money to provide music programs for underprivileged kids) are an excuse for the rich to get moderately drunk together, talk about poor people and then give themselves awards. Hmm—sounds a lot like a certain university I know…

Choice anecdote: The event organizers piled up mountains of sugary sweets for the guests to take home as they depart the hotel. (I suppose this goes along with the whole “kids” theme.) I’m taking in the sight of this big rock candy mountain (as it were) when some young folk from the Young People’s Chorus of New York City, a children’s choir that performed earlier at the event, run over to sample a few Fruit Roll-Ups.

A thin, anxious publicist hurries over to the table. “Please don’t take those!” she yells at the kids, shooing them away. I suppose the tykes need a hand-up, not a hand-out—but would the loss of a few Dubble Bubbles be so traumatic for an event whose sole ostensible purpose is to help out needy children?! The poor kids were probably exhausted from singing and just wanted something tasty for the ride home. The incident says wonders about who really benefits from a, um, benefit.

Monday

A book reading at Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side (81st and Broadway). The alliterative Harper’s editor Lewis Lapham plugs his new laundry list of liberal laments, Gag Rule.

The crowd is a mixed bag of eclectic amateur politicos and wealthy egotists; I’m reminded of those Harvard Book Store readings and all the crazy Cantabrigians who invariably show up. Lapham warns of the oncoming end of democracy: “It’s much easier to live in a monarchy,” he intones. There is, however, an air of humor in his voice; I believe it stems from his happy knowledge that he’ll be long dead before the country really starts falling apart. I find this unnerving.

A few token conservatives in the back spice things up a little, sparring with Lapham over the late Ronald Reagan’s popularity. The rest of the audience, a veritable Greek chorus of liberals, verbally rushes to defend its oracle.

Some of the wannabe wonks in attendance accost me after the talk, launching into discussions about the Iraq crisis and Bush-Cheney corruption scandals. I use the word “discussion” lightly—the conversations consist mostly of me listening to their 10-minute monologues. Occasionally I nod my head or release a murmur of approval from my parched throat; at least political discourse is alive and well. I refrain from purchasing the book, however.

Tuesday

A film premiere! Sadly, not Catwoman. This one is Outfoxed, a “guerrilla” (read: low-budget) documentary about the persistent conservative bias in Fox News Channel’s coverage. A worthy cause indeed! Gathered at The New School’s Tishman Auditorium (66 West 12th Street) is a smattering of pseudo-celebrities and political medium-wigs, here to take in the latest topical cinematic tirade.

The evening begins amusingly, with an entertaining panel discussion on the state of the media. Editor of The American Prospect Michael Tomasky delivers the welcoming remarks: “A special welcome to the News Corporation lawyers in the audience,” he quips, referring to the potential lawsuit Rupert Murdoch will be filing against the documentary any day now. There are chuckles, followed by an outcry from the back of the room.

“Fucking morons!” yells Al Franken ’73, presumably referring to the aforementioned legal types.

Not missing a beat, one of the onstage panelists snarks back: “Is Dick Cheney in the house?”

(The Cheney swipe may have been made by Dean of the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism, Nicholas B. Lemann ’76, a former Crimson president. But I couldn’t tell, sitting in the “media only” back row and all.)

Franken might as well be referring to the American media. The theme of the event appears to be “Why are journalists such idiots?” Arianna Huffington, she of the exotically ambiguous accent, suggests that American reporters need a “spine transplant.”

“We Greeks gave you democracy and you screwed it up,” Huffington huffs.

After the movie, guests gather in the adjacent atrium for hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The bartenders don’t card—lucky me. Peggy “John’s Sister” Kerry hesitantly makes the rounds, looking confused as she speaks with prominent Democratic fundraisers and MoveOn.org execs. Apparently bewildered, Kerry sticks close to her guides, the late Sen. Daniel Moynihan’s daughter Maura Moynihan ’79 and her curly-haired son. (I chat with Maura briefly; she’s attractive, friendly, bordering on perky. It turns out she brings in lots of money for the Democratic Party, and even went to Harvard! Do you have a daughter, Ms. Moynihan?)

Former Harvard history professor Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. ’38 is also in attendance, chatting with friends in his trademark red bow tie. Also present is filmmaker D. A. Pennebaker, co-director of the 1992 Clinton campaign documentary The War Room. Pennebaker made James Carville a star; I consider asking him to film me, but I think better of it.

As I near the exit, I turn to watch the semi-celebrities down their last cocktails, finish munching on cookies, and trickle out into the humid Manhattan summer night. The premiere wasn’t quite the glamorous gathering I’d been expecting, but gallivanting with the jet set is fun while it lasts.

Michael M. Grynbaum ’07, a history concentrator in Leverett House, is a news editor of The Crimson. He hearts New York.