Yesterday, we told you about Pocketchange's Fashion Meets Finance douche-dating event, which would enjoin members of two equally vicious industries: fashion and finance. "The claim 'I am in finance' is a heavily weighted statement,'" you know! Luckily, a wily tipster named Jose smuggled himself into the event. And the things he saw at this douche-dating festival were truly an example of the Way Some of Us Live Now. "Um, so where do you live again? I'll get the cab..."

"So last week, a fashion friend of mine sent an event e-mail for "Fashion Meets Finance," presumably mocking my earlier attempts that week to get around paying rent. It's an event created specifically for "the young men and women of the fashion and financial industries" to get together and pro-create the next inspiration for Gossip Girl 2025. One could RSVP on their website and include point facts such as salary (take note, JDate).

It seems to target only men in Finance and only women in Fashion, making advertising and blogging undesirable careers for the Ivy league class of 2008. Although I, a man, could say I work in fashion, I RSVP'd listing my previous life as a Wall Street tool in order to be accepted into the event (yeah, you read right; many people RSVP'd and were rejected. Trannies, geighs, and midgets need not apply).

It was being held at Taj on 21st between 5th and 6th. I arrived at about 6:30 with 3 of my fashionista co-workers and got to mingling. After making an immediate visit to the bar swarmed by hedge-funders and dolled-up fashion buyers, I decided to pull out my cash fan of $49 and pose with my friend Christine (who by the way came to this event with NO intention of being "Carrie-d" away, but likes to have fun nonetheless).

We then caught the eye of a Post reporter who interviewed us for next week's Page Six and snapped a few shots of me flashing my cash fan adoringly at Christine, and then turned away when he realized I very much preferred to flash my $49 adoringly at him.

The crowd was pretty tame at first; there were way too many single guys moping around with their $12 drinks and glittering girls gaggling, presumably, about how boob tape is the new black. After dancing a bit (what was a gay supposed to do at an event like this, network?) a strapping young man in red skinny jeans caught my eye.

My Radar [magazine]-savvy friends pointed out that it was none other than Neel Shah, and better yet, on assignment! The pencil in ear and small white notepad should've tipped me off. After hitting him up for some magic berries, I went to the bar and took a conscious note of how every single suit who had been moping just an hour earlier had already been coupled off with their mannequin for the night.

After 8pm, it got real raunchy with a DJ spinning 90s dance hits and drunk I-bankers douchebagging away with their fashion girls on the dance floor. After witnessing one guy do the twist, and another suit shimmy to the ground, I knew it was time to leave. (Although at some point, I shimmy-ed as well, although I did so ironically!).

Sufficiently wiping off the couple sucking face atop by handbag on the couch, I made my way outside for a last cigarette and had Christine snap a Cash Fan shot circa last week Gawker. The bits of conversation we caught outside could very well epitomize this event, or rather, the entire heterosexual Manhattan night scene:

Blonde Fashion Wench in white dress: "Hi, What's your name again?"
Suit who was Gellin': "Bill."
Blonde Fashion Wench: "Oh! I have an uncle Bill. Can I call you Uncle

And the next minute, another couple:

Brunette in a strapless red cake dress, walking out with her future
divorcé: "Oh! Shoe store! Shoe Store!"
Hedge-funder: "Um, so where do you live again? I'll get the cab."

Needless to say, my friends went home and I left alone. My rent check will be mailed first thing the next day."