We were too busy watching all our favorite shows simultaneously on TV last night to attend the fancy soiree Vanity Fair threw for the opening of the Tribeca Film Festival. Luckily fictional freelancer Betsey Morgenstern was there in our stead.
If at First You Don't Succeed, Try and Tri-a-beca
by Betsey Morgenstern
Last night Vanity Fair took all the stars to court. They didn't sue them or anything, but they were all invited to attend a great party at the New York State Supreme Court building in lower Manhattan to celebrate the 278th opening of the Tribeca Film Festival. It decked out the large bank of court house steps with more large silver balls than have ever been in my right hand, and that's a lot, because I handle a lot of balls. How do you think I got this job! They didn't allow reporters or cameras into the building to take pictures (other than the magazine's camera's probably), but I was stationed outside to greet the crowd. Let's see who was there.
The first to roll up was Martha Stewart, which is not surprising because the domestic diva is always on time. When her Escalade pulled up to the front of the building, Martha didn't want to get out and I approached her open window with my tape recorder in hand to ask questions.
"Look, it's a drive-by shooting!" Martha chuckled out the window raising her camera. Behind her, I could hear Lady Gaga's voice crooning, "I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me. Papa-Paparazzi" on the radio.
Martha was taking it very seriously. "I'm papa-paparazzi!" she screamed and let out a little laugh that she usually reserves for embarrassed guests on her talk show. "Can I take your picture?" she asked.
"Um, well," I said, fixing my hair.
"Too late!" she screamed as the flash went off. "Papa-Paparazzi."
"Martha, can I ask you some..."
"Not tonight dear. I am not Martha Stewart. I am Jessica Pendergraft, star photographer. Get out of my way." She stormed inside. I hope she's still on her medication and getting enough sleep.
Next a little Asian lady teetered about on her high heels and looked like she was drastically out of place. She was wearing a cocktail-length dress that looked like she told her two favorite outfits that they could both go to the party and they were fighting to see which one would actually get control of her body. She looked like that but cheaper.
I had no idea who she was, but people kept taking her picture and yelling at her. I figured she had to be that lady who hosts Big Brother. When I asked her when the show was coming back, she said, "Big Brother? What's that?"
"It's a reality show," I said. "It's on CBS in the summer. Don't you host it?"
"No, I don't. And we only get to watch Fox channels in my house."
"Why is that? Are you like some crazy American Idol freak?"
"Ew. Isn't he like a billion?!" I shrieked.
"Mmmhhhmmm," she said with a little smile. "And he has that many dollars too. Jealous?"
She turned around and walked inside and from the back, it looked like the green dress was winning.
The best part about attending this party is that I would get to see the world's most talented Canadian. No, Bryan Adams had to stay home because his Volcano pot vaporizer was full of ash and he couldn't get a flight. I mean Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, who was attending with his wife Anna.
"Graydon. Graydon! Can I have a job?" I screamed running up to him.
"I don't even know you, but I'm sure the answer is no."
"Really? I'm a great reporter. Look, I'm asking you the really tough questions right now. Why won't you hire me?"
"There are plenty of good reasons, I'm sure, but mostly because I don't like brash girls screaming inappropriate questions at me as I'm going to a party."
"Well, what if I were to follow you inside and give you a hand job in the coat room?"
"Excuse me?" Anna piped up, she reached for her earrings and quickly took them off and placed them into her matching white bag. "Excuse me?!" she said again twisting her neck and getting closer to me. "Did you just say that you were going to jerk my man off in a coat room? Oh no you didn't! Oh no you didn't just say that!"
I backed up, not knowing what to do and she was getting very close to my face. Luckily Graydon interceded and backed his wife up and she clawed past his arms and kicked between his legs trying to get to me. "If I ever see you again, I will kick your fucking ass. Do you hear me, bitch. I will fucking cut you!"
Wow, noted, Mrs. Carter. Noted.
"Hey, Al. I can't wait to see your new movie on HBO. Is it good?" I asked.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," he replied.
"The one about Jack Kevorkian. Doesn't that movie come out this weekend?"
"Oh, yes it does, but that stars Al Pacino."
"Yeah, I know that's why I'm asking you about it."
"How would I know what happens in Al Pacino's movie?"
"Well, Al, you are in it."
"No, I'm not in it. Al Pacino's in it."
"I know! And why do you keep referring to yourself in the third person? Are you a rapper or a drag queen?"
"No, I'm not in Al Pacino's fucking movie."
"Welll, I guess that means it's not very good."
This is as close as I got to Anna Wintour. I looked in her direction and a bright pink light flashed underneath her glasses and I could hear a woman's voice with a British accent in my brain. "Don't you dare even approach me you plebe."
She was using her telepathic powers against me. I tried to move a little bit and she zapped me with her brain! I fell the the ground and started convulsing. I could see the world, but I had no control over my body, as the asphalt ripped apart my elbows and the backs of my knees. Then I was lying there, just paralyzed. Anna Wintour tazered me—with her mind!
"Oh, Elaine. That dress is beautiful. Who makes it?"
"It's actually Zac Posen for Target. Don't you love it. It was one of the prototypes but it was too expensive to make for the line. The stitches are too tiny for the Chinese factories to make them well."
"I love it. Can I have it?"
"Your dress. I need to wear it. Mine is all ripped and dirty."
"I'm sorry," she said tittering nervously. "But what am I going to wear?"
"I don't care. Give me that dress." I lunged for her and grabbed two gray and maroon sections and then Jerry pushed me off of her, tearing the pieces asunder.
"Get off of her!" Jerry yelled. "Shoo fly! Shoo!"
"Shoo, that's the best you can do, Jerry?" Elaine said.
"What? What am I supposed to say?"
"Jesus, Jerry. No fucking 'Shoo.'"
That is when I saw Barry Diller and his wife Diane von Furstenburger walking toward me. They were doing that thing where they were talking to each other but their jaws were closed like they were only talking to each other but everyone else could really hear what they are saying?
"Why is that girl staring at my dress? And why does she have gravel in her hair?" Diane spit through her teeth.
"I don't know, Diane. Be nice."
"I am being nice. What?! Why are you touching me."
"Because you are my wife and we are in public."
"I told you that I never wanted you to touch my bare flesh again."
"I know honey, but we are in full beard mode. Play along."
"God, Barry. I am so sick of this game."
"Me too, Diane. Is Anderson coming to this thing?"
Finally I saw my old friend Edward Burns walking with this gorgeous woman who is taller than him, and he is one tall guy. He's so tall that it kind of makes his penis look really small. Oh, he doesn't have the Irish Curse, don't get me wrong, but even six inches on a man who is over six feet looks a little bit incongruous, you know. We were dating awhile back in the diz-ay and things were going great. Then we were at Bungalow 8 one night many moons ago and I went to the bathroom to make myself beautiful before going back to his place. I borrowed the mousse from the bathroom attendant and then I didn't give her a dollar. I mean, really. Who the fuck actually pays the attendants? They're just there to make sure you don't fuck or do blow in the bathroom. Anyway. She got all up in my face about paying for the mousse. I called her a few names and next thing you know security was marching me past the palm trees and out onto the sidewalk. For mousse!
Well, I hadn't seen Ed since that night but I thought he could help me get something to wear.
"Ed, Ed! I need your help," I screamed.
"Oh. Hiya Bets. Wow, it's been—forever! I'd like you to meet my wife, Christy. Yup. Just at a party with my wife."
"Hey," I said curtly to her, turning back to Ed. "Sorry Ed, but look at me, I'm a mess. Anna Wintour tazered me and now my hair is full of rocks and my dress is all torn and dirty. Can you help?"
"Well, Betsey, I'd love to but my wife..."
"Wait. What did you say?" Christy asked me.
"My dress is dirty," I responded back, visibly annoyed.
"No, the part about Anna Wintour."
"Oh, I think she tazered me."
"With her mind? Like there was this bright flash of pink light around her eyes and then you fell on the ground convulsing?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"That happened to me once in the '90s. I had told her that I didn't think that one of the pictorials of me in the magazine came out that great, and I heard this voice and next thing you knew I was rolling around on the floor of the Vogue offices. The next day my head hadn't hurt that bad since Naomi's 30th birthday when we did a bunch of blow with Kate and Cindy and Naomi said she wanted to play her favorite game."
"What's her favorite game?"
"Punch the white girl."
"Yeah. Never fun. Anyway, you are a mess, girl. Let's get you inside and get you cleaned up."
"Oh, thank you so much," I said as she took my elbow and guided me up the steps past all the silver balls and into the party that I was banned from just hours earlier. It was a magical night once I got my hair straightened and Wendy (I learned her name!) gave me the dress that lost the battle for her body. Then Christy and I went home and put on a show for Ed that he won't be forgetting anytime soon. But you're going to have to wait a few weeks before I sell that video.