Idolator

On Friday, we gave away four tickets to Friday night's A New Yorker Dance Party, that seemingly oxymoronic confab hosted by Sasha-Frere Jones and DJ'd by Michael Mayer. Our winner, New York Tyranthttp://www.gawker.com/news/team-party-crash/solo-party-crash-new-yorker-dance-party-206316.php publisher Giancarlo DiTrapano (pictured in mid-smooch) filed a boozy report, which you can read after the click-through:

Party was sweet. The entrance looked like a movie opening, but the crowd inside was less Hollywood. Grey Goose must have sponsored the thing because you could barely talk to a bartender to order your twelve dollar drink without these big display bottles on the bar getting in your way. I had this really hot date so I didn't really get to nose around much, plus I don't even know what my favorite characters from the New Yorker look like and don't even know if I should know.

While smoking out front, I did see T.C Boyle's tall ass come snaking in around eleven wearing a mustard jacket. He's still rocking that wispy bangs deal with his hair that he can actually pull off. I had gotten there early enough to see an uncomfortably empty dance floor with everyone standing or sitting around with that too shy to dance high school feeling in the room. But once the Grey Goose got into everyone's blood, the shit basically blew up. DJ Michael Mayer sounded like a lot of other djs that sound good, but that tends to be the case a lot with djs. Although the dancing was being done mostly by those that don't usually dance (and that was clear), people had a damn good time. This really shouldn't be possible, but a lot of people looked like they didn't usually drink this heavily.

While me and my date were fucking making shit happen on the dance floor, there was this one guy (looked like he was almost done with his first novel) just standing there, fixed, right beside us. He just hung his head down while sipping his drink for a half hour while everyone around him danced. He looked funny, but kind of fun too, so my date did some fuck-me wriggling in front of him and ran her hands up and down his body repeatedly. No avail. He still didn't move. It was hilarious. He did finally start to feel it and move right before we left. Let's call the guy "The New Yorker Festival Dance Party writ small". Thanks for the tickets.

"Fuck-me wriggling"? Flowing vodka? Was party sponsored by The New Yorker, or Oui? Either way, you can see more pictures of Nikola Tamindzic's pictures at http://www.ambrel.net/newyorker, or read more at this site called Gawker.