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The Perfect Party
I once was a professional party goer. My job was to attend three or four events a night and write about them for the Friday edition of The New York Times. This wasn't something I'd set out to do; I dreaded the assignment, one that was foisted on the most junior reporter with a certain amount of sadistic pleasure. A colleague made this clear when he leaned over my desk and said in an ominous whisper, "You're going to be next," as if I were headed instead to the gallows.
I couldn't do much to prepare, other than memorize a few boldface names and find an evening bag big enough to fit a reporter's notebook. I was truly terrified--certain that I would hover in the corner, too afraid to approach anyone and ask them...what? I had no idea. At my first party, at the Museum of Modern Art, I pulled out my notebook, nervously scanned the room, and experienced sudden, unprecedented popularity. Nan Kempner, the impeccably dressed socialite, glided up to me, told me she was wearing Yves Saint Laurent, and dropped a quote in my lap without my having to utter a word. I realized very quickly that the secret to success at a New York City party was a reporter's notebook and a Times ID card.
I had a fantastic time. At a ...