High life
Toast of the town
Taki
always I got the Wimbledon win- ners wrong, but otherwise things here in the Big Bagel are hunky-dory, as most of the chic Bagelites are in London or in the Hamptons. Last week I gave my book party at Elaine's, the literary watering-hole favoured by people whose idea of commit- ting an unnatural act is to pick up the tab.
All the usual suspects showed up, people like Anthony Haden-Guest (the slowest draw in the West, or anywhere else for that matter), Chuck Pfeifer, Morgan Entrekin, Jay McInerney, Peter Maas, George Plimp- ton, John O'Sullivan and Bret Easton Ellis. The latter got some extremely dirty looks from the mother of my children, from Car- olina Herrera and from the scads of micro- skirted blondes who for the first time ever attended a book launch.
The reason for the animosity is Bret's opus, American Psycho, in which he has his hero carve up all sorts of people, including women. Feminists, as usual, are outraged and threatening bloody murder, but so are some yuppies, whose species has never been depicted as more odious. The only group that has yet to complain are the homeless, yet Bret's hero tortures and blinds a homeless man. As I believe in equal justice for all, I think the homeless should be told, or at least given the book.
Poor Bret. He set out to do a Proust on modern New York manners, and as a result has become the most unpopular boy in town. In fact, he told me that when he calls an office the answering machine hangs up on him. I dined with him after the blast and told him not to worry. I remember a time when a now rich and famous publisher of the glossiest of all glossies used to visit the zoo and buy two tickets — one to get in and one to get out — but is now the toast of the town because of the root of all envy. (Yes, it is Si Newhouse, the missing link and all that. . . . ) Mind you, this was not the average bor- ing book party. As I mentioned earlier, it was full of pretty girls, and even the gate- crashers were interesting. Three jailbirds burst in and got the best table in the joint. They looked the type that makes banks ask for identification even when they're making a deposit. One of them, an old acquain- tance (libel laws prevent me from naming him), told me he had recently reported for jury duty and was found guilty instead.
But what really made my party was the fact that Christopher and Lucy Buckley attended it. Christo, besides being one of the best editors around, is a wonderful nov- elist. His latest, Wet Work, makes John Le Carre's best work read like the Peking tele- phone directory. But here I must declare an interest. Christo reviewed my prison opus in the Washington Times and called it almost as good as . . . the Bible. It was the first time ever a reviewer had to pass a sobriety test as well as a lie detector one. (He flunked both).
Needless to say, I recovered throughout the Fourth of July weekend in Southamp- ton in the company of John O'Sullivan and Professor Van Den Haag, with a few cutie- pies thrown in. And now I go back into training for the Spectator party.
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