If we were like those fancy media hags, we'd invite y'all to a ra-sha-sha Happy One Year Gawker Anniversary Party where everyone starts off scowling at each other but in a couple hours the receptionist ends up vomiting and then suddenly someone from the copy desk has his face between your thighs.

Tell you what: I'll just stay here at HQ and type away, surrounded by fingerprint-smeared martini glasses and our massive alphabetized archives of glossy magazines, you do the vomiting for me, and we'll call it a party. While you ralph — or to help induce — here's some landmarks from our first year:

· The faux Puma ads. [Our first cease and desist letter!]
· The verb "To Zeta-Jones." [Followed now by: "To Zellweger," meaning to balloon in weight. In fact, each of the cast of Chicago is her own verb: "To Latifah" of course is to inspire ceaseless rumors of one's lesbianism.]
· Nightmare at 4 Times Square: Body parts at Conde Nast. [The greatest mystery of all, still unresolved. Only Anna Wintour and James Truman know.]
· Speaking of: Elizabeth Spiers infiltrates the Conde Nast Cafeteria.
· The perfect coke dealer interview, not to be confused with...
· ...The Toby Young interview.
· The infamous law-firm sushi memo.
· And, because we love a mogul so, the 11 Spring Street/Lachlan Murdoch mystery.

Here's to another frivolous, rude, malicious, narcissistic, and otherwise notably reprehensible year!