Team Party Crash: Maggie Rizer's Holiday Hop At Glo

I had no choice, really: our interns were unavailable (and, as of now, so fired), so someone had to venture to the Meatpacking District on Friday night to cover supermodel Maggie Rizer s (pictured above) First Annual Holiday Hop at Glo. Never mind my pneumonia or the fact that I needed three tablets of codeine to get out of the apartment; no, I had a duty to report, and, with the help of photographer Nikola Tamindzic, report I did.

Predictably, I arrived before the rest of my party, so I begged to stand inside while I waited for my staff. In the meantime, hostess Maggie Rizer shows up (sans entourage, which made us kind of love her for the moment).

Excuse me, what s your name? Are you on the list? asks the doorwoman, who has no clue who Maggie is.
I m Maggie.
Maggie ?
This is my party
Oh, the HOST Maggie! I guess you don t need to be on the list, then!

Maggie goes upstairs with no attitude; I m impressed. It was so cold out, even I would ve pulled the Don t you know who I am? card just to get inside a little more quickly.

C. Brooks Calloway, grandson of Cab Calloway.

These are the PR/legal/friendly folks with Calloway. They were too aggressive for me to even name-drop their company.

Once the rest of my trusty posse arrives, we head upstairs and attack the open bar. Almost immediately, we re accosted by a hungry PR woman who is eager to tell me all about C. Calloway Brooks, grandson of jazz legend Cab Calloway. Apparently, Brooks is in our presence and we should take some pictures of him. Oh, okay! Er, no. I ignore her and turn back to my drink, only to be approached moments later by another PR fellow who also wants to tell us all about how Cab Calloway s grandson is in our midst. We feign interest and have the man identify the Calloway dude; we re horrified to see that he looks exactly like his grandfather with a dash of John Waters. Dear God. We run to the open bar, but it's closed five minutes early. I buy something cheap and smile like I don't mind paying $9 for a cocktail.

Look, ma! It's Maxim men!

I approach a group of under-30ish men with hardcore Boston accents. I ask them if they re with Ford Models (they very obviously not) and they laugh. It turns out that they re in advertising at Maxim. I call them Ad Sluts, and they seem to like it. I push my luck a little further: So, what do you guys think of Felix Dennis?

Guy 1: Don t fucking answer that, you guys.
Guy 2: No comment.
Guy 3: No comment.

Right, time to move on. As I circulate the room, I m struck by the complete lack of models. One big name mannequin, it seems, does not beget more mannequins. So much for my master plan of learning about how I can shed a few pounds from the masters. Where s Naomi? Giselle? Did Maggie have a falling out with her peers? Are not all models best friends? I'm shocked.

Not to be defeated, I approach an older gentleman identified as Leee Black Childers, David Bowie s personal photographer from his Ziggy Stardust days. I introduce myself and we start talking about photography. So, I start, you re in photography. Am I too fat to be a model? Childers clearly thinks I m insane and gives me a hesitant look. I continue, I mean, I know I m too short and all, but what if I were a foot taller and had the same body fat percentage? Could I pull it off?

Actually, you should be a character actress, he suggests.
Really? I m thrown off. But I want to be a model! What sort of character actress should I be?
Oh, like that redhead from Suddenly Susan
You mean Kathy Griffin? I ask incredulously.
Childers eyes light up. Yes! You remind me of her!
But I thought I was prettier than her! Now I ll never be a model! I run off.

I m starting to get exhausted and the codeine, while preventing me from coughing on everyone, is making me nauseous; people have moved downstairs and are clustered about the dance floor, yet no one is dancing. I feel like I m in a mod version of junior high hell and am still fighting some errant traces of pneumonia. Alas, I still haven t tackled Maggie Rizer, our supermodel host for the evening, so I head towards the VIP section. I m with Maggie, I tell the bouncer.

He smiles. No problem. Do you have the number?
Excuse me?
The number? Do you know the code?
There s no code.
Yeah, there is.
You ve let me in 3 times tonight! This is a complete lie, but I m so ready to go home that I ll do anything. Just then, a small man resembling Mr. Clean pulls me in with him, and I go straight to Maggie. I introduce myself and thrust my recorder in her face. So, I start, Heidi Klum and all the other models do Halloween bashes. Why d you go for a Christmas party instead?
Maggie looks at me with the blankest stare I have ever seen. This is Christmas, she flatly states.
Right, of course! But why did you throw a Christmas party as opposed to taking the supermodel Halloween route?
Oh, I threw a Halloween party, too, at NA.
Was it as good as this? I ask.
Um, I have to go. She scampers off with a bunch of much-shorter friends.

These fellows are trying to be hip-hop stars. They rapped into my dictaphone even after I asked them to stop. Then they called me "woman." It was precious.

Beer before liquor, going to get sicker...

I look around; it s not even 1 AM and the place is empty. I collect the 50,000 business cards I ve been handed and give the scene one last lingering glance, for I know it ll be the last time I ever set foot in Glo again.