Team Party Crash: The 'Time 100' Party

Step away from the Martha, buddy. She's got a shiv in that coat, and she knows how to use it.

Last night, I was inexplicably honored with an invite to the Time 100 pre-ceremony cocktail party (just me, mind you, no room for a photographer, oh no, and yes, I should be veryveryvery honored to squeeze in, but just for cocktails, mkay, not for dinner!), to celebrate their yearly list of the world s most influential people. Clearly, someone had lost their mind, but damn if I wasn t going to take a shower and harass some luminaries. After the jump, my quality time with Martha Stewart, an intimate elevator ride with Jon Stewart, and the secrets of Les Moonves' teeth.

Maybe I m still too new to New York, but why the hell is Jazz at Lincoln Center in the Time Warner Center? Does this confuse anyone else?

When I arrive at Jazz At The Lincoln Center Strangely Located At The Time Warner Center, the paparazzi is going nuts for an empty red carpet. I check in with the gatekeeper and shamefully scurry down the carpet to the elevator, where I m accosted by a security guard who didn t see me check in and doesn t think I should be going up there. The bellhop holds the elevator while we argue, the other passengers are getting pissed, and I silently pray for the whole thing to make WireImage.

Campbell Robertson, the Times Boldface-Wadler-replacement, is very straight. Because, you know, this sort of picture makes you wonder.

I make it upstairs to the large cocktail area; more red carpet and even less of a crowd. I m feeling very young and very awkward, so I do the obvious thing and head to the bar. I stand around, trying to look captivated by the ceiling, when Campbell Robertson from the Times introduces himself. I have no idea how he knew what I looked like, but whatever. Times boys are crazy like that. Robertson is the new Boldface Ho, having replaced my Auntie Joyce Wadler, and I whine to him about how Joyce irrationally refuses to love me. He smiles and nods, which is polite, as I am obviously being a jackass within a mere 2 minutes of our introduction. Rush and Molloy s slaveboy, Chris Rovzar, shows up shortly thereafter, and making it a solid three young reporters with nothing to report on. Another glass of white, please!

Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus — and his name is Jim Kelley!

As we stand around and avoid the aggressively presented hors d'oeuvres, Jim Kelley, Time mag s head honcho, strides over to us with another fellow, who we ll call Bob (since none of us caught his name). Bob, do you know Campbell Robertson from the NEW YORK TIMES? If Kelley had an echo effect, it totally would ve kicked in right then. They schmooze while Chris and I stand there, staring at our dirty fingernails. Kelley stops gazing at Robertson long enough to make my acquaintance; as soon as I tell him that I edit Gawker, he tells me that I misspelled his name last week. Coincidentally, that item was outsourced to one of my minions, but he s not buying it. He mentions that he had nothing to do with the Time 100 issue. I feign surprise.

A close-up of Martha's ankle: "Do these Choos come in 'parole?'"

When Martha Stewart arrives, we all decide it s time to work. Stewart stops before hitting the carpet and actually fiddles with her ankle bracelet for a few moments, which is cleverly concealed by some shiny mauve pants. I introduce myself and go for the jugular: Martha, you have a new bag. She has no clue what the fuck I m talking about. The new Vuitton! You carried at the Waldorf! What style is it? Martha laughs, I don t know, my daughter got it for me. A welcome home present? I ask. She glares at me and turns away. I guess I was supposed to pretend I didn t see her playing with her parole jewelry?

Sadly, I was unable to adjust the lighting to that fuzzy soft glow that Barbara Walters prefers for her appearances.

Next up, it s Barbara Walters! She s wearing Donna Karan and showing a little bit of shoulder. I launch into the real question: If you had to rank tonight s 100 people, where would you fall? NO! NO! NO! she shouts, waving her arms and walking away from me. She s the most awesome journalist I have ever met.

"Nary a wrinkle! Thank you, doctor!"

Among the night s honorees is Dr. Andrew Weil, famed proponent of integrative medicine and beards. I walk over to him, eager to get some advice: Dr. Weil, I know you didn t come here for this, but I need your help. I have hypersomnia. (Strangely, this is true, and I am thus one step away from narcolepsy. Now you know.) I tell him my family history, and he starts launching a hundred diagnostic questions at me. I m amazed. Do you use caffeine? Do you dream? Where do you live? Do you exercise? I tell him I live on a sixth floor walkup, which is my idea of regular exercise. He tells me to try .3 milligrams of melatonin a night, which should interact nicely with my 75 other medications.

If you dig deep enough into Andrew Weil's beard, you'll find a small flask of water from the fountain of youth.

Later, I m chatting with Campbell McBoldface when Jim Kelley comes up AGAIN and pulls a total repeat: So and so, do you know Campbell Robertson from the NEW YORK TIMES? The way he says it, you d think he were introducing Campbell Jesuspants from the Heavenly Gates. So I have to ask, Why do you keep introducing him like that? Do you fancy him? Kelley (who, I should add, is so jolly that I can only describe him as a pinkish bag of chuckles) laughs and tries to get me to believe that a Timesman deserves that sort of intro (you have no idea how hard it was for me not to respond that that); he then tells me to grab a rose so I can pose as an honoree and get a free dinner. I dare him to do it for me. He doesn t. Later, I will go home hungry.

Meanwhile, CBS guru Les Moonves has been schmoozing under the radar, so I head over to him. I introduce myself and he is most certainly familiar with Gawker and Defamer (he reads the latter whenever he s mentioned on it, he says, which means, like, every five minutes). After I warm him up with my womanly charm, I ask the real question: Whitestrips or Brite Smile? I don t know the difference, he says, clearly confused. Really? You have the most faaabulous smile on earth! Now he loves me. I just want to know where you bought it! He laughs and tells me to ask his wife. I think this means Brite Smile.

Now that he knows you're studying his teeth, Les Moonves will be damned if he lets you see those babies. Back off, Debbie.

And next on Jessica s Tour of Asinine Celebrity Fun, Sir Jerry Bruckheimer of the Blockbusterville. Bruckheimer doesn t know about the internet, and he informs me that they re not even halfway through filming the Pirates sequel (he seems very weary on that matter). I space out and when I come to, we re talking about our mutual roots in the Detroit area. We compare our respective neighborhoods, and Bruckheimer says he s from the other side of the tracks. I disagree, and we argue for a bit. I win, because I ve been back to the area recently and he hasn t visted the D in, say, 47 years.

Bruckheimer to Weinstein: "I'm more rich!" "No, I'm more rich!" "Then I'm more Jewish!" "Nuh-uh!"

I move on to Harvey Weinstein, but he doesn't want to answer my question about why Paula Froelich's book party resembled a night at Bungalow 8.

A loudspeaker begins droning that guests are to head into the dining area, but people are still arriving and mingling. I chat with Tom Wolfe, who, through a random connection, stayed at my college residence for a weekend while researching Charlotte Simmons five or six years ago. Remarkably, he remembers accompanying my group to a party that was broken up by the cops. It wasn t very dignified, he comments. No shit, I want to say, but I toss my head back and laugh as if I feel badly for exposing him to our dirty keggers. I don t tell him that I still have a picture of us from that party, him in a white suit and me in a tube top.

Author Tom Wolfe humors Daily News slave Chris Rovzar, who is much prettier than anyone you know.

Smell the power, bitch.

I almost tripped on Melania's dress, but only because I was staring at her for so long that I developed a whole new eating disorder.

The crowd is thinning as The Donald and Melania breeze in. I can t even get near them, but I m close enough to hate myself for not being a model with a rich husband. They're starting the ceremony soon, everyone is rushing to their seats. The ass and pony show is starting, and it s my time to go.

Anderson Cooper uses his dreamy eyes of steel to lull the reporter into a daze, thus avoiding any unpleasant questions about Chelsea.

I head downstairs; as I exit the elevators, I spot Anderson Cooper on the red carpet, droning with Access Whatever or something. Once he s free, we chat about the merits of Henry the Intern, who worked at Cooper s studio briefly and is a mini-genius. Henry I don t know where he came from. I felt bad trying to convince him not to go to college! That was you?! I respond. Well, and Choire too he stammers, and then we agree that former Gawkster Choire Sicha should not be used as an example for anything. Also, for all the folks wondering about Cooper s strangely hip bump music for 360, it s selected by Tommy Evans. It s official: there s a hipster bumper at CNN.

As I took this picture, one of Jon Stewart's gazillion publicists leaned over my camera and said, "Now THAT'S a helluva shot, RIGHT?" No, dude. No it is not.

Last, but certainly not least, Jon Stewart is sloooowly wading through obnoxious reporters. I m still lingering by the elevators (because I am so not paparazzi, right?), and I catch him at the end of the carpet. Jon, who s your least favorite person to talk to on the red carpet? He cracks up. That s not a fair question! I sass him for an answer and his publicists are going insane, trying to get him on the elevator and away from me. He invites me to ride with him. Of his staff, he says, Very few of us can really read, actually. So if he had to say who he definitely ranked ahead of on the list of 100 honorees, who would it be? He pauses, so I suggest Andrew Weil (I want to pick a fight, obviously). Yeah, I gotta go with Weil. I act indignant. He talked to me about my hypersomnia! You re not trying to help me!

We get off the elevator, and Stewart wants to know why Gawker is so angry. I smile brightly, force him to pose with me for a picture that I will promptly email to my parents, and explain that I m not an angry person it s all my publisher. True! he says.