Is someone having a joke with us?
Being a social commentator and a reluctant peruser for what passes as society in NYC can be an exhausting and thankless task. That said I came across the following article courtesy of the NY Observer that attempts to posit three ‘gentlemen’ (can we use that word nicely?) Edward Scott Brady, Tabber Benedict and the unlikely Justin Ross Leeas the doyen of what is on the up, delightful, tasteful and very desirable. True maybe, but I’m not convinced and I suspect many of you out there aren’t either. Then again I’ve never been too convinced about anyone who makes it a habit of making sure their shiny self is always captured by the likes of PMC photo ops (not that I have an issue with Patrick McMullan, he’s just a smart businessman filling in a very serious need for those of us in the city looking for self elevation).
Begins the observer’s journalist, Daniel Edward Rosen who is desperate to come off as F Scott Fitzgerald‘s own real live Nick Carroway:
observer: The girls, so many girls, dressed in pastel-colored wraps that bared shoulders and the swells of their cleavage, clacked their Louboutin heels up a SoHo staircase one muggy May evening.
At the landing, visibly breathless and sweaty, their eyes lit up. They had entered the penthouse loft of Edward Scott Brady, the boyishly handsome world traveler, former classical cello virtuoso and “retired entrepreneur,” who was throwing a “Welcome Back Bash” to honor his return from his seventh trip around the globe.
Demonstrating a generous spirit, he had posted news of the party to Facebook and Guest of a Guest, luring in hundreds of friends and friends-of-friends, the more the merrier, and plying them with premium booze.
Did someone say Guest of Guest? Isn’t that where pretty aspirational people congregate and swap surgically enhanced smiles and tips on how to make a killing in some fatuous industry? But then again this is NYC where the new breed of up and coming whoever will attempt to define their identity through copious media spectacle something that the journal’s editor in chief, Rachelle Hruska is only too aware of and profited handsomely from. And the ass kissing to a certain breed of existence continues as we are introduced to the three of our new supposed heroes:
The place was packed with bros in suit-coats and more babes in slinkier-than-thou dresses, in the appraisal of Justin Ross Lee, than one could shake a stick at.
“Unfortunately for these ladies, I’ve already shaken my stick at most of them,” he added with a wink.
Mr. Lee is an entrepreneur and shameless self-promoter, whose reputation, like Mr. Brady’s, preceded him.The day before, he had been the subject of of a comical New York Times Styles Section profile that depicted him, among other things, tussling with a doorman at The Dream Downtown and bragging about his first-class travels to the Middle East and Europe (“Jew Jetting,” as he proudly refers to it on his Facebook page). Mr. Lee hadn’t made Mr. Brady’s acquaintance either—not yet—though their meeting seemed preordained.
Before I continue I must confess a certain intrigue about Mr Lee. He is in my estimation a shrewd operator bereft of morals, values or a conscience, but perhaps one could say the same about many of the type of men like him in NYC who will lie, cheat and finagle their way to upwardly socially events and hope that PMC and club will be there to take his picture. Then of course if you’re not convinced of Mr Lee’s own lacking in integrity, I give you this, an episode which saw him sleazing on an underage girl, and this when Mr Lee was found strutting the streets of NYC without a penny to his name that I can miserably attest toas well, except I don’t make it a business of duping you before I get you to stick your hands down my pants ladies…
But at least Mr Lee knows the effect he has had on most journalists/bloggers:
“Unlike me, Edward seems to be very well-liked and a lot less controversial, which means he sleeps better at night than I do,” Mr. Lee quipped.
It’s true,Mr Lee always seems to make an effort of avoiding me every time we run into social engagements but then again it’s generally understood I have very little love for capricious sorts who live a type of delusion that most of us have little time for….
Then Mr. Lee went over to greet Tabber Benedict, a slick-haired attorney whose khaki suit and classic looks gave him the appearance of an attendee at a convention of Patrick Bateman impersonators. If you squinted, he even resembled a clean shaven Clark Gable, or a more avuncular upgrade of reality TV-rake Scott Disick.
Then this is the part that made me ruefully laugh:
As the two stopped to pose for a Guest of a Guest photographer, people in the crowd discussed the size of Mr. Brady’s loft. “This loft is, like, biggest loft in New York City,” said the impressionable Mr. Astafev.
article continues next page….
To be upfront I quite like Mr Benedict (he commonly goes as Thomas Pink, an aspirational alter ego of sorts I imagine even if he insists it’s so ex girlfriends can’t find him). He has advised me with legal matters and has generally been a charming fellow that charming fellows like me can enjoy. But unfortunately even Mr Benedict to my dismay has a few dark secrets (that i must confess I hope he finds a resolution to). Shall we?:
observer: The Observer has learned that Tabber Benedict, one of the three men featured in this weeks’ cover story on Gatsbabies, has something in common with Jay Gatsby that’s a little less charming than his wardrobe and extravagant lifestyle.
Mr. Benedict, a 35-year-old attorney who runs his own fledgling law practice, is facing charges of aggravated vehicular assault, leaving the scene of the accident, and driving while intoxicated for the 2011 Fourth of July accident in which he is accused of hitting a bicyclist while driving a 2011 GMC Acadia on the Montauk Highway.
Mr. Benedict did not immediately respond to emails requesting comment.
First of I wasn’t there, I don’t know the particulars and in no way am I suggesting that Mr Benedict is complicit, but something is way off here and if we are to congratulate certain gentlemen who seem to have made themselves social fixtures through the careful guise of Patrick McMullan and Ms Hruska (who I have come to admire over these years) then we should also at the same time explore some of the less than photogenic behavior.
And returning to the Gatsby article (which Observer commentators wholeheartily trashed as turd material).
As for the host himself of that evening’s festivities, Edward Scott Brady, I’ll only say he strikes me as one of those gaudy superfluous types that spends way too much time talking about his gadgets, wealth and the way he collects women as fine oyster objects.Then again, I’m guessing Mr Brady is only exploiting a kind of market that many young women are quite desperate to come across.
Who of course knows best is Ms Hruska herself who offers the following:
“They’re products of the zeitgeist right now, and that zeitgeist is one of social media and ability to be your own kind of publicist.”
“I think never before have people been able to kind of be their own publicist,” she added. “You can just get a Facebook page and just put basically anything you want on it about yourself all day long, and I think that’s what these three people excel at, is using social media to pump up their brand.”
Kids, can I tell you that Ms Hruska couldn’t be more right on the money than anything you’ve all come to believe. I know some of you like to hire publicists (sorry Melissa Berkelhammer but I couldn’t resist) but the truth these days is it’s best to cyber re tweet everything you have ever thought of and to facebook and re facebook every PMC, GoG and BF pic you blessed soul makes it in. After all there’s nothing more rewarding than being a self made commodity for others to fawn over…
Even Patrick McMullan, the doyen of aspirational NY’ers(he did help put Olivia Palermo, why she always refuses to say hello to me is a mystery bixch, on the map) concurred. Shall we then? :
“They want to be known, they want to be out there, they want to use their profiles to get more work and more girls,” he said, “and more fun.”
And more girls? Really? So my fancy claptrap about being an impoverished tabloid trash writer was always a waste of time? Ok, let me try again: “I’m a famous no body who looks good in fluffy things that go viral and as long as I name drop and appear at the right venues and make it on PMC and GoG I will become a hero. I’m also a retired trust funder. Let’s see if I get laid by 4pm today?”
But if Justin and Tabber like all the press they can get, then it seems Mr Brady on the other hand does not. Point in case:
We explained to him that this was just simple reporting. We were doing our due diligence.
“I guess I have to get comfortable with what this media thing is,” he said with a sigh.
We found his response curious, given his highly visible activities. We had seen snaps of him surrounded by a gang of Indian women in their native country, shooting the breeze with the Hmong on the China-Vietnam border, posing casually with a cheetah somewhere in the African Sahara. Downtown Magazine dubbed him “The Most Interesting Man in The World.” His life was like a Tina-era issue of Vanity Fair. Why so shy all of the sudden?
Can I have a stab at that question ladies and gentlemen? Cause bad press is good press if your name is Slut Kardashian or Parasite Hilton or Beat you bixch up Baldwin, but when you’re just a social fixture who has to constantly buy your way in the wrong type of press can have nasty consequences. Then again look at Justin Ross Lee and Devorah Rose. Those two bixches keep resurrecting every 3 days, so who can really say….?
The Observer’s piece then goes out of its way to congratulate all three men which left me barfing in my school lunch box but nevertheless had me ruefully smiling but that’s just me, who knows maybe you might believe all this bunk about being a social fixture and a pedigree sort, then again it is the way of the world and if Justin, Tabber and Scott can do it, why not you?
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I take it you can’t get into clubs.. who cares about these people..