There were insinuations that accomplished writers such as Michael Cunningham and Phillip Gourevich--the "hosts," as it were--might be in attendance. I didn't see any, but then again, the place was jam-packed with publishing industry folks. For the first hour or so, I was standing in a corner with the other two people who had no networking connections to offer. We were huddled in a three-man scrum, downing free beers and standing as close as not-obviously possible to the bar.

"Do you see anyone famous?"

"I think that's Chuck Klosterman over there."

"No way, I know what that dude looks like, and that guy doesn't even have glasses on."

Two other people reported seeing Colson Whitehead, one of the other "hosts," but I fear that this was a case of Zadie Smith syndrome, because I only saw one black guy there and it was definitely Eddie Murphy.

While in line for the bathroom, a tall, attractive, LA-looking woman tapped me on the shoulder. "I like your shoes!"

I was wearing my boring, black loafers as part of my favored ensemble: black sweater, black button-down, black jeans. A look I like to call "Eric Bogosian With a Vagina" (aka "The Fran Lebowitz").

"Thanks," I told her in a voice that implied surely, you must be joking.

"Yeah, I mean, I'm from LA, and here I came to NYC wearing the wrong shoes." She gestured at her high-high-heels. "I really need to get practical ones, like yours."

YOW!

It was this chick, who's apparently in town this weekend to shop her book around. She better be glad she chose to talk to the only one at the party without connections.*

*Truthfully, I wasn't *really* offended. If she gets a book deal I'll take her shoe-shopping in my world, where all the footwear looks like marshmallows and wet teabags.