We admit it: We harbor a secret crush on Chuck Klosterman. He has a nerdy hotness about him not unlike what Natalie Portman must have seen in Moby. We even almost joined the Facebook group "If Chuck Klosterman spit in my face, I'd stop taking showers," but then we promised our career counselor we wouldn't. Er, anyway, last night we went to the Highline Ballroom for a reading of his upcoming novel, Downtown Owl (even though we found it a little hard to follow). Over the course of the next half hour, we learned a few things about our little demigod:
• Chuck used to have a few nicknames back in the day: Curtains (after a pair of unfortunate sweatpants his mom made him), Facehead (also interchangeable with Headface), and Joaquin Andujar.
• Chuck does not think that rock and roll is dead. In fact, he thinks "it is pretty good right now."
• No one ever has sex in Chuck's books because he identifies more with people being rejected.
• Chuck is going to be teaching in Germany for fourteen weeks and what he will miss most is his girlfriend.
We raised our hand to ask a question. So, how do nerdy guys get chicks? "Well," Chuck said, "it's like this. You used to be able to tell the difference between hipsters and homeless people. Now, it's between hipsters and retards. I mean, either that guy in the corner in orange safety pants holding a protest sign and wearing a top hat is mentally disabled or he is the coolest fucking guy you will ever know." And in that moment, nerdy Chuck Klosterman got just a little bit hotter. —Lauren Salazar
Today Moby reminded "Page Six" about his "brief affair" with Natalie Portman. We don't know about you, but we didn't know and had never imagined that Moby had had an affair, brief or otherwise, with Natalie Portman, because what? Moby is a short, bald vegan from Connecticut. Natalie Portman is a Japanese-speaking Harvard graduate and total babe whom most of America has lusted after since she was 13 years old. But then again, we've heard this kind of thing about Moby before. Like, a lot. In fact we know several people who have sipped his Teany, if you know what we mean, and we don't even know that many people. "I guess in some people's eyes, [nerds] might be mildly sexy — and, as a nerd, I'm certainly happy to enjoy some of the effects of that," he told the Post. We couldn't have said it better ourselves. Moby is the type of dude who gets laid all the time, precisely because he doesn't look like he ever gets laid. He's pale and small and sensitive and a decent amount of famous, and he remembers your name, and only later do you find out that he is actually a Master Pickup Artist. You, Moby, get a medallion. And from now on, Daily Intel decrees that all men who look unassuming and are later revealed to be sluts shall be called "Mobys."
Nerd Envy [NYP]
Related: Jonathan Ames to Bring Moby, Nudity to Pitkin's for a Rematch
In an interview with Amanda Stern, who runs the reading series at Happy Ending, musician turned café operator Moby has a one-word answer to the question “What non-essential item do you always carry with you?” It’s “Stomach.” That’s funny, we had always considered food intake and digestion pretty essential. Though come to think of it, not so essential that we’ve ever gone into teany for vegan carrot cake.
One Word Celebrity Answers [Lessons in Curating. Lessons in Culture.]
The curtain rises on an empty stage, set with just one large circular bar in the center, manned by four bartenders dressed in black. The house is empty, so the hundreds of red velvet chairs cast an eerie crimson glow on to the party. Revelers drift in, including the writer Tom Wolfe, Amanda Burden, Moby, P.J. O'Rourke and Atlantic editors. A Boy Reporter and Girl Reporter from New York Magazine drift in. In actuality, they had arrived at the party too early and had to go across the street to get drinks at a noisy club. So they are both a little sheepish. And drunk. The pair begins to look for famous people to interview and spot Mayor Bloomberg, who arrived on the same elevator as drag king Murray Hill.Girl Reporter: Mayor Bloomberg, hello! We write for New York Magazine. Could we-
Mayor Bloomberg: I subscribe to New York Magazine. I pay your salary.
Girl Reporter: Oh, um, thanks! So, we were wondering [Mayor Bloomberg walks away]
Boy Reporter: Good try!
Girl Reporter: Eh, let's get a drink.
After 150 years of really great ideas, The Atlantic has come up with one that makes us uncomfortable. To celebrate their anniversary milestone, reports WWD, they're going to throw a big party with stars you'd expect, like Tom Wolfe, Arianna Huffington, and Moby (er ), but they're going to put the whole thing onstage. The audience will be whoever wants to stop by and watch journalists and luminaries get together and schmooze. "It's the cocktail party as performance art," said Atlantic Media consumer media president Justin Smith. First of all, didn’t Gawker already have this idea when they had a live feed from their book party? At least at their version, people were doing drugs and trying to hook up. And second, can The Atlantic possibly believe that people, even readers, would want to watch journalists frolicking in their natural habitat*? This is not a good sign. If you've ever wondered whether Andrew Sullivan or Matthew Yglesias is better over canapés, you are truly, truly demented. Or, you know, a blogger. Are we really at the point that people are throwing parties solely to pander to us? Somehow we imagined this would feel more satisfying.
*Open bars on someone else's dime, naturally.
Life of the Party [WWD]
The wait seemed interminable, but it looks like Moby has finally a buyer for the four-level penthouse he's abandoning on the Upper West Side. According to Streeteasy.com, the nine-room co-op, on the market for $7.5 million, just went into contract. The electronica guru bought the apartment atop the El Dorado — the building where Marilyn Monroe once lived — two years ago, but apparently had a change of heart. (This despite five terraces from which to enjoy the beautiful blue sky.) According to Gawker, Moby still thinks it "the most interesting and unique apartment I've ever seen in New York City," but he missed downtown too much to make his move permanent. (He was serious about selling, even plugging the apartment in a Webcast.) No word on where he'll next land. —S. Jhoanna Robledo
Hillary Clinton isn't the only one getting online, blog-comments death threats. ("Please put up a good fight for us," someone posted on Barack Obama's Website, "and if you get a chance to shove a pillow over Hillary's face and smother her to death before the primaries, 20 black-eyed virgins will wait on you in paradise.") Moby, too. Hillary's threat was reported in Monday's Post, and when we bumped into the musician at a party that night, he told us about his own run-in.
Word comes from performance author Jonathan Ames that his show at Mo Pitkin's tonight will include "nude wrestling, pillow-fights, paddling, chaos, excellent performances, and a likely guest appearance by Moby." Nekkidness, chaos, and Moby the Jesus-fearing vegan, all in one place? Not as strange as you'd think: We heard from a witness that the shaved one once had so much fun at a Stamford, Connecticut, strip club that he convinced the staff to keep the place open for him several hours past closing. When the owners wanted to charge him a couple thousand dollars more for this indulgence than he thought was fair, he not only refused to pay a cent of it but also threatened to call the cops and report a fight outside of the club. "The sad part about this," Moby allegedly told a bouncer, "is that when we wake up tomorrow, I'll still be me and you'll still be you." Even worse: He'll still be the guy who said that.
—Daniel MaurerThe Jonathan Ames Show [MoPitkins.com]
News execs are desperate to get O.J. Simpson to do a primetime interview about his canceled primetime interview with Judith Regan, his lawyer says. Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock are breaking up over, um, Borat. Really. Owen Wilson was diamond-ring shopping. Quoth Britney Spears: "I gave birth for 2 1/2 years, and now I want to party" (with Paris Hilton, no less). In other Hilton news, Lindsay Lohan is mad at rumors that Paris dumped a drink on her, despite the fact that she's the one who spread them. Despite the hype, Bobby didn't do so well at the box office over Thanksgiving. Jay McInerney offers Dan Aykroyd wine advice; Aykroyd to sing at McInerney's wedding in return. Longtime Brooklyn lovebirds Michelle Williams and Heath Ledger might soon be getting married. Who will be the 2006 "Media Person of the Year"? (Our money's on Stephen Colbert.) Former Post editor-in-chief Ken Chandler to quit the newspaper biz and get into consulting. The lovely folks of Darien, Connecticut, bid on a bunch of stuff from Moby's youth at an estate sale. Busta Rhymes booked a hotel room in Miami, was a no-show. Derek Jeter is still hitting on Jessica Biel; Jay-Z is still hating on Cristal. Cindy Adams's criticism of the new Bond flick: The first ten minutes are "unrelenting shoot-em-up" (uh, Cindy, it's a James Bond movie). Also, Adams is the only person in the world who doesn't find Daniel Craig sexy. Kiefer Sutherland's kill-count on 24 last season: 38.
The invitation to last night's Hennessy shindig at Capitale listed the ubiquitous Moby as one of the "confirmed celebrities." This was odd, because although Moby might be ubiquitous at Manhattan events, he is not actually omnipresent — and he was in fact ten blocks away, rocking out in the dingy confines of Tonic.
Moby, you ask? Rocking out? Indeed. Perhaps it was the critical yawning that greeted Hotel, his ultraslick double album that sounded like it was commissioned for hotel lobbies. Maybe it was something else. But the fact remains that Mr. Melville, the world's leading purveyor of feathery melodic techno, has been stealthily refashioning himself into a guitar-wielding post-punk front man. And that persona was on full display last night.
Robert De Niro closed on Harvey Weinstein's ex-wife's CPW apartment for $21 million; Grace Hightower bought him a Rolls. Hillary lost eighteen pounds, threw a party at the Roxy. Tom Ford had margaritas in London with VF's Elizabeth Saltzman and filmmaker Chris Weitz. A former Playmate Alice Denham shtupped many fifties and sixties Village figures including Norman Mailer, James Dean, and Philip Roth, who didn't want to talk about her book. Latest BachelorPrince Lorenzo Borghese went to party, hit on women. Mick Jagger gets caviar facials. Yusuf Islam, the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens, may or may not be able to get into the U.S. to promote his new album. Queens councilman Eric Gioia will throw party in Manhattan. Alex Kuczynski had plastic surgery, wrote about it, pissed people off. Nora Ephron went to a play, wore a scarf. Brandon Davis bounced a check; other family members sold their homes. Moby, Lisa Ling, others partied at a store opening. Janet Jackson's boyfriend says it's her label's fault her album tanked. Mel Gibson's movie is coming out, so he's visiting synagogues and making Jewish friends. Leo DiCaprio, his mom, his grandmother, and his girlfriend flew from Paris to Rome on a private plane. New Yorker film critic Anthony Lane gave a "master class" in the Condé Nast auditorium, made jokes that presumably were funnier in person than on the page. Zach Braff writes thank-you notes on an antique typewriter.