ivy's birthday.

Quoth the great Karen Kubey:
"So Tuesday night Carrie and I go to PJ Clarke's to have a couple of courage-enhancing drinks (and some creamed spinach) before this Factory party attempt. Between Slutskaya and Cohen, I remind Carrie of the evening's agenda:
1. We're not going to find the party;
2. We're not going to get in; and
3. After we don't find the party, and don't get in, we're going to huddle in a corner and talk to no one.
As we walk west on East 55th, toward the mythical #137, it seems the night will go exactly as planned. We pass 149 . . .145 . . .141 . . . and then . . .135.
But on the sidewalk there's a dude with big hair, small pants, a plaid scarf, and a cigarette. He overhears our giggled confusion and engages us in what becomes the first of many conversations varying from the amorphous to the vague. The dude's name is Ian. Ian's a photographer. Ian is also the driver for the Nicholson-Palmers. The Nicholson-Palmers' Honda.
"137's unmarked -- it's right there. Tell them you're on Tooley's list."
. . . and the velvet rope opens.
After paying a good percentage of the day's pay for coat check and drinks, we run into Ian again. He introduces us to Gunther, son of Ivy and John Palmer: "He used to play with the Cure -- isn't that crazy?! He wants you to speak to him in French."
No he doesn't. He wants to ignore us and walk away.
We spot Ivy sitting at the bar in red stockinged feet. (see photo)
KK: "Hi! I met you on the subway Thursday night and you invited me and now I'm here!!"
IN: "(Scowl)."
KK: "Happy birthday!"
IN: "(Scowl. This time even less amused, which had heretofore seemed impossible.)"
CB: "Happy birthday!"
IN: "Aren't you going to offer me a glass of red wine?"
CB & KK: "(Hushed conference, resulting in the conclusion that we don't have the cash left between us to fill the request.)"
IN: "(Unintelligible) is still in love with me!"
KK: "I'm sorry?"
IN: "He's still in love with me! (Unintelligible)'s in love with me!!"
At this point we proceed to do what one should always do upon encountering an old person: we stand not two feet from Ivy and speak of her in the third person.
We meet Andrew. Andrew is from Moscow via Paris via North Carolina. How did he end up at Ivy's party? Through a series of decisions, he explains (end of explanation). Andrew is a filmmaker who smokes and gives out his business cards while smoking. Soon he declares that we've rendered unnecessary all rules of conversation. I think this happens right after I say my birthday's in June, and Andrew says, "I know a lot of good people who were born in June."
Before we leave the party, some might want to know, "So, was Nico there?" Well, I don't know! I printed out a bunch of pages from warholstars.org, to cram before the party. But I made the mistake of reading chronologically -- so all the faces I bothered to memorize ended up dying of drug overdoses a few pages later. There were a bunch of hot 50- to 60-year-old chicks at the party, and an old dude who looked like Robin Williams playing Scrooge, and another old dude in a viking hat. Any of those sound like Nico?
I'll try to employ better studying habits before the next party . . . Carrie and I are on the list."