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Upper East Side Story: Patricia Marx and Adam Gopnik at the 92nd Street Y

Many adjectives apply to fashion writing, but “funny” isn’t usually one of them. The exceptions—occasional Radar articles, Go Fug Yourself, and moments of genius by the Imaginary Socialite—tend to take place online, where the audience is younger and scrappier and capable of handling both sarcasm and pop culture references. Twice a year, though, in the New Yorker fashion issue, the former Saturday Night Live writer Patricia Marx publishes a couple hundred words about shopping on the Upper East Side or SoHo or Brooklyn. All she does is go into stores and make fun of sweaters, but it’s hilarious.

So on Tuesday night, when features editor Izzy Grinspan and editorial assistant Amy Odell stormed the Upper East Side’s 92nd Street Y, our mission was threefold. We were there to network with bloggers at a wine and cheese reception, watch Marx and fellow New Yorker writer Adam Gopnick discuss that perennial favorite comic small-talk generator, “living in New York,” and give Marx a Jewcy postcard.

We made our first attempt at networking with the guy who invited us, the 92nd Street Y’s official internet man Andrew Krucoff. When he introduced us to the very nice woman who organized the event, she told us conspiratorially that towards the end of the discussion we could expect a Powerpoint presentation by “Patty Marx’s boyfriend and his wife.”

Patty Marx’s boyfriend has a wife? we thought. And she’s cool with that? And they're showing us slides? Quelle scandal! This was going to be thrilling.

Next we chatted up Social Justice Dialoguer Stephen I. Weiss, whom Izzy and Amy had not met, but only spoken about behind his back at staff meetings. Amy commended his quick responses to comments on the site and queried, “Might you guest blog for us, Mr. Weiss?”

He answered, “I don’t have time.”

[Sulk.]

Then he handed Amy and Izzy business cards (yes!) and Campus J magnets (YES!) and regaled us both with a tirade about purchasing “grown-up” furniture after his recent marriage. This was fascinating to recently-engaged Izzy, less so to Amy, who still has a social life.

Mr. Weiss vanished into the crowd of bloggers, leaving the girls to ponder his wisdom. In the midst of their contemplation a bat-like creature swooped over in a tight black sweater and a perfectly blown-out UES ‘do. Talons out, she prodded her prey: Izzy’s fiancé.

“Isn’t your last name Greenman?” she asked (not the worst opening line at the 92nd Street Y).

“No,” Fiance said, caught off guard.

“Oh my god. What’s your name then?”

Speaking of missed identifications, both of us were pretty sure this creature was the dating columnist Julia Allison, but we too busy glaring to be properly introduced. (If it wasn’t you, Ms. A, we apologize; some girl who looks like your bio photo is skanking around Jewish blogging events.)

Then Izzy spotted Marx across the room, sprinted over, and pressed a postcard into her hand. Missions part one and three, accomplished. The boyfriend/wife situation, however? Still a mystery.

After a more cheese cubes, numerous dips into the bottomless bowl of cherry tomatoes (wtf? —but we’re grateful), and another glass of warm Chardonnay, it was time to learn all about what Adam Gopnick and Patricia Marx like so much about New York—that is Manhattan—OK, the Upper East Side.

Gopnik and Marx launched right into a litany of NYC horror stories: Marx once got trapped in the elevator of a mansion she was house-sitting as the basement slowly filled up with cockroach-infested water; Gopnik had rats.

The best NY story of the night, though, and the one we’re going to boldfacedly pilfer, came from Marx. Here goes: Once, her friend got a phone call from a strange man, asking him on a date. “How did you get my number?” said the friend.

“Oh, from the park last week,” said the unknown suitor.

“I didn’t meet anyone in the park last week,” said the friend. “Where did you get my number?”

“It was in your wallet,” said the suitor.

“Wait a second,” said the friend. “Are you the guy who mugged me in the park last week?”

Good story, right? But where were the boyfriend and his wife? And what sort of slide show, exactly, would this ménage present? We were on the edge of our seats.

Finally, a man and a woman stormed the stage. The lights went down. And then we figured out that we were idiots, because of course they were Marx’s boyfriend and Gopnik’s wife. The Upper East Side? Not as wild and crazy as one might expect.

See Eat The Press, Galleycat and Emdashes for descriptions by people who weren’t misled into expecting Upper East Side orgy rings; see the 92nd Street Y’s flickr page for photos.

(Additional reporting by Amy Odell.)

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