People always ask for tips on crashing. The rules haven’t changed since 2005.
1. Know where you’re going, and dress the part. Don’t wear jeans to a Bergdorf thing. Don’t wear a dress to Hiro. If you’re pretty, overdress to get noticed. If you’re not, underdress to look wealthier. Always carry a small status bag. Always carry a small flask.
2. Learn the names of the hosts; drop them at the door. Sometimes just saying, “Fabian told me to stop by” or “Aimee told me to come - go grab her if there’s a problem” is more than enough, especially if you say it very calmly, as if of course you’ll get in.
3. Pretend you’re Press. Bring an official looking camera (ie: not a dinky digital one) and say you work somewhere with great party pics - BlackBook, Vice, New York, Nylon - apologize if you sent them an email too late. You can also pretend to be with Patrick McMullan or Last Night’s Party, but that’s not as fun as pretending you’re a Nylon photographer, and you probably won’t get laid if anyone hears you.
4. Or pretend you’re The Help. Go through the back door, say you’re late for coat check, say you’re doing George’s makeup, say you’re dropping off a little bag for Lindsay. This is also useful for sneaking backstage, especially at small rock clubs, or clubs like Marquee when they pretend to be small rock clubs and hide Kelly Osbourne backstage so she can drink wine without anyone seeing her. Perhaps this is too much information.
5. If all else fails, throw a fit. This doesn’t always work, but it’s really fun and a good way to get noticed. It’s best to do drunk, hence the flask part of Rule #1. And it actually works - I remember last month, at the Bloc Party thing at Pianos, this random publicist marched up to the door, said, “What do you mean I’m not on the list? Don’t you know who I am? Tell Carlos I’m here, for fuck’s sake!” They let her right in. Meanwhile, The Killers couldn’t make it past the coked out bouncer.
6. Make friends. I was somehow seated at the Roger Vivier dinner because I started talking to Jane Lauder at Saks and wouldn’t stop. She still has no idea who I am, but the poor publicists at Emilia Fanjul think I’m like her BFF. And the steak was lovely, though I would have chosen a bolder wine.
7. Be me. I’m the imaginary socialite, and I was born to crash. In fact, I hear an expired bottle of Valium calling my name right now…