#003 : COVID VANDALS OF NEW YORK CITY
Originally published Nov 27, 2020
Well. I swore I wasn’t interested in writing about New York in coronavirus 2020, but to quote the song by the O’Jays—which I know best as the theme of “Jalen & Jacoby”, the ESPN show hosted by former NBA player Jalen Rose and BEAUTYSHAMBLES top tier celebrity subscriber David Jacoby—you’ve got to give the people what they…want.
And apparently…the people want to talk about this stupid party I went to at ex-Uber CEO Travis Kalanick's crib in September! Because after I talked about it to The Cut, the whole thing went viral.
I’d already accepted an assignment for a different Vox Media coronavirus package when I got the email about this “partying during covid” round-up. My charismatic, polarizing and fabulous friend Kaitlin Philips had sent the reporter my way after declining to participate herself.
Smart. As I told the reporter over the phone: “Only a fool would go on record for a ‘partying during covid’ story.” Then I did exactly that.
(FACT: I only agreed to talk to The Cut because, well…I always agree to talk to The Cut. They’re the best. Plus, I’d just launched BEAUTYSHAMBLES. Then I sent the reporter to my friend Nate Freeman, fellow Bethesda native and the author of Art Net gossip column Wet Paint. And Nate also went on record. We are...incorrigible.)
Whatever. It was a twenty-minute conversation. I listed get-togethers I’d attended since covid started; the reporter, James Walsh, naturally liked the “ex-Uber CEO’s apartment” one. He asked more questions: were people wearing masks? No.
And now my anecdote is a headline! Very funny. But do know that I didn’t mean to snitch—even on the truly obnoxious-seeming ex-CEO of Uber and/or his adjacent (as we shall see) team of bitches. I would truly never actively seek to do that.
*****
Were there parties in the five boroughs during the first six months of covid? Sure.
Like everyone else in the world, New Yorkers went from “wearing gloves to the supermarket” to “it’s okay to drink at picnic tables at night”-mode over the course of a few months.
New York parties are always outside during the summer anyway. I went to a handful of gatherings in McCarren Park, in the "lot" at Lot Radio, on rooftops, and by the East River Park Ampitheater.
But mostly, I was by myself. I had a lot on my mind. Shortly after New York City quarantine began in April 2020, my friend, the artist, rapper and graffiti writer (and so much more) SAME, had died suddenly in upper Manhattan. He was 39.
If you read How To Murder Your Life or my xoJane columns or my Vice column, you know how I worshipped him.
I’d just moved back to Manhattan when it happened.
“New York isn’t going anywhere,” I’d thought when I left to travel the world in June 2017. I thought it would be okay to put friendships on the backburner: I’d been running with the same group for so long.
When SAME died, I’d known him for 18 years. He was the sort of guy who would march into the Whitney Museum of Art and spray paint “PPPRICELESS” on the wall of a Jeff Koons retrospective.
That is to say, a king:
But kings fall, and now SAME was gone.
*****
Here’s The Cut item from the "partying during covid" package that went viral this week:
(I do believe that Travis is telling the truth: on the night of the party, I was told he wasn’t home.)
The Daily Mail—who picked up the story—helpfully ran these photos of the place, the $40.5 million penthouse of 565 Broome:
Yup. Definitely the same apartment! And I think it was all the same furniture. It felt like a hotel suite in Vegas, not a place where people actually live. I only saw the first of the three floors; I didn't get to see the pool.
A friend (who wishes to remain anonymous) brought me to this…airplane hangar of a Lower Manhattan residence. I wasn’t there ten minutes. We walked in; they made us take off our shoes.
Really? I thought. But I did it.
I did a big-ass lap around the first floor, checking it out. People were drinking red wine in a space I believe was this kitchen:
I continued to pad around barefoot. Eventually sat on one of a zillion sofas. That’s truly it. That's all I did!
Still. Dudes just came over to me…
“She has to go,” one of them barked.
I was texting or something—on my phone.
“Huh?” I looked up.
“You have to go,” dude said.
“Me?” I couldn’t believe it. “Why?”
No explanation. My only guess is that I’d been identified as “Cat Marnell”, the drug addict writer.
O-kay.
*****
I told The Cut I went into slow motion at that point. One must: this is when you strategize.
There was no way I was going to exit without causing a teensy bit of trouble.
"Out!" The men were still badgering my friend. "Get her out!"
I made a big show of fumbling through my Cookies Hoops navy "Coastal Elite" tote bag, looking for my Pierre Hardy wedges. That's when I heard the clink-clink of the spraypaint can. I'd tossed one in with my usual Ziploc full of makeup that evening.
I sloww-oww-ly put on my shoes to wear back—on principle—through the precious apartment. and floated out, flanked by weirdo men on either side. Half the guests at the party watched them take out “the trash".
I didn’t resist leaving or anything—what did I care?!—but the whole vibe was two beats away from “dragging Dr. Dao off of the airplane.”
SAME, the mischief don, would have tagged a painting or kicked in…literally anything glass on the way out.
But I’m a lady: I waited until I was outside.
*****
SAME was the founder of the graffiti crew Peter Pan Posse, or PPP—a graffiti, nightlife, and art collective rooted in non-conformity.
In our young group—which he led—actual career accomplishment meant nothing. Fame definitely didn't mean anything. Money meant even less. Creativity and debauchery were the only currencies that mattered.
I became popular and connected in downtown New York in my twenties because I offered my home to the cause. After the clubs and bars closed at 4 AM, anyone—DJs, drug dealers, skateboarders, party girls—and everyone was welcome to my chaotic $2300-a-month Alphabet City studio.
It was the apartment Jane always begged me to let the site photograph for an alternative home decor story. I'd moved in a few months before I quit my beauty editor job at Lucky magazine; I lived in it throughout my xoJane and Vice era.
SAME—who was my 100% platonic friend—was in charge of the door. He was master of "the traphouse", as he called my apartment.
I'd be at my grandmother's house in Charlottesville and get a call that someone's teeth had been knocked out in the hallway of the third floor.
"I had nothing to do with it," I'd tell my management company. "I'm out of town."
"No one is staying there without you?"
"No..." Lies. I'd left SAME the keys. He and Alden recorded a whole concept album (check out Bronx-born graffiti legend REMO on the intro track) while I was away. Later, we filmed music video after music video there.
He kept his angel dust clips—as well as an exploded bottle of 40 oz. malt liquor—in my freezer.
"Art," SAME said, every time he opened it. The glass shards were stuck everywhere.
*****
When my career popped off in 2012, I knew SAME wasn't going to love it.
I got a big book deal in 2013. The press started calling me a socialite.
I ditched Avenue C and moved into a Tribeca loft. It had two staircases, faced Cortlandt Alley, and was double the rent.
I filled the apartment with new furniture. The centerpiece was a $2000 White-on-White marble table (similar to this one) on which I claimed I was "going to write my book." (FACT: I wrote the entire thing sprawled out on this bitch.)
The TriBeCa place was airy and peaceful.
SAME came over for the first time one night in September 2013. He ascended the steps from the alley and looked up at my high ceilings.
"Can you take your shoes off?" I said to him—another first.
SAME looked me right in the eye.
"No," he said.
I blinked a few times. It took a moment for me to realize my faux pas.
Not that SAME would've let me miss it. Later that night, after he'd left my loft, I found a gleaming silver tag on my new prized possession:
I flipped out at the time, but of course, I would kill for that SAMER-tagged table today. (The paint came off.)
Glamorous man. God, he had style. I think about it all of the time: I was raised by the best.
*****
When this whole ex-Uber CEO party story came out, someone tweeted at me, "Cat, may I ask one question: why did you have spray paint in your bag that night?"
I dunno. To help me feel closer to awesome people and things that I've lost?
It didn't work, incidentally. Tagging up that wall made me feel stupid and depressed. It was the last night I went out in covid-era New York City before taking a big—and much more corona-ethical—break.
Also: I'm beautyshambles. I'm used to getting kicked out of things—starting with summer camp at thirteen years old—for giving “prison” tattoos. (Shout out to Beautyshambles subscriber my Dad, who picked me up).
If you read my book, you know that I got kicked out boarding school two months before graduation, that I got kicked out of Bard College before I’d even arrived there (they rescinded my acceptance) and that I’ve been kicked out of the VIP tent at Cirque de Soleil.
When I started running with graffiti writers—God, it was like I found my people! Together, we were kicked out of the Metallica Fest. Out of the 2012 Paper Nightlife Awards. Out of Kevin Sorbo’s Bridgehampton mansion.
And now I was being kicked out of the ex-CEO of Uber’s house. (I think his girlfriend or wife might have ordered it, by the way.)
What a joke.
I walked through the whole lobby; past the doormen...and out on to the Soho street.
Then I crossed Broome and pulled out le paint:
(Thanks, Drew Toonz.)
As you can see from my shitty handstyle, I’m definitely not an actual graffiti writer:
I was a party girl beauty editor who appreciated what graffiti writers did. In turn, they appreciated me back. Occasionally, they handed me a can.
*****
I loved SAME so much.
I have always tried to write him right. But he was so complex. It's hard.
He was The Beautiful Boy as Destroyer. He destroyed the most special things right until the end.
It's also such a terribly delicate situation.
It took me all week to post this story. I wasn't the only person who adored SAME—to say the least. I am the only person writing about his recent death on the internet.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing it at all.
SAME never told me whether or not he liked something I'd written about him. He never acknowledged if he read it or saw it.
I like to believe that he—the glamorous personality—liked that he was a muse to me.
I know he respected my creativity.
After SAME died, our friend Azel posted an old video. That’s SAME on camera; that's his voice. I’ve teetered over to the wall in high heels with spraypaint to “get up”. And SAME’s encouraging me.
****
I'd like to end this on a lighter note.
SAME loved toes. His first ever Twitter handle was @toechamp. (Mine? @Rocketqueen89, for the 1989 Guns 'N' Roses fellatio anthem. What?!)
SAME once re-recorded Madonna's "Vogue" as "Toes" and whispered "Toes...toes...toes..." over the music, like Madonna whispers, "Vogue...vogue...vogue..." before the actual lyrics start.
He demanded self-care of the toes. So in honor of my friend, will you treat yours a little extra nice tonight? Exfoliate them. Lubricate them—then sleep overnight in thick socks.
Or better still! Would you consider SAME-themed toenail art?
I call it the "Alive With Pleasure" pedicure. The only thing he loved more than toes was a delicious "loosey" Newport cigarette. (His second Twitter handle? @LOOSEYKING.)
You only need two things. (Well, three—if you want to smoke a Newport while you get your nails done. SAME would have loved that.)
Use CHANEL LE VERNIS Longwear Nail Colour in #755 Harmony:
Then use a cooling menthol foot cream like this one. SAME was so cool they called him Mr. Menthol, you know.
It would be a wonderful way to celebrate him. "Alive with pleasure" isn't just the Newport logo. It's how I'd like to remember my dear friend.
Thanks for reading. Comment about anything you want; I always write back.
XO CAT
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving weekend. I'm grateful for all of you!