Yesterday, we had the pleasure of attending a high-end book party toasting the publication of "The Journals of Leo Lerman," the former Vanity Fair editor-in-chief (and Vogue features editor) best known for his dazzling connections, and for rejecting the romantic overtures of Yul Brynner. The fete was held at Lerman's legendary West Side apartment, a sprawling, high-ceilinged ornately decorated duplex located directly across from the Brooklyn Diner.

When we first arrived, we made several quick observations:

• Observation #1: We haven't seen this many old people since our grandmother dragged us to the Golden Girls reunion.
• Observation #2: Leo Lerman had many more media contacts than we have/ever will. And far more glass-encased pieces of art.
• Observation #3: It's easy to flirt with the hired help when you're one of the only people under 65.

After taking in the stuffed owl in the foyer and getting shoved aside by an old lady with a pointy-edged walker, we started roaming around the antique-filled apartment in search of the perky blond caterer with the Spanakopita tray. And though our camera broke almost immediately upon our arrival (thanks for roughly slapping it away, Steve Martin!) we did manage to spy an interesting assortment of boldfacers, both past and present. In addition to greeting Gray Foy—a celebrated painter and Lerman's dapper-haired longtime companion—we also observed (read: unsubtly stared at) Patricia Neal, Grace Mirabella and Studio 54 busboy-turned-writer David Noh.

While intermittently downing champagne (we may or may not have become BFF with Cody, the comely prosecco server and recent University of Michigan alum) and admiring Lerman's decorator's bow-tie, and his tiny dachshund—also named Leo Lerman!—we envisioned ourselves having hypothetical conversations with some of the elite guests/partygoers. And though we somehow resisted the urge to ask Amy Gross (editor of Oprah) for the scoop on next month's cover girl, we did make the acquaintance of Ron "Galleycat" Hogan, schmooze with Ben "Gatecrasher" Widdicombe and steer clear of Steve "He Broke Our Camera" Martin.

But it turns out befriending the hired help and holing up in the "Champagne Room" has its advantages. In fact, as we admired our peers from the New York Observer, Gawker and Women's Wear Daily scurrying around with their notebooks, little yellow pencils and tape recorders, it occurred to us that we probably ought to do some top-notch reporting of our own. So we gulped down our seventh glass of prosecco, held out our glass for a refill, and took the moment as an excellent opportunity to question our friendly neighborhood server.

Jossip: Are we the drunkest people here?
Server: Maybe. But there are a one or two other contenders.
Jossip: Like who, Steve Martin? We hear he's thrown back a few.
Server: (laughs) He's had a couple.
Jossip: Has he had as many glasses as we have?
Server: No.

And as we inhaled another round of Spanakopitas (thanks, Anna!) we turned to each other, smiled contentedly and thought, 'This must be how Truman Capote felt.' Except, he probably would have left with Steve Martin's phone number instead of a champagne hangover and a busted digital camera.