Bash Compactor: What A Tangled Web

What if you could re-live your high school experience with all the wisdom, style and orthodontic perfection of adulthood? New York’s numerous electronically aided narcissists sought to answer this question once and for all at the [Webutante Ball] this past Tuesday.

Upon entering Chelsea mega-club Marquee, I encountered a multitude of geeks in frilly formalwear dancing awkwardly to Lady Gaga. Snatches of overheard conversation included the phrases “super successful blog-to-book deal,” “my phone’s in airplane mode” and some vaguely bitchy things about other nerds. Almost everyone pulled out his or her cell phone at some point to document the event, creating the vertiginous sensation of partying in Foucault’s panopticon. Or, as one blogger put it while lingering on the perimeter taking notes on his iPhone and looking miserable, “It’s like watching the Internet get a colonoscopy.”

The party’s more recognizable faces could be found largely on the club’s upper level, where folks like Nick Denton and the College Humor crew hobnobbed with giggling webutantes and friendly press folk in a not un-autoerotic fashion. “I can’t think of anything I do all year that causes more self-loathing,” web personality Rex Sorgatz sighed. Then why go? “Because everyone is here.”

One of the night’s more telling moments came when they announced the king and queen of the ball, Conan O’Brien and Betty White. Being actual celebrities, they weren’t able to attend, so the photo op went to Arthur Kade, whose online performance art presents a parodic critique of misogyny so sophisticated most people don’t get it, and Kari Ferrell (a.k.a. the Hipster Grifter), who once stole a bunch of money from some people. Kate pulled out a camera and took a few MySpace-angled shots as she mimed fellatio on him. “Arthur Kade said he wanted to fist me, so that was pretty special,” Ferrell said later. “He’s known for being a dick. He deserves to be grifted.” What was she up to? “Filming a pilot for a TV show and freelance writing. All legal activities.” The therapy, she assured me, was working. “I’m getting married next year,” she added, flashing a photo of a handsome bearded fellow. “I’m trying to get Gawker to pay for it.”