Yale & Harvard Will Always Have DC

This week, New York Magazine did a feature on the delicious DC summer interns, one of our favorite subsets of students. Of the 10 interns profiled, half of them (from our sleuthing) are Ivy Leaguers, hailing exclusively from Yale and Harvard — though this post in the very earnest “Yale in Washington Summer 2014” group may have had something to do with that slant:

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02138 Party Crash, D.C. Edition: David Bradley’s Cruel Seduction

<em>02138</em> Party Crash, D.C. Edition: David Bradley's Cruel SeductionAfter crashing 02138‘s launch parties in New York and Boston, we knew we had to complete the trilogy in Washington. We weren’t angry at ourselves for giving favorable coverage to the first two — just disappointed, and you know that always hurts worse. So we went in determined to hate it. Sigh. We tried.

When David Bradley, owner of 02138 and another rag, invites you to party at his home, you don’t ask questions. A sampling of the questions we didn’t ask: “Is Bradley Manor visible from space?” “Where did those two Maybachs in your driveway come from?” “How would one go about being you?”

The house — the former Cuban embassy, we hear — is a secular materialist’s conception of heaven: Impressionist paintings. Statuary. Mirrors, everywhere. A chandelier in the kitchen. Wood-paneled bookshelves. Clocks on every other wall. Couches in the kitchen. Ivy spilling out of massive stone-carved furnishings. A roaring fireplace in the kitchen.

As we soaked it all in, the magazine brass shushed the room and told everyone the evening’s guests had collectively clocked 325 years at Harvard — that’s, like, 569 in Cornell years! Editor Bom Kim then took a moment to lie with a straight face that this crowd, compared to the New York and Boston launch parties, was way better-looking.

Only two members of the Harvard 100 showed up: Grover Norquist and Walter Isaacson. We were a little disappointed, considering four of the top five live in DC. (That, and we were totally planning to shave one side of Ben Bernanke’s face once he’d passed out). As for the rest of the crowd, thank God for name tags.

On the way out, gift bag in hand (We’d been meaning to read The Namesake! They’re mind-readers!), we gave in and climbed behind the wheel of one of the two Maybachs. They weren’t there to be driven; only felt. And as we sat there, petting the hand-stitched upholstery and making quiet vroom noises for a good two minutes, it occurred to us: This is what it feels like to be David Bradley.

We’re so disappointed.