Glamour held a book party for columnist and famous widow Mariane Pearl, whose Wall Street Journal-reporter husband was abducted and beheaded by terrorists who taped the whole thing in 2002, last night. No photographers were allowed, so instead of fumbling around frantically writing down the names of people Nikola was shooting I was free to talk amongst the approximately 47 media clusterfuck types present and get drunk. This was nice, because my "soul" has gotten a little weary from constantly mocking Glamour and also, because I wrote a post once about how Mariane Pearl is an unfortunately bad writer I had flattered myself into maybe thinking she had read it. But before I could find my designated media cluster, I noticed three women in flowing garments that did not appear to have been purchased at H&M and/or Saks. I assumed that they were friends of Mariane, who has made it her business since her husband's gruesome murder to try and publicize women in other countries with even more tragic life stories they have overcome to nevertheless Make A Difference, etc. "Where are you from?" I asked one. "Cambodia," she replied.