It is a Thursday evening in May and I am strolling in a verdant Central Park. The birds are singing. The squirrels are playing chase. Lovers cuddle on benches or lay wrapped together on the grass under the blossoming dogwoods. Love is in the air.
Across a field I see three men in dinner jackets, a trio of penguins who have veered off-course. They ask for help. They are three men from Oracle. In the lead is Gabe Cavacchioli, the manager of the Oracle New York office. They are searching for Cocktails with Courtney, the fancy soirées for Silicon Alley rats run by cybergossip diva Courtney Pulitzer.
Tonight, it's the black-tie spring party at the well-appointed Central Park Boathouse — jazz band, glamour face painting, and two hundred of your closest New Economy colleagues. “We go to a lot of these parties,” Gabe says. “These black-tie events are really quite solid networking opportunities. We’ve got about twenty guys coming and, in fact, Oracle is one of the sponsors.”
Together we find our way to the boathouse door, where we are greeted by three young women behind a table with “A-L” and “M-Z” placards and a wicker basket laden with guests’ business cards. One woman hassles the men from Oracle, asking whether they have paid the $150 per person fee, until Gabe leans forward and, in a kind, lowered tone, says, “We are one of the sponsors.”
Beyond the ruckus at the front door stands Courtney, clad in a sequined, sand-colored dress. She tells me about the history of these parties (started in 1998; a dozen cities now) and the many business relationships that have sprung from a Cocktail with Courtney. But what about romance? Can Eros mix with e-commerce? “I don’t know of any couples that started here,” she says with a mournful look. “We provide the music, an elegant atmosphere, get everyone dressed up, but we don't seem to get too many love connections.”
I wander into the fray. It is a black-tie party but feels more like a fraternity mixer. Fuzzy-eyed men are three-deep around the one bar, braying for rum and Cokes and 7&7s; or they are whipping out pagers to check the score of the Knicks game. “Devils, yeaaaaaaah baby,” shouts one man as he high-fives a friend, happy about the team's improbable path to the Stanley Cup finals.
A fly fisherman might round out this bucolic scene and, lo, there he is on a boulder-strewn bank, clad in olive cargo pants and a fishing vest. He is casting, in good three-fourth time, his fly plopping right next to our verandah. “What are you fishing for?” someone shouts in between songs. “Bass,” the fisherman says, but all we see is him hooking, repeatedly, one hungry-looking turtle.
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