This is the night. Every pancake breakfast, every flattering New York Times profile (of Tom James), every blow-up with a staffer, every ill-advised international voyage, has all been building to this: Election night. “History is calling,” says Tom James. “And it won’t go to voicemail.”Selina’s pacing around in a (fantastic) lace dress. The gang is gathered in a hotel room—not the usual frenetic scene we’ve come to except from TV depictions of election watch parties—checking phones and seeming about as in the dark as the average person watching the returns at home would be. I will allow the wonkier types among you to look at which candidate scored which states to discern if we know what political party Selina calls her own. It’s one of those topsy-turvy nights, where those who seemed untouchable are finding themselves at the bottom of the heap—Bill Erickson,...
- 6/15/2015
- by Jessica Goldstein
- Vulture
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