Peter Thiel Like Gatsby on The Dock at Midnight

End of Year Family Footnotes, Reflections, Olivia Nuzzi, and Other Gratuitous Name Dropping

“I want to give a really bad party. I mean it. I want to give a party where there's a brawl and seductions and people going home with their feelings hurt and women passed out in the cabinet de toilette. You wait and see.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1934) Tender is The Night

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"You wouldn't believe the scene here. The Miami power gays are something else. We're eating lobster on a boat while a man hovers over the water with sparks flying from his boots. Fireworks at midnight. I'll send you photos later!"

The text I sent my youngest son holed up in a hotel room down the street with friends, happily absorbed in a Minecraft marathon.

The second message I sent to my oldest — was a warning about fentanyl statistics. You can't go out on New Year's Eve in NYC without an overprotective text from your mother: Have fun, but not too much fun. Experimental drugs might kill you.

Third, a reminder to my two middle boys that the Ring camera was always watching. Thanks to our new home surveillance, high school house parties were officially off the table.

The invitation to Peter Thiel's party came to us last minute just as we were flying into Florida. I had to Google who he was. In this later phase of my gradual MAGA conversion, I'm still learning the who's who of conservative power players. In a text thread with one friend group, I debated my New Year's Eve plans—should I bug a connection to squeeze into the intimate celebration at Mar-a-Lago or head to Peter and Max's since they personally cleared our names to attend?

One friend responded instantly, punctuating her message with four exclamation marks. She said that hanging with Peter Thiel was a good niche brag, "like speaking French." Another friend relayed that the news got her boyfriend, a jaded tech disciple, out of bed—and "he never gets out of bed."

Who is Peter Thiel?

My first search revealed Anne Diebel's sharp assessment of him: "the Dungeon Master." He's "full of contradictions—a libertarian who founded a company that aids government surveillance, a critic of tech who supports Facebook's mission for world domination, and a defender of free speech who helped to kill a media outlet."

He co-founded PayPal and "swashbuckled—in his awkward, halting way—through countless profitable ventures." His net worth? Somewhere between $3 and $10 billion. Along the way, Diebel noted, "he has written provocative essays with titles like 'The Straussian Moment' and taught courses on entrepreneurship at Stanford, his alma mater. One of those courses served as the basis for Zero to One, an aphoristic business book he published in 2014 that combines philosophical reflection and pithy advice on start-ups. His most recent syllabus included works by authors as varied as Joan Didion and the political theorist Carl Schmitt."

Arriving at the party knowing little about him—or anyone else in attendance—all of them part of an elite stack of Miami's wealthiest, felt perfectly aligned with everything else this year had thrown at me. Incongruous detours I never expected to be part of my midlife experience. Detours that plucked me from the domestic confines of my comfortable suburban routine into the pathways and playgrounds of the richest most powerful people in the country.

Sporadic notes on my phone mark me at surreal locations on various dates: sitting cliffside overlooking Malibu at a $220-million commune belonging to a worldwide name / mogul. Alone on a private plane en route to New York. Aboard an anchored yacht with tech lords and their extended families, eating grass-fed steak. In backrooms at afterparties with DC's big whigs. Snooping the secret closets of Mar-a-Lago. Waking up at the Kennedy compound. And so on.

New Years brings with it a predicable anxiety. I find myself relieved that we made it another go round, but the uncertainty of signing up for a new cycle puts me on edge. Foreboding doom kicks in, and the effects of dull light in January, when the sun goes gray and anemic, tends to level me in ways I never learned how to avoid, correct, or combat.

Between texts home and small talk with strangers on the billionaire's sprawling wooden dock, we spent most of the evening off by ourselves, settled into Peter's wicker lounge chairs under the stars. Cuban cigars in hand, buffets offering an endless array of lobster and caviar at our backs, we sat exhausted in the final hours of an incomparable year. At one point, we were told to look to our right where Peter, our elusive host, was reportedly paused, peering out over the water alone, edged by the glow of moonlight carving his presence the way Fitzgerald would have drafted for us.

2024 was something no one could have prepared us for — not even the psychic who, three years prior, on a hot July day in New Orleans, laid out the trajectory of my future with unnerving precision. I told you before that she predicted good fortune and access to the world's most influential people as long as my intuition and intentions overshadowed my ego. What she didn't foresee was the personal struggles attached, nor the energy it would require to maintain harmony at home while navigating the madness of life on the road. Or the guilt of being away.

Mid-December . . .

We managed to catch one of the last flights out of New York, but Arlo's, scheduled just a few hours after ours, was abruptly canceled due to weather just as he was boarding. He called me from the airport on the verge of tears. Like all his friends scattered across the country at college, he was homesick and desperate to return for the holiday celebrations in town.

Later that night, around 2 a.m., he FaceTimed to show me the snow. Stranded with his roommate after the cancellation, they wandered the streets in awe — California boys experiencing their first snowfall in a city they had been desperate to escape days earlier.

"See. You were meant to stay and see this," I told him.

In our family, my boys have been trained to see life through the lens of what is meant to be will be: Everything — good, bad, inconvenient — is all part of a preserved path. This perspective, which does not come naturally to me, requires conscious surrender, leaving little room for regret.

On that sanitized corner of Wall Street, Arlo is finding his footing. He wakes at 6 a.m. and skateboards 10 minutes to culinary school Monday—Thursday. In a towering steel high-rise, he is learning how to cook: to properly slice produce, debone poultry, blanch broccoli, marinate halibut, and master the art of a stacked club sandwich. Professional tasters evaluate his creations based on a single bite.

He calls us with weekly updates, sending us photos of each day's dish. The diversity is staggering. One day he shares snapshots of French pastries in the over, rising with buttery skin; the next, notes on how to humanely slaughter a lobster (a sharp knife through the skull to sever life instantly, followed swiftly by an ax chop).

Occasionally, he's recognized as my son. With that recognition comes both fanfare and backlash. Girls his age spot him on street corners; women who despise me scowl at him in grocery stores. Investment from strangers, on both ends, can be disarming. Now that he is of legal age, my haters troll his actions online, waiting for any excuse to strike, stalking the moves of a teenager in hopes of ruining something good for someone close to me.

Betrayed liberals are ruthless.

Shortly after moving, Arlo befriended a group of older skaters who had recently opened a bar in Manhattan. When he posted photos from their opening night party, trolls flooded the owners' inboxes, accusing them of serving alcohol to a minor and threatening to revoke their liquor license. The next day, they called him, confused, asking who his mother was and why so many people hated her. His first friendships in the city became collateral damage to my critics.

This is our reality now. My public political pivot has painted our family as targets. And yet, a conservative-minded boy finding his way in liberal New York is a feat all its own.

One night, Arlo called to relay an encounter at a dinner party. A young woman in her early 30s waited until the wine bottle was drained before confronting him. "I know exactly who your mother is," she declared. Her husband worked for TIME magazine. Neither were fans of mine, and they assumed they'd loathe my son, too.

To their surprise, Arlo impressed them. He explained his reasoning for voting for Trump: He wanted to own a home one day and believed Republicans prioritized that goal. He also didn't want his future kids forced into vaccines and thought RFK Jr., under Trump, could lead the right investigations into the issue.

By the night's end, the couple admitted he was the first Trump voter they'd found relatable—a thoughtful 18-year-old, spawn of the "enemy," espousing common sense with measured confidence.

Whenever my frustration gets the best of me, people are quick to encourage me to exclude family life from my coverage. Well-meaning analysts see it as an easy solution: separate personal life from culture content. A notion I reject because coverage without a personal spin doesn't interest me. Family has been and always will be part of what I do.

Venturing into politics hasn't changed that—I still approach everything from a mother's perspective. And I will always believe good outweighs the bad. I often remind them of this, too. For every cruel comment, there are countless messages of support. Truth—and the relentless pursuit of it—comes at a cost when you're pinned as a controversial online voice.

Seven days on the East Coast with my youngest at the end of the year encompassed a whirlwind of business commitments and recreational fun. Our trip began with the Army-Navy game, a historic tradition honoring those who serve. We watched from the Travis Manion suite. Hayes piled his plate with hot food from the buffet and took a photo with Gary Steele, the first Black player for the United States Military Academy's Black Knights football team in 1966, on our way out.

Afterward, we walked a harrowing mile in 30-degree weather, searching for our Uber. Hayes, teeth chattering, complained the whole way.

"Please don't leave us," I texted the driver. "I'll tip you well. Plus, I have a freezing child who'll never forgive you if you do."

We slept through an alarm the following day, forcing us to catch the later train. This came with a lecture from Hayes, who prides himself on responsibility and any challenges that reward it. Upon arrival, New York greeted us in full holiday splendor.

Ideally, a holiday trip to the city for a 10-year-old should look and feel like a John Hughes film. The Wall Street Hotel secured that magic for us. We were greeted with hot cocoa and a tray full of gingerbread cookies. From our tiny hotel room, curtains drawn and heater cranked, we lay in matching bathrobes that first night, watching the scene below us—a cluttered choreography of coats and umbrellas rushing through the streets like a snow globe come to life. Like the movies always show.

Wall Street

Santa at The Plaza wasn't having it.

We met friends in the lobby for drinks and stopped to take photos with a thin, bearded man who bristled when Hayes questioned the logistics of his miraculous travel capabilities. Growing irritated by the skepticism (he's 10 and grappling with folklore), Santa grabbed him by the collar, lifted him 3 inches off his feet, and threatened to scold him for being unruly. On our way out, we spotted him back at the bar, whiskey in hand, shaking his head.

"Looks like we have a lawsuit on our hands," my niece whispered, watching the video footage I took with perverse delight.

Our hotel was a block from Cipriani, where the main event was hosted. At the Young New York Republican gala, I was seated up front as an honorary guest next to Corey Lewandowski (Trump's right-hand guy), his wife, and their impeccably well-mannered children. For the hour, I marveled at how much they all resembled one another — a stark contrast to my boys, who appear birthed from a DNA mystery box.

Above us, the ceiling was etched with zodiac symbols lit by purple spotlights. The gala housed a sea of ambitious conservative minds draped in bow ties and evening gowns — a scene that has come to replace my former celebrity fascination. These characters are far more amusing, vibrantly sketched by dynamic design in the grand script Trump is casting and constantly revising.

Some notes mentally collected while making my way around the room: Ginger Gaetz was in good spirits, posing for photos in a backless silver gown. Quiet contempt in whispers about Boris Epshteyn's recent clash with Elon Musk; "Elon thinks he's evil," someone murmured when the argument was mentioned. Nearby, Matt Gaetz critiqued Nigel Farage's mismatched blazer and pants with the sharp, Joan Rivers-esque confidence of a seasoned fashion commentator. In the bathroom, Anna Khachiyan complimented my suit, a sentiment I returned about her dress. Last I'd heard, I'd been mentioned on a Red Scare podcast episode dissecting the Nuzzi-gate saga. I hadn't listened but others who tuned in said she was "kind of mean" to me while conceding that both Olivia and I are "pretty."

I missed Alex Bruesewitz's viral tumble, distracted by a number exchange. Instead, my focus stayed glued to Ashley St. Claire, dressed as a 1940s starlet, her expression one of slow-motion horror as Alex hit the floor, landing in an empty chair just a few feet in front of me. The livestream flooded X with theories: seizure, overdose, PR stunt. The truth was less exciting: a classic stage faint, likely caused by dehydration and locked knees. He was nervous.

Ryan Coyne, seated in front of me, jumped out of his seat, lifting Alex on his own and carrying him past a line of photographers who snapped away as he rushed by. When Alex came to, the first thing he asked was if he had gone viral.

He had.

What the cameras didn't catch was the sound of glass shattering as the podium came crashing down with him. The crystal eagle he'd been holding was miraculously unharmed.

Moments later, Dan Scavino took the stage to revive the vibe with a live call from Trump, thanking the audience and offering well wishes for Alex. In a ragged chore coat looking like a chimney sweep, Steve Bannon followed, leading a "Trump 2028" chant that garnered scattered applause and eye rolls from the table next to me.

Meanwhile, Corey Lewandowski sat stunned beside me, and what did I use the opportunity to prod him about? Aliens. Specifically, I brought up the drones, asking if he was familiar with Project Blue Beam. He was not. His face said it wasn't worth explaining.

The drones demanded a detour. One night we took a car out of the city to Connecticut to join the Real News No Bullshit team, investigating sightings in New Jersey. People were frantic that week — confused by rumors about foreign tech surveilling us, alien invasions looming, or spiritual beings taking shape as glacial colored orbs. It was as if everyone looked upward again for the first time in decades, confused by a constellation that has always existed. It was hard to know what was new and infiltrating and what was the ancient landscape in the stars we neglected to admire.

Bethenny Frankel, of all people, stepped in where public officials had failed us. She offered chilling updates from unknown sources, dispatches delivered wrapped in expensive-looking wool sweaters in the Hamptons. Her theory was chilling — the drones were tracking thermal radiation spikes in certain cities linked to a dirty bomb that arrived potentially by submarine.

Tucker Carlson said they were spiritual beings, TikTok's plasma lady called them angels, I hoped for aliens, Elon laughed at us all.

Our high-spirited drone endeavor was derailed, however, by a violent rainstorm. We ended up relaxing with friends at a plush Connecticut estate, touring a chicken coop off-site with hens named after powerhouse women like Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart. Learning that some of these hens roost for no reward briefly depressed me. When it happens, they have to be pulled away from the empty egg and separated until they come to terms with an infertile outcome. Later, we took a long drive through wooded, Christmas-lit streets with Bing Crosby on the stereo, eventually ending up at an upscale Asian restaurant.

My date — who'd once connected me to her Spanish-speaking psychic — urged me to use my third eye. Her cryptic advice seemed timely, tethered to politics, though the specifics — concerned warnings — remained unclear.

The days that followed were driven by spontaneous invitations dragging me from corner to corner. A lunch date with photogenic Republican women atop a NY loft with a floating view of the city muted by a blanket of fog. Another day, on a separate morning, I found myself sitting across from Will Pavia from The London Times for coffee.

He asked the obligatory questions for his feature on me. "How did you get here?"

"How do you define yourself?"

"I don't."

He offered a suggestion: "Diarist."

I paused, considering the term — one I hadn't heard before. I didn't mind it. A diarist attempts to define daily interactions weighed by personal reflections. It fit.

NY Dinner Dates

New York defies standard scheduling. Late mornings blur into lunch meetings and aimlessly strolls throughout Manhattan in search of coffee, art, or baguettes. One moment, I'm on the phone with an anon source in a hotel lobby; the next, we're at dinner in an ancient haunt celebrating Arlo's birthday by candlelight, forcing oysters on his youngest brother, who refuses to indulge us despite the pressure of a bother he idolizes and a whole table urging him to give them a taste. Evenings pull me back out for late dinners in the West Village.

Mark Halperin is the ideal dinner date. In addition to his other more known talents, he has a knack for picking the best dining spots in the Village and knows exactly what an outsider craves when they come to the city. His reservations are always well-considered. On this particular evening, he curated another fabulous group, Emma-Jo Morris — original keeper of the Hunter Biden laptop — among them, gathering us all at a lively spot where a blues band played in the foreground and a comedy show unfolded below deck at the Olive Tree.

I noticed Helena Christensen as soon as she entered, moving past us in a rush, flanked by two women trailing closely behind her. She is unmistakable: the curve of her apple-shaped cheekbones and her glossy green eyes, as striking barefaced as they are in photographs.

Six years ago, I met Helena at a coffee shop near her home. She invited me to her loft after and we sat by the fire looking through old photos of a timeline defined by iconic fashion idols and famous friends and lovers. I wrote that she was one ofthe most beautiful women I'd ever encountered, and I still stand by it. I was greeted with a good, hard Danish hug when I approached her table.

"The timing," she said. She had just been talking about my drone coverage with her crew. She, too, was invested in the mounting mystery of it all. Both women beside her seemed semi-informed, nodding along as we caught up with frantic life summaries. We toasted martinis before I rejoined my party, where Brooke Shields had discreetly slipped in, seated across from us in wide black-rimmed glasses.

By the end of that night, despite my better intentions, I found myself out until 3 a.m., taking lemon drop shots at the Beach Café — my first time there. The company was unexpected: New York Post editors, young conservative muses, and a smattering of unnamed storytellers stitching together moments from the closing days of an unforgettable year. For those unfamiliar, the Beach Café is where Republicans go to let loose. The owner, Dave Goodside, has a treasure trove of stories about Trump's visits to the restaurant. At one point, he disappeared into the back, only to reemerge holding an oversized, laminated photograph of Trump mid-sentence, signing something for him. The expression on Trump's face, caught mid-thought, was unintentionally hilarious. Dave, however, didn't see the humor in the poorly timed capture. The point was clear for him: Trump is a fan of his place, and that's reason enough to drag out the photos at midnight.

Dave's stories had us laughing to the point of tears past midnight. Beyond his political anecdotes, he lamented an ongoing feud with an old friend and neighbor of 40 years who had inexplicably come to hate him. Carmen, once a friendly acquaintance, now flipped him the finger every time she passed him on the street. The image of a frail 80-year-old woman pushing a middle finger at him was straight out of Seinfeld and had us in hysterics.

When pressed for theories about Carmen's newfound contempt, Dave admitted it might have something to do with a past incident. Apparently, when an ambulance arrived to assist Carmen during an injury, Dave had asked the paramedics to turn off their sirens to avoid disturbing the entire block. He thought he was being considerate of his neighbors. Carmen saw it another way.

Home for Christmas

Back home, four days before Christmas, we stepped into a house that looked straight out of a Hallmark movie. Mike had taken it upon himself to fill in where I'd fallen short, lining every doorway with fresh garlands and golden angels and scattered candles on every surface. A towering tree stretched so high its tip hit the ceiling, leaving no room for a star. Hayes was ecstatic.

My boys don't share my preference for minimalist decor — twine and dried orange garlands, burlap stockings, and wooden bowls filled with natural pinecones. Rex asked once as a kindergartener, "Why does Mom put so much effort into making us look poor?" Mike, stepping into homemaker mode, leaned into what they love: layers of holiday decorations, peppermint-scented candles, and unapologetic abundance.

Arlo's friends descended for dinner with everyone home, flooding the house with hugs, gifts from their parents, and slightly older-looking smiles. Faces I'd known from carpool lines and bake sales now filled the kitchen, watching Arlo showcase his new cooking skills. He delegated roles with the confidence of a new chef's authority — someone chopped onions, another simmered milk and butter, and Lucy, in her signature mini skirt, sliced limes.

The meal — his masterpiece — was a glistening roast and mashed potatoes portioned onto individual plates he proudly lined on the counter, awaiting online love from friends on Snapchat. It was devoured by teenagers who turned up the music and danced in a dark living room for hours after.

Outside, in a shadowed corner of the backyard, a handful of girls gathered — many of them ex-girlfriends, fleeting interests throughout different phases of their youth. From my bed I could hear one of them crying. The door cracked, I only caught fragments of her tearful confession. She resented her friends for staying close to Arlo after he had broken her heart. Continued association was a betrayal in her eyes. The girls tried gently to comfort her but defended forgiveness while offering her the kind of solidarity a teenage girl's crisis demands. I couldn't help but feel for the girls who had grown up in my house loving my son, still trapped in that tangled mix of heartbreak and friendship.

On the sidelines, women in my own orbit had been crumbling, too. Some, locked in court battles, healing from failed marriages, driving aimless in pursuit of temporary geographical escape, struggling with heartbreak in one form or another, waiting around on taken men. The instinct, no matter the age, is to offer comfort over common sense.

Our annual Christmas party — a 25-year tradition — marked the culmination of the season. What started in my mother's backyard during my senior year when Mike and I were first dating had become an unmissable event: the best excuse for a long overdue reunion. Friends from near and far show up.

Each year ensures a standout moment. Once, we scarred a new coffee table by dancing on it in heels. Another year, old teachers showed up uninvited. There was a fistfight in the grass in the front yard of our old house. Friends arrived announcing new pregnancies or pending divorce. And, of course, in 2022, when I arrived fresh off a flight from NYC covering the Ghislaine Maxwell trial to find half my guests in berets and a homeless violinist at the door. Everyone came and left with COVID that year.

This year’s party was smaller than usual, by design. A 60s jazz band kicked into a stomping cover of the Stones, drowning out conversations in the main room. Focus settled on an astute blonde in the crowd — familiar, yet untraceably so. From across the way, I noticed my old neighbor engaging her in conversation. He knew she looked familiar but couldn’t pin how or why. He assumed she was an acquaintance from another year’s party — not the face of a national scandal in the flesh, my pointed enemy in print, smiling politely as he struggled to place her.

In fairness, she didn’t quite match the tabloid caricature. Up close, she was less the leopard-clad seductress the media had come to portray and more the outcast observer — tall and too striking to blend in.

As I handed out velvet top hats and paper crowns to a group of half-dressed teenage girls, the PR agent beside me let out a sharp gasp when the photo booth curtain parted, and the blonde in black emerged.

“What the fuck is Olivia Nuzzi doing at your party?” she asked.

A fair question, given the intimacy of the setting, and how much of my life has come to be publicly dissected in print. But not an answer easily explained in a fleeting recap. For now, all I’ll say is that in the months following the scandal Olivia had spent in hiding, we reconnected on the West Coast. A twist neither of us saw coming, nor prepared to expand in greater detail.

By the time her identity was placed, the chaos of the evening had reached its inevitable crescendo. Nothing in our periphery made sense in the woozy scope of a season’s end —surrounding bystanders, kin new and estranged, villains in text, patrons of the past, sad surfer girls slouched on the curb waiting for pick up, and drunken neighbors weaving through the lawn for last call. The closing scene, days before Christmas, looked absurdly poetic, like a snapshot of a timeline defined by surrender, upheaval, and the inexplicable gravity this year had forced on me. On all of us. Expecting growth from chaos, heartbreak, and good fortune in unpredicted feats and circumstance. Tragedy in the parties. Like Fitzgerald preferred.