Serena got a new job and a new pet cousin; Nate got a new job and a new pet mystery that was the same person; Blair was pregnant and had to hear Louis talk so much about so much stuff; Chuck is molting; a bestselling novelist did some kind of John Fowles mind game to punk Dan into becoming famous.
Dan walks through all these weird people at yet one more publishing party while a Carpenters-sounding song about his paranoia and low self-esteem plays.
All These Weird People: "It's brilliant! Really exceptional! Loved the book!"
Dan: "Do I know you? Any of you? Do I know anyone here at all?"
Weird People: "No! We are a metaphor!"
Also, though, they are like time-travel artifacts of the time-travelling mind. Dan is the Donald Sutherland and everything that happens in this imaginary sepia world will eventually come true and then: A dwarf with a knife that you did not anticipate. Dan is the Billy Pilgrim and everything is about Viet Nam. Dan is the Neely O'Hara and we know where this is going. Dan is the Eric Bana and we are just his Rachel McAdamses.
Alessandra: "I just love chilling in your pad in Brooklyn and talking about your book with you all the time. We should make pizzas!"
Dan: "I love talking about my book too because that's really code for talking about myself, but shouldn't you go back to civilization and agent me? And other clients of yours that you have, presumably?"
Alessandra: "Like I love how at the ending of the book, you are all alone and you don't have any friends left, and you have to go to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square."
Alessandra is: Also a time-travelling psychic, apparently.
Dan: "That wasn't me! That was Dylan Hunter. That was designated hitter Dave Hostetler! The book is fiction! Scathing satire, yes. Thinly veiled roman à clef, yes. Sheer reportage, no."
Alessandra: "Well, that is a motherfucker because this whole book's entire platform is about how it's about these celebutantes we just apparently can't ever stop talking about. Do you think any publisher would take a risk on you based purely on the quality of your prose? God, you're disgusting. The book is #38 on the Amazon pre-order list and 25,000 have shipped so far. Does that sound motherfucking literary to you? Look, mate: If publishing were this show, you'd be the Serena. Now flash me some tits and let's get on with it, all right?"