A media launch party in Manhattan, in the fall of 2021, in this economy? In these epidemiological conditions? And yet Wednesday night at the Bowery Terrace, there gathered one extremely online cadre in honor of the long-awaited official relaunch of Gawker—The Third, now helmed by its former features editor and preeminent all-hands-meeting live-tweeter Leah Finnegan—wondering if perhaps it was all a sign that things were veering a little closer back to normal again, if that’s even still the goal.
The vibe was—as strange as it is to evoke the kind of Midtown power lunches old Gawker might have guzzled for breakfast—swanky: Whatever intimidating holdover halo effect ye olde Gawker mythology foretold quickly collapsed into a passive appreciation for the conventionally hotel chic choice of setting. Between the breezy terrace, the hanging baskets of something vine-y swaying in the puffy humidity, the circulation of mini cheeseburgers and Waldorf salad bites, the resulting effect resembled less of a gossip-flush media party than that of a work friend’s tasteful wedding reception. My plus one for the evening—a former Gawker editor who refuses to be named because he has grown sick of giving any other quotes about Gawker—announced he was simply here for the booze and the spectacle, the latter so often a given for Old Gawker. Looking around at the clusters of media types talking quietly amongst themselves, it seemed he’d be disappointed.
Even Bryan Goldberg, founder of Bustle Digital Group, former Gawker 1.0 punching bag, and the lucky masochist who then acquired Gawker at a 2018 bankruptcy auction, seemed antsy. “I’m a harsh critic of parties,” he told me as he shifted continuously on his feet. “It needs to fill up a little.” Near the entrance, he was chatting with New York Times media columnist Ben Smith, who published the findings of his Santa cosplay on New Gawker’s potential naughty-to-nice ratio earlier this week. They were both soon to be joined by former Gawker writer J.K. Trotter—power trio, unlocked.
The crowd was a veritable Escher staircase of New York online media. On the terrace, one-time Wing boss Audrey Gelman appeared to be in deep discussion with another Times media reporter, Michael Grynbaum. As we plucked at tiny cones of french fries, Adweek reporter Mark Stenberg mused over the evening’s historic potential, or at least the chance to be “part of a journalism myth or a legend,” which prompted Terry Nguyen, of Vox’s The Goods, to inform him that he was going to sound “too corny,” which was overall par for the course for the way most of the evening’s attendees seemed to be grappling with Gawker nostalgia. Judging by the reverential tones at hand, you’d be forgiven for assuming some were discussing a centuries-old journalistic tradition, not a website that only stopped publishing five years ago—though the media class’s obsession never really ended. (Vanity Fair’s very much included.) New senior Gawker editor George Civeris, who described the new team as “a comedy writers room, but better” waxed wistful over how he used to type g into his browser and get it autofilled to Gawker.
“The thing about Gawker is that it had a lot of eras, and there’s a lot to mine from,” said Joshua Topolsky, the BDG exec and founder of the surrealist internet reading experience that was The Outline (of which New Gawker seems to share some DNA). Topolsky told me of deep dives through the old Gawker archives he’d undertaken as one of the primary architects of the relaunched site’s rise. “We had to figure out if it could be good—something new and not totally new at the same time,” he said. As for just how new Gawker’s second act might be, Topolsky referred to Smith’s column from the week, concluding, “I think it will be less nice than the article assumes. Nice is a moving target.”
Throughout our chat, Topolsky emphasized his faith in Finnegan as editor-in-chief, a sentiment also echoed by Goldberg, who told me, “If Leah can’t do this, no one can.” Around nine, the much-discussed editor-in-chief in question read aloud from a sheet of jokes written by her staff in lieu of any official remarks; the zingers ranged from a tweetable entreaty for the richest person at the party to reveal themselves (via Tarpley Hitt) to a reminder to drop your business card at the nonexistent fishbowl by the entrance—”to win a chance to read what we said about you on Slack” (via Tammie Teclemariam, to nervous laughter).
“I don’t want to jinx it, but we’re having a lot of fun,” Finnegan told me later, pointing to recent posts on “White Lotus” and panda babies as some of her New Gawker favorites thus far. Asked if it’s a lot of pressure to be synonymous with the site, she told me that she simply found it funny. “Gawker’s been such a psychological force in my life for so long,” she said in the bemused manner of someone waiting graciously to blow out their birthday candles.
Pleasant niceties and Prince Street Pizza aside (the waitstaff began circulating whole pies once the hors d’oeuvres ran out, which felt at odds with the fact that the space was maybe at 40 percent capacity at its busiest), perhaps the ultimate source of good vibes for the night was the sense that New Gawker still had time to prove itself. Would it shock you, media obsessive reader, to learn that it’s really only been a month since Finnegan and co. officially turned the lights on? Finnegan has hinted at potential investigative pieces the staff have in the works.
Crucially, Goldberg seems at least more than happy to continue the waiting game he’s played since acquiring the Gawker IP more than three years ago. “This is all about patience, patience, patience,” he told me when I asked how Gawker was planning to make money. “Their focus is to make it really fucking good.” We both noted that most publications don’t enjoy this kind of mandate from their CEO. (Certainly Gawker founder Nick Denton’s ever-changing whims was an elephant clearly stalking the room on this front.) When I asked what he thought of the site so far, he said, “It’s better than what I thought it would be at launch.”
In keeping with the orderliness of the night, the bar announced last call precisely at 10 p.m., prompting a steady stream of exits and, I’ll be honest, a slight disappointment with what the original invitation seemed to have intimated with its vague “6 p.m. till late” time window. Alas. Secondary evening plans were made, hugs doled out, drinks sucked down and the last Gawker-branded beverage napkins hunted down and carefully saved. We descended back down the candlelit stairs and out into the world, feeling oddly well-behaved.
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