Amanda Gordon

Guests attending Carnegie Hall’s dinner gala faced striking stagehands who wanted love and respect after killing the opening night concert that was meant to precede the event.

At the first gala for the Museum of Mathematics, honoree Jim Simons puffed from an electronic cigarette as guests helped build a hyperbolic paraboloid.

Reading Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” in 2006 gave Ken Moelis the “motivation and backbone” to quit running the investment bank at UBS AG and found his own firm.

Stephen Schwarzman, co-founder of Blackstone Group LP, sold stationery as a Yale undergraduate, making enough money to buy a stereo, on which he played the Four Tops and the Beatles, he recalled the other night at a reception for the Oxford-Pershing Square Graduate Scholarships.

Ravens flying through a winter backdrop transported operagoers into Tchaikovsky’s very Russian story of fiery, futile love, “Eugene Onegin,” in a new production that opened the season at the Metropolitan Opera last night.

Can’t get your arms around Bill Ackman’s bet against Herbalife? Now’s your chance to be one of the people for whom Bill Ackman pays tuition so they can change the world.

Five years and four days after the collapse of Lehman Brothers, the New York City Ballet Fall Gala was a glittering jumble of celebrity (Drew Barrymore, 50 Cent), finery (Chanel, Jar), and economic commentary (Wilbur Ross et alia).

When the star of “Anna Nicole” arrived at the opera’s opening-night party, she was almost incognito. That is, her blond hair and chest were, compared to her character’s, rather flat.

There’s a place for hedge-fund professionals where everyone knows your name, and it’s not the offices of the Securities and Exchange Commission.

Benjamin Millepied, incoming director of the Paris Opera Ballet, read a Twitter message from George Soros last night, quoting Jim Yong Kim, the president of the World Bank Group:

Muriel Siebert’s favorite songs suffused her funeral this morning with a feistiness that none of those gathered at Central Synagogue in midtown Manhattan would have found surprising.

Paul Tudor Jones pulled up Saturday night to the Creeks, Ron Perelman’s estate in East Hampton, squeezed into the back seat of a car with Glenn Dubin and their Nordic blonde wives in white slinky dresses.