And then there is Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, which is second in line to go public but may have to pull its offering if the markets continue to plummet. Kohlberg Kravis would have become perhaps the juiciest target as everyone rehashed “Barbarians at the Gate,” a book that at times portrays Henry R. Kravis, a co-founder of the company, as ruthless.

Waiting for Blackstone to make the first move was a public relations coup for Kohlberg Kravis (which had the good sense to announce its I.P.O. on July 3, when everyone was on the beach). Kohlberg Kravis is also more restrained than Blackstone: its offering is considerably smaller and does not allow insiders to cash out.

Mr. Schwarzman may also have failed to win any friends by selling out at the top of the market (Blackstone’s stock has dropped about 30 percent since it went public last month) and possibly spoiling the chance for others. But give him some credit: he got to market before everyone else and then cashed in.

That is not to say that Mr. Schwarzman was the ideal spokesman for private equity’s coming-out party. He has what can be charitably described as a “Larry David complex.” He can come across as a jerk in print because he says what everyone in his business thinks, but is unwilling to say aloud. The Wall Street Journal quoted him as saying that he wanted to “inflict pain” on and “kill off” his rivals. In some ways, though, it feels refreshing to hear someone talk so straight from the gut, to quote John F. Welch Jr., the former chief executive of General Electric.

What has most infuriated his private equity peers is that Mr. Schwarzman, in their view, has endangered their sweet tax status. Private equity guys pay 15 percent on so-called carried interest that represents their take-home pay — and not the 35 percent ordinary income tax rate that the rest of the world pays.

JUST two days after Mr. Schwarzman’s birthday party and $400 crab fetish was chronicled on the front page of The Journal, Senator Charles E. Grassley, Republican of Iowa, introduced a bill aimed at taxing carried interest at the same rate as normal income. People immediately took to calling it the Blackstone Bill. Some call it the Birthday Party Bill.

But Mr. Grassley wasn’t reacting to Mr. Schwarzman’s 60th birthday party, convenient as it may be to think that. An early proposal to increase the tax rate, spurred after a college professor brought the matter to the attention of Congress, had already made its way through Washington’s sausage factory well before Rod Stewart serenaded guests at Mr. Schwarzman’s party. It would have happened even if Mr. Schwarzman was a church mouse, which, admittedly, he is not.