Oscar Viewing Party benefits the Elton John AIDS Foundation.

Of all my Oscar nights–and I’ve covered the Vanity Fair fete for more ten years and last year I covered the red carpet at the Academy Awards for a Los Angeles Times blog–I had the most fun last night sitting for dinner at Sir Elton John’s Oscar viewing dinner sponsored by Neuro Drinks and Chopard.  Diana, the gorgeous blonde who started Neuro, who funded the evening, seated me at one of her two tables. And it was a lot of fun to be caught up in her social swirl. For years, I have been giving Sir Elton’s blowout short shrift by staying at Vanity Fair from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. But Sir Elton’s is a most gracious event that takes place in a behemoth tented area outside of the Pacific Design Center. Vanity Fair can no longer afford a blowout on this scale. They throw a tremendously scaled back affair at the Sunset Tower hotel, where they were still nearly interupting traffic on Sunset (a no-no).  In the old Morton’s space, where VF used to party on Oscar night, they could literally shut down streets and could then afford the security that that required.  Meanwhile, the Elton dinner still has that kind of muscle: manpower, police, enough men in black suits with clipboards and headsets, the permits in place, to shut down San Vincente. My day-glo yellow parking pass allowed me to enter the blocked section of San Vincente, but not until 4:06 p.m. on Sunday, when the police finally allowed my car to ease forward into the forbidden zone.Yes, these events are like spectacles of the ancient world.

That night, if you weren’t a guest, Elton’s tents were the Forbidden City. The Academy Awards themselves on Hollywood,  are an unparalleled police state lockdown. For many blocks, only the credentialed may pass.  Last year, my ID was checked every minute for 20 minutes one hour before the red carpet opened.  If you were seven minutes early to Elton’s, cops in tan uniforms suggested tersely to circle the block. Noticed Alan Cumming walking to the fete in a plaid suit that was inscribed, on the inside of the jacket, “Made by beautiful blonde women in Europe” (he later showed that to me).  Friends who did make it to VF this year had their passes checked against lists and rechecked not once, not twice, but three times on their way into the party, which, by the way, was decorated with huge blowups of classic VF black-and-white images of Hollywood legends, such as Lauren Bacall and Josephine Baker on the street out front. If, in our filmic culture, there was ever a drum-beating central ritual, besides the Inauguration, Oscar night in Los Angeles is it. Thud, thud, boom!  A valet in a red jacket, took my car.  And I entered a river of swells in tuxes and frilly ballgowns –watch the trains. The first gal, who checked my id at the table, claimed that I wasn’t on the list.  So I was moved to a woman with a computer.  I waited while a nondescript Brit claimed that one of his guests had accepted at the last minute and he needed another seat.  At VF, that would have gone over like a lead balloon.  I once watched Denzel Washington trying, none too successfully, to get his mother inside the Vanity Fair fete.

But the woman with the computer and a fellow with a headset politely suggested that he had waited a few hours too late to make any changes. But then both nodded and allowed him the courtesy. I had figured he was a big scam artist, but, in fact,  I later saw him bid $85,000 for a large print of an image of Chet Baker during the auction. “I had a parking pass for them but no dinner ticket, and they just said yes,” the Brit insisted.  The woman scoured the computer one more time. And the man in the headset nodded, “Of course we’ll take care of that!” It was handled deftly and politely.  And I was further flabbergasted when the woman handed me a card on which she hand-wrote my table seating, 47 (which was only one away from Sir Elton’s). At Vanity Fair, I was always asked to stand behind a metal fence cheek to cheek with 20 nasty, shrieking international reporters, several of whom were crashing just to get their face in all the footage and photos all day and into the night. After midnight, they let me sweep through the party for twenty minutes.  But if I as much turned on a tape recorder, I would be thrown out immediately and asked never to return. Some years, they would simply pretend to forget to allow me inside. Staffers and the Slate crew are lovely, but some of the in house PR crew had a prison warden mentality. And you never see them parties the rest of the year, so they really have no clue how other PR handle press (hint, this is not how it is done by sophisticated, humane beings) The carpet on the way into the main tents at Elton’s fete, the largest conceivable, is a thick white plush. And no cattle-like stanchions hold back the well-dressed press, but rather a tasteful white railing.  Sir Elton and David Furnish literally walk down the entire line and kindly speak to every last outlet.  Elton was explaining that during the earthquake in Haiti, all the centers for helping people who have HIV/AIDS, which is 6 percent of the population, a deplorable figure, were destroyed. So he was making a push that night to raise the funds to restore those facilities and get people their meds.

Inside the party, there was a Godiva chocolate bar and drinks and, in a smoking section, off to the left, a Neuro drinks bar served champagne with Neuro or a mix of vodka and grenadine and Neuro. As the main cocktails room filled up, Heidi Klum and her giant bodyguard and Victoria Beckham and her attentive handler sidled up to a bar.  Heidi had a massive beehive, and I made a bee-line to chat with her, as we’re friendly, and Beck’s manhandler and Heidi’s guard attempted to intervene.  “But he’s my friend,” Heidi pleaded with this way-over-six-foot tower of beefcake with an earpiece.  He let me in. Nearby, Johnny Weir, the skater, had on a fun red jacket.  The dinner tent itself had 50-foot ceilings.  It was sheathed in red curtains and carpeted in comfortable plush. Jamie Foxx was seated, at Elton’s table, with a sizzling date.  Becks and Heidi later joined.

Our table had Olivia Munn, Eva Amurri, Susan Sarandon’s daughter, who was wearing this amazing dress from J. Crew, with a pink panel in the front and a white chord belt.  And Royston Langdon, of Space Hoggs, was seated next to me at first. He later went off to smoke something and didn’t reappear and Hayden Panettiere and a producer friend of hers filled in.  Oh, and to my other side was Louise Roe, this tall drink-of-water Brit social and broadcast fashionsita/presenter. Louise was so much fun–tall, gorgeous, vivacious.  Everyone was a friend of Diana Jenkins, who was just a little taller and blonder and even more stunning than everyone else. At Diana’s own table, Joaquin Phoenix and Anthony Kiedis, were seated way across the big round table from Perez Hilton. But I did see Perez zip over and borrow Victoria’s temporary seat at one point–she gave him permission, but it was a bold move. Go PH. During dinner, I was back-to-back with Lydia Hearst, who was sitting with her mom, Patty, and John Waters. She was wearing the most extraordinary vintage dress, sparkly and silver; it looked like Imitation of Christ meets Josephine Baker’s personal wardrobe. Crazy cool.  And she immediately told me she had two seats and that she was going to have to pull a Patty Duke move where she pretended to be at both tables. Only when she got up at one point, I heard John Waters say to everyone at the table, “Oh, now Lydia has found something better.” I later whispered what had happened into Lydia’s ear, and she went back and made nice. Can you imagine having your parents at this type of thing?  Although hers are super-nice.

The woman seated next to Eva was an instigator and exhorted everyone at our table to take champagne and tequila cocktails, putting a napkin over the top, and slam them down on the table. The idea was that the champers fizzes up and then you don’t taste the tequila when you turn it over and throw it back.  And when Hayden joined in, the loud bang got Perez’s attention. Her date, from Warner’s, was super-nice and very smart. Apparently Diana was friends with the boxer that Hayden is now dating, not in the house.  They were telling me he is 6-foot-6 and 240 pounds.  But apparently, he’s quite sensitive–doesn’t like to watch the extreme forms of boxing, because he finds them too violent. I’ve met Hayden a number of times before, and she had a lot of spunk and speaks her mind.  She used to always be with her mother, but she’s grown up beautifully. In fact, she was so excited when “The Cove” won, because she said she’d been working on it  . .  .”for six years.”  And the film has a great environmental message.

Dinner, by the way, was five courses, each of which looked quite minimalist and pretty on the big white plates: veggies, shrimp risotto, steak, salad, and a deeply rich chocolate cake (this after I’d hit the Godiva bar over and over). In the smoking area, I ran into Kelly Osbourne, who looked demure and fluffy in white, and she was obsessing about Peggy Moffit, who was standing near us. Nicole Richie and Joel Madden, not smoking, were schmoozing Miley Cyrus. Victoria B. was surrounded by attentive Brit gents, but a waitress still managed to drop a tray of drinks, two of which splashed the hem of V’s dress bad. But she didn’t pull a footballer’s wife hissy.  People are really nice at this party.Whereas at VF, there is just a sea of Oscar winners and VF staffers who watch press like harpies.  But they only let the fun people into Sir E’s.  And everybody is just very kissy and friendly. Victoria offered me a nice message for one of my bosses, who knows her.

Back at the table for the auction, Jamie Niven (David’s son), from Sotheby’s, went to the mic. And Sir Elton put on these very sparkly glasses and a big drop earring with what looked like a gleaming planet dangling down. It was apparently what he had worn at the Grammy Awards when he performed with Lady Gaga, and the bidders got the whole getup, which had some smoke damage from the pyrotechnics. That went for top dollar.  Heidi came up and auctioned a visit to the set of Project Runway.  And Sir E was particularly generous auctioning off a trip to stay at one of his houses, either at Windsor or Nice, for seven days with ten people. The bidding started at over $100, 000. And then they auctioned off an invite for one couple to join Sir E and David F at the VF fete later, it went for $130,000. Jamie Niven (one of the most distinguished and well-mannered gents on the planet), said, on the live mic, to the whole crowd, “They’re so mean at Vanity Fair,” meaning you’ll never get in otherwise–so true.

When Grace Jones went on, her set got a little kooky. And the smoking tent became packed with fun types (not all smoking–it was just the fun hang).  I sat with Kathy Griffin for a minute. “I just got back from Alaska,” she told me, with glee.  “And I went to see Sarah Palin’s house!” She said it wasn’t as grand as you’d think.  “But they are adding on this big addition,” she said.  Kathy figured it was the book money.  And I kept asking her if you could see Russia, but she just wanted to know what other celebs were in the room. Simon Cowell had a string of hot women with big hair introducing themselves to him and trying to be super-friendly. He has that swagger of someone who could perform in the sack. He had five or six buttons open on his shirt and loads of hair on his chest. And I saw him really smooch one of the pretty babes on the lips. Oh, and somone told me they saw Miley Cyrus making out with the boyfriend. The after-fete guests were served chicken drumsticks and tamales at a big buffet in the back.  To be fair, VF, used to pass out loads of In and Out Burgers late into the night, which was also really fun. On my way out, I was halted by Victoria and Heidi and the guards, who had just run into Lauraine Schwartz, the jeweler to the stars.  And V’s manhandler wisely tried to explain that if they all came along to VF, the extra guest really might not be let into the door. But Lauraine and Heidi and the guards and a few others jumped into a big black gleaming SUV and off they went.  When the valet brought my car, it had two icy bottles of colorul Neuro in the drinks holders. Nice touch. Traffic on La Cienega and Sunset was crazy because of VF, so I had to drive around to get to Holllywood, just past Vine, where I was headed to Drai’s, the new club. Downstairs, at the door, which was mobbed, Jen Gross, doorwoman to the stars, who I had last seen on a night at a similarly overpopulated metal gate at a club at Sundance when it was like 10 below zero shook my hand and said, “Hi, Jeff Slonim!” What a memory!  The club is on the roof of the W hotel. And a sumptuous elevator whisked me upstairs. The door opened and we were all in the midst of a raging, blarring dance floor. It was like a party scene in a ’60s movie, except the kids are all far more athletic now, so it almost frightening to cross the dance floor. I was bounced around like a pachinko ball, as it took me ages to work my way through the super-jammed club, to an empty back porch, open and breezy, where I was welcomed by a booming Brit voice..”Jeffrey!”  Loved that. It was none other than my charming dinner partner, Louise Roe, surrounded by four well-built Brit gents, a few of whom had just flown in from New York.  She truly is one of the most sparkling, towering babes.  And I took a long breath of fresh air with her and her fun buddies—so civilized.  Back inside, I edged my way through the thick of the crowd when I encountered New York photog Patrick McMullan. And we had to gladhand table after table of all these nice-looking, fun L.A. kids,  a few of whom knew me (or else maybe I look like someone in L.A., because I got bearhugs from straight guys who barely looked familiar.  At the far, far end of the very long room, like Alice through the Looking Glass, through a pair of doors, I found myself in an endless tropically staged pool area, with sumptuous cabanas on the side, and at the far end of the double-football-field sweep of red couch seating, a few more cabanas with beds could be viewed way up on a second level. It was like suddenly walking into Diddy’s birthday in Morocco. On my way out, I rode in an elevator with Niche Media bigwig Jason Binn, who was saying to me, “How many years have we been doing this?  He had a point. Still, nourished by a Neuro drink, I drove by VF, which was still raging; there was a sea of advertiser types, not stars, waiting for their cars.  And klieg lights searched the palm trees and big VF sign out in front of the Sunset Tower.  Feeling sentimental, I drove by the Sunset Marquee, around the corner, a hotel where my wife had attended one super-fun Oscar week fete that Kelly Cutrone had thrown some years back. So man memories came back.  I recalled staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt, where we had been staying, and where the very first Oscars had taken place. The decades and decades of this spectacle!  Mo’Nique had a gardenia in her hair, and wasn’t it at one very early Oscar night that Hattie McDaniel, of “Gone with the Wind,” had gone for just that same touch?  In the dimness and sparkle of the chill morning hours at the Sunset Marquee, a black SUV arrived and security loaded in a hanger-thin young starlet, with paps chasing the car.  It was the same scene that had been playing out for eons in this town . . . bee-stung red lips, towering heels, bleachy tresses, palm trees, pools, paps.  God love the age-old, blessed American rituals of Hollywood.

Day 4:   Vogue Kobe Sliders and Coffee with Jacqui Bisset

Anne Vincent, my buddy at Vogue, invited me to their “Hurt Locker” fete at the Mondrian on Saturday night. Hilarious, but true, in Los Angeles when it rains, the stars don’t really love to go out–the hair, you know. And it was pouring. Having been trapped too many times, waiting for 45 minutes for my car during a fete at the Mondrian, I parked across the street where you have to actually pay $20. Only then I had to walk down this huge cement incline that looked like a waterfall …in my Belgian loafers.  Thankfully, I wasn’t caught up in the deluge and swept onto Sunset, where I might have been whiped out by a luxe German stretch. I showed up on the early side, so at first, it was mainly me, Anne, and some photogs I know. Vogue had kindly tented the pool area, but water gushed down at the edges of the plastic. And, of course, on the wettest night of Oscar week (smile), Vogue had ironically partnered with Smartwater, the colorful water which I actually buy, to host the soiree. But as there were hors d’oeuvres for thousands, I felt like a fatted calf in about two minutes after the Kobe beef sliders, the best I have ever tasted, just kept coming.

Up at the sky bar, a kind of warm, open-air log cabin, Anne later introduced me to Edyta Sliwinska and Aiden Turner, from “All My Children,” who is her latest hot partner on “Dancing with the Stars.”  Edyta is aparently the sexy Polish version of the name Edith. And on the Internet, there is plenty of evidence that on a dance floor, Sliwinska can. And, she’s gorgeous. By the time I had to run, the pool area was jammed.  I saw into Susan Patricola, who reps Joaquin Phoenix, and Jeremy Renner of “The Hurt Locker,” also in the house. And she actually knew my name when she introduced me to friends. I felt like I had reached a kind of inner circle.  We have, over the years, had our moments together, one of which was hanging out with Joaquin and his mom at Light, this tiny club in Manhattan, when the King of Sweden happened to be a few tables over.  That night, Joaquin’s mom was telling me how she had to go over and hold him together when he was shooting “Gladiator.”  He gave a magnificent performance.  It is kind of wonderful the way Patricola, a very brave woman, who lost a beautiful son in recent years, has all these amazing young men that she’s always with, like Jeremy, who so respect and love her and treat her like mom. I love her, too.  On my way out, also spotted Meredith Vieira, Estella Warren, and Joy Bryant.

Next stop Soho house for the Weinstein fete sponsored by Mont Blanc to benefit Unisef. Soho House, the Brit club, has had numerous outposts in West Hollywood over the past few years. There were glam houses in the Hills, where finding parking with all the waves of crashers trying to get in felt like you were on the set of a disaster film–Mud Slide, the movie.  And there was a great round house also in the hills.  It had a Hef-like grotto pool. I believe they took the old Morton’s space one year. And before that Soho House had been in a building at 9200 Sunset.  It had been a fun year, because the silver insulation was still showing in the open lofty space, so it looked like Warhol’s cloud pillows were floating overhead.  Well, the club is back at 9200 Sunset (for good). They have a 7,000- square foot floor, with much glass and steel, that they have made sumptuous yet again with loads of velvet couches and oriental rugs. And maybe it was the men in LaLa-land who were concerned about their coifs and didn’t attend the Mont Blanc-Weinstein party, because all I noticed was the stream of beautifully dressed babes that kept pouring into the room all night–to the point that the fire marshal wouldn’t let any more go up in the elevator and lookers like Kristin Davis, of “Sex and the City,” in a long white coat with silver buttons, had to wait and wait and wait at the elevators in the parking garage. A beyond sexy Eva Green had on a swirl of light silver chains with diamonds draped around her chest and this diaphonous green gown and had big red lips, a little messy at one corner.  “Nine,” a Weinstein film, may have had nine famous hotties, but there were, like 90, here, a stream of yummy pulchritude. Kate Bosworth had on a dress that looked like an unmade Cub Scout camp bed.  Seriously, it looked like wool blankets had been tied onto the front.

And Elsa Pataki, the heiress and former Adrien Brody galpal, had on a Rodarte-esque dress by Pucci that looked like it was made out of tied together strips of gauze.  Also spotted Izabella Miko (”Clash of the Titans”) and Jake and Vienna from The Bachelor (they are lovable goofy in person). They’re like that couple in “Annie Hall” that walk up to the camera and say that their relationship works because neither of them are terribly smart. Saw them smooch  Kelly Carlson, from “Nip/Tuck,” by the way, has gone brunette. Her mom is a hairdresser in Minneapolis, and she mentioned that she flew out to try the new color.  She claims that she’s naturally sort of dishwater.

Okay, there were some dudes. Joel Madden and Nicole Richie were cute; he held her hand, and she had on what appeared to be a dress by Marchesa, that probably should have been cut down a bit more in length.  Gents without tresses included Christophe Waltz, Eli Roth, and Chris Tucker, but I didn’t see any serious male coifs besides Russell Brand, who actually did a quick little sidestep and look over the shoulder for photogs which made me chuckle.  The garden restaurant at Soho house is dreamy, so the driving rain was a super-downer. I split around 11 p.m.–saving myself for Elton’s Oscar dinner.  At Weinstein, Jacqueline Bisset had on a sparkly hoodie and lots of big chains and a leather jacket.  She is so-o-o-o hot.  She told me she’d thought about doing the big dress and heels and all that shit, but when she saw the rain, she decided to get comfy.  There was a cool little coffee stand while you were waiting for your car, and she and Seymour Cassel (Crash), were standing behind me. “Jacqui, you want a coffee?” he asked her.  She shook her head sternly.  And their car was right behind me as I drove out. It kind of gave me the jitters when I was driving up out of P2 or P3, like a scene in The Deep,  in case I slammed my rental into a wall in front of these screen legends.

INDIE SPIRIT AWARDS:

Yogurt, Vacuuming, and Ho Hos at the Indie Spirit Awards (more great pics at: http://socialitelife.celebuzz.com)

Slept until 2 p.m. then stopped by the tux store on Wilshire, and snapped up a couple of studs for my tux shirt for Oscar night.  Apparently, I’m one of very few writers seated at Elton’s dinner–thank you, Neuro drinks! Then picked up a Jamba Juice with the new mixin’s next door.  Crunch, yum.  And when I turned on my computer, I realized I had to be at the Indie Spirit Awards at the L.A. Live Event Deck at the West Hall of the Nokia Center at 3 p.m.  Bummer. The Independent Spirit Awards took a big turn in 2010 (downtown). It had been the most beautifully situated event of the year, when it took place in a tent on the beach at Santa Monica.  You could actually hear the surf tumbling as Brad and Angelina high-fived fans in the parking lot and Tom Cruise motored out early in a big SUV.  And, after the awards, everyone would walk down to Shutters, this big white-shingled hotel also on the beach, for more glasses of wine.

Well, the new location is downtown Los Angeles. Ugh. Nokia Center is built on a scale that the fascist architects of Mussolini’s day couldn’t have imagined.  One feels small, real small, driving up. And while we were asked to arrive at 3 p.m., the actual show didn’t start until 8 p.m.  They had tented the roof of the parking garage for the event–now called “L.A. Live Event Deck” at West Hall. The production people had done a remarkable job on the blue carpet reproducing the setup at Santa Monica.  So basically, it all looked nearly the same, sans the waves and the sand. Still, it felt a good bit less Independent, as it was at night and the stars all got gussied up in serious gowns. Mia Wasikowska wore Rodarte, fresh off the runway. She’s in “Alice in Wonderland,” but she mentioned that the fans haven’t started stalking her.  Maggie Gyllenhaal had on a Lanvin number with a big V front that was off-center with one big shoulder with lots of material covering it and one, not so much.  Carrie Mulligan had on Cartier gems.  Her hair is back to blonde, and she had big red lips.  Brittany Snow sparkled with Swarovski bling.  And Mariah Carey (she’s no bean pole all of a sudden) and Gaboure Sidobe had on LBD.  Meanwhile, Mo’Nique wore a beautifully fitted Tadashi Shoji dress (so tight). Maria Bello had on a really tight-fitting sparkly dress by Kaufman Franco.  And Vera Farmiga did a red Marchesa number.  Let’s just say it was no day at the beach in flip-flops.  I bonded with Ken Jeong from “The Hangover” on the red carpet (the short, skinny naked dude in the film).  I was coaxing him over to my spot between BET and TV Guide.  And he did this long mime that his wife would take a knife and stab him in the chest if he came over.  But then TV Guide talked him into stopping, and he did.  He was saying that when he was a stand-up, he had this routine where he would riff between Asian jokes, small-dick jokes, gang hand signals, to get the crowd roaring.  It is no accident that he is so funny in film.  Also funny, Kevin James, from “King of Queens, is a lot shorter than you would think in person, the height of my man boobs, He asked me, “You doing a troll column?  What are you talkin’ to me for?”  He was also hysterical giving a shout-out to BET’s audience that he was the shortest, whitest, pastiest dude they would view on the network.

Johnny Weir, the Olympic skater, was the stand out star on the red carpet. In person he  looks more like a contestant on project runway than an Olympic medalist.  And he mentioned that he was now, “meeting with Rachael and Zoe and having her dress me.” The giddy up getup was  Dolce and Gabanna with millions of tight ruffles on the white shirt, the black jacket had a beaded lapel, and the shoes were patent leather, matching the knuckle-length mittens that barely covered his fingers.  With the black hair sleeked back, he looked like a young white Michael Jackson impersonator (in a good way). It was a bittersweet afternoon in that Roger Ebert also walked the carpet.  His wife funded the Truer than Fiction award.  Everyone was so excited to see him out. But as he got closer on the carpet, I saw their faces drop.  We all knew he had cancer.  But in person, it is a pretty shocking thing to see, because about half of his jaw had been removed, and while the face is still in place, you can see into his mouth and see through it and behind him.  This is a guy we all grew up with on TV. It was heroic that he attended and everybody got that deep-gut feeling of “Wow, this is extraordinary”…that he survived.

He appeared upbeat.  And when they panned to him during the show, he looked normal from afar. Total hero.  People cheered bigtime when he was honored.  Okay, back to the fun stuff. Taraji P. Henson, wearing Kevin Hall and stilettos so tall they also turned heads, walked the blue carpet with two dudes with LD Kompressor Vacuum cleaners who were following her orders.  LD gave money to charity for her participation.  “If I lean over, my breasts will fal out of my dress,” quipped Maggie Gyllenhaal, before trying the vacuum.  Upstairs in the On 3 gifting suite, a Total Yogurt Bar, by the Fage, was giving out yogurt with mixin’s.  The yogurt itself is very simple, but when they add in honey and bananas and fresh berries ..delish. I saw Emile Hirsch tucking into Fage while he was looking at blinged-out jeans from Blessed and Cursed.  And, near the Marchon shades booth, Jeff Bridges came up behind T-Bone Burnnett, who did the music for “Crazy Heart,”  and did the hands-on-the-face, “Guess who” thing from behind.  AMC was also giving them all a year’s free pass at the movies and popcorn. Yes, it’s true–the stars don’t truly need freebies, but . . ..

Rosario Dawson worked the Marchon eyewear booth in a lace mini dres, trying on Calvin and Diane von Furstenberg shades and alowing them to do close ups. And then, later, my friend Will Keck tweeted that he’d been standing at the next stall next to Bridges at the loo, but kindly left out further details.  Onstage, Ben Stiller had some porn stars dry-humping to draw attention to the dull category he was presenting.  And he gave them Indie porn names:  Maggie Gissumballs and Philip Semen Hoffman.  Okay, now it was starting to feel Indie.  But the walk down several flights of garage parking stairs and then back up escalators to the afterfete was no walk on the beach.  The venue had a convention-center feel to it–definitely no Shutters.  In the spirit of America’s new Indie economy, the dessert bar pretty much consisted of Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos. Sweet, yes, but can we all do a little Indie prayer for an economic upturn?

V-DAY   Hollywood Dominos with Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore - Pre Oscar Day 2

The dress code for the Hollywood Domino fete, sponsored by Quintessentially and Maybach and benfiting Artists for Peace and Justice, Crash direcgtor Paul Haggis’ charity, is killing me.  Island Black-Tie.  Like anyone visiting from out of town so happens to have anything islandy in their carry-on.  Stopped at three second-hand clothing stores on La Brea. One only serves women–a bit specific, nyet? One only serves other vintage dealers–in this economy? And at the third did happen to have a brill mens section–vintage Lilly zebra pants for $150.  Maybe I haven’t been vintage-clothing shopping except at thrift stores in a long while, but some of the prices were stroke-inducing. They had sensational ties, but they were mainly in the $150-and-up range. And then I found a brightly hand-painted bow tie for just $42, which was totally appropriate for the event. The green James Nares-style brush strokes, looked like palm fonds.  (at Dressthatman.com)

There was a natty Aussie kid in a tan suit, no socks, really tall, who told the woman behind the counter that he had come to Tinseltown to make it as an actor. And she knew the people who had cut his hair. And when I took the tie to the counter, this guy in a very elaborate Versace-esque print shirt, just another patron, told me that I should get an orchid for my lapel and faux bamboo cufflinks to finish off the look.  Who needs to drop 10 grand on Rachel Zoe?  Sensational styling advice.  If only he were footing the bill. The lady behind the counter gave me $4 off.  Thank you very much. And instead of going crazytown with an orchid, I made one more stop at the Korean tuxedo shop (Wilshire Bridal & Tuxedo, 3822 Wilshire near Western), where I brought a fresh used tux shirt for $20 (I had only packed one, for Elton’s Oscar dinner which is also black-tie.  I am really starting to love all things Korean, including the tall gorgeous woman behind the counter, who sent me to a nearby Korean shopping mall the last time I was in town to pick up cufflinks.  I also checked out the $20 used cummerbunds, but, in island tones, they only had a light pink and peach.  So not me.  Instead, she talked me into a yellow pocket square–more subtle.  When I put the tie on, back at my room, it was kind of sensational. I mean all the girls, Molly Sims and Ali Wise and Dori Cooperman, were smooching me when they showed up that night at Bar 210, at the 60s-modern Beverly Hilton,  where the party took place. “Any cute guys?” asked Wise on her way in.

Most dudes just did straight black-tie. Jamie Foxx, who came in this gleaming black Rolls, had on sparkly sneakers. Aaron Eckhart really dressed down. He looked a bit crunchy-granola with the beard.  Maybe one guy wore a safari helmet.  And another had on bright green whale pants, so I totally overdid it. An orchid would have made me stick out like Ronald McDonald!  George Harrison’s son, a mini-me GH, showed up late, uninvited, but they let him in anway, although they took their sweet time.  That’s probably how Stella McCartney would be treated if she hadn’t gone out and done something on her own.  You go SM. At the Hilton, I had been I directed to park at the lot on Merv Griffin Way. And there was this sensational photo of Bob Hope getting dressed in the stairwell on my way down to the event.  I’m only remembering the old Bob Hope, with the one red eye, not the young stud, who dressed to the nines and then someay–matinee idol good looks.  Ashton and Demi, by the way, are sensational at Hollywood Dominos. He considers himself a math whiz. And she goes all-out. Charlize Theron, who also plays magnificently, by the way, was off at the Dior show in Paris. Don’t be fooled by the long, long legs and the bleachy blonde hair–SMART!  Lydia Hearst had been practicing up.  And while Ashton and Demi played on Thurs, they didn’t stay forever.  They snuck out at around 10 in a complimentary Maybach (borrowed for the night, these seriously luxe vehicles will set you back like half a million). Bar 210 used to be Trader Vic’s.  But they took out all the fun, campy stuff and made it dark and modern and a bit cramped for the big Domino blowout.  I don’t think anyone else knows this, but during Fashion Week, Demi told me that she and Ashton just walked the streets of Paris alone on Valentine’s Day.  Could anything be more romantic? I mean, really, even walking alone in Paris is so f-ing romantic.  By the way, I was totally right in my Fashion Week coverage for Hotel Fashionland about Anna Wintour f-ing up the Milan shows by only coming for three days. The Mayor of Milan was up in arms about it.  But she is so correct to prefer Paris.  Walking around the streets of Milan will just give you a headache. While every little alleyway in Paris is so-o-o-o-o sexy.  I could walk forever there. And probably everyone on the planet would find strolling there with Ashton and Demi super dreamy. Eric Buterbaugh, one of their good friends, by the way, is a part of the Hollywood Domino inner circle–at one point they were playing once a week with Guy Oseary and Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek.  And Buterbaugh has the extraordinary flower design shop at the Four Seasons on S. Doheny here in L.A.  So it is kind of cool that Ashton played a florist in “Valentine’s Day.” Right?  Molly Sims mentioned that she’d been to Haiti in October.  Wow, did she dodge a bullet (the earthquake).  And Paul Haggis, who was donating all the money from the event to help Haiti, said that he’s been down more than once since the earthquake.  The film school that he and Molly have both visited was destroyed. Haggis says that the grand hotel Olofson, made of wood, did survive, however.  But some of the artists he had been working with to create masks to sell and raise money for charity did not survive the quake. Is anyone else feeling like we’ll feel much better when all the quakes (Chile) stop and 2012, and all the end of the world predictions are behind us?  Haggis really cares and said it is so so hard to see all the injured kids in Haiti. So the Domino thing really was for a great cause this year, although I have a feeling the Maybach may not be quite as fuel-efficient as the Chevy Volt. It also requires a professional Mayach driver, and only seats two, very, very comfortably in the back (the seats actually recline like the ones in first class on a plane).  Annalynn McCord, wearing a dress by BodyAmr at Bar 210, way open in the front, has a killer-thin waist, by the way, the thinnest I have ever ever seen outside of a freak show.  Gorgeous!

Grass is Always Greener:  Leading to the OSCARS/DAY 1

Flew in from Los Angeles on Wednesay March 3 for Oscar week.  The stars consider Oscar week an adult version of their High School Homecoming. And, so, they don the killer, one of a kind ballgowns that night. And designers are angling for months to get them into the biggest, fluffiest dresses.  But the week gets a slow start.  Alice + Olivia designer Stacey Bendet Eisner was chasing her infant around my 9 a.m. American flight the whole way in from NY. By the way, with the main runway out at JFK, they’re making a really nasty turn right after lift off, and one young kid yelled out, “We’re all going to die!” Not fun.

Stacey designs the Alice + Olivia line, see my Hotelfashionmoment coverage of fashion week’s day three.  On the plane she had on a white Grecian-influenced dress. Her bra straps were showing a bit (made her looked cool), and she and her little one were being superfriendly with all the kids on the flight as she made several forays from the land beyond the curtain, from business class. At one point she was called back to her seat and the toddler near me was devastated when her cute little one went back with her to Business. He kept calling out “Baby! Baby!”  Stacey was seated next to my buddy Greg Link, who reps the W hotels and Dre, a new nightclub in Hollywood. And he invited me to an Oscar-night fete at Drai’s that is going until 2 a.m. Looking forward, as Elton’s dinner shuts down earlyish. And Drai’s is the new happening club, no relation to Dr. Dre, although that would be cool, too.

That night, at Avalon, a club near Hollywood and Vine, Global Green, the pre-Oscar event that brings attention to all cause green, was celebrated with a thick green synthetic carpet, really sort of like long-hair astroturf. The woman who manufactures it has a show on HGTV was telling me that Ed Begley Jr. has it at his house. She believes that real grass is one of the most detrimental crops in the U.S. And this faux grass is bacteria-free and lead-free.  Strange, that real grass wouldn’t be greener than plastic, but much water and resourses are expended watering and nourishing the real stuff, apparently.  All the nutty green press was out–every last crunchy granola Website–and as I was chatting fashion with the gals, they were pushing just as hard for details such as that Roma Maffia from “Nip and Tuck” thinks that one can get away with using far fewer pieces of toilet paper and that she favors organic deodorant or does without if she’s feeling really green.  Ripe?  There was a green Chevy Volt (which can go 40 miles on one electric charge)  parked at the far end of the green carpet, and the Chevy execs were espousing green philosophy (hey, aren’t the car companies the ones who f-d up the environment in the first place?

To be fair, I could totally use one of these mothers in the Hamptons. Plug me in.  GM, by the way, used to give one of the biggest Oscar-week fetes just across Vine in a big tent–a fashion show called “GM 10,” in which ten celebs like Jamie Foxx and Penelope Cruz were dressed in high fashion duds that echoed GM’s new model cars.  That is a bit of Americana in the making–remember the days when GM could drop millions on a party.  At the end of the arrivals, Jessica Alba, in Viktor and Rolf, was protected from sprinkling rain by an umbrella porting Cash Warren, her husband (Fonsworth Bentley redux).  And James Cameron, who is apparently super green, was covered by this massive umbrella as he arrived to give a green fashion award to a young designer. Inside Avalon for Global Green, a club with lots of florid Spanish colonial plaster flourishes, Benji and Joel Madden played “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” as an acoustic set.  Superb. And Jessica Alba and Cash hung with their buddies in a little roped-off area. He was slouching back under a big old-school, realistic nude portrait.  Serena Williams had a blonde Anna Wintour bob and a short black sequined number.  And Slash and his wife were squeezed into a little table near the DJ booth where Brent Bolthouse was spinning.  Slash and Brent confirred for a time, but the tunes didn’t suddenly improve or anything like that.

I caught up with Lydia Hearst, who was sitting with Steven Dorff and a few friends.  She said that her mom, Patty Hearst, was coming for the weekend, and that she had been practicing Hollywood Dominos, the game, as she had a big match the next night with Ashton and Demi. The tweet life.  The dress for the Hollywood Dominos event is Island Tropical black tie, so that is a big pain in the rectum (remind me to hit the vintage clothing stores on La Brea the next day).

Lydia has moved to L.A. from New York.  Wow, does she look sensational. She said that she had eatten at Sushi Palace that night, and that it was really great.  According to her, the difference between New York and L.A., is that in (comfortably unfriendly) New York, she could go out and eat alone in a restaurant and no one would bug her. But here, in L.A., couples will come up to her and ask if she’s “Okay?”  Ugh. She’s working as an actress now.  She and Dorf and a group were off to the Chateau Marmont for Nicholas Berggruen’s annual Oscar fete in the cloister-like garden, uneventful, where Leo DiCaprio chilled until around 3 o’clock a.m..  Bonsoir.  (more pics at: http://www.theage.com.au/photogallery)

HOTEL FASHION MOMENT - FASHION WEEK FEBRUARY 2010

THE LAST FASHION SHOW… B’BYE BRYANT PARK

Showman Isaac Mizrahi kicked off the bless last day of Fashion Week with a big slate floor, a live jazz combo, and, yes, snow machines. We witnessed belted orange ruffles, and purses with day-go orange fur, that looked like the model was carrying a brightly colored air dog (you know the society dogs that get carried around, so their paws never touch the floor).  Isaac did sheer shirts, quilted black sleeves, detachable fur hoods with the flair and style of walking fashion sketches. The fashionistas should re-anoint this living legend, rather than running of to find the latest sweet youth of promise.

Then, Marchella Lindberg launched her line Paris 68 at Milk at 2:00 p.m.  At 2:05, there were only like twenty people in the room, me, Justin Timberlake, Mr. Mickey from Paper, and about eighteen others.  But in ten minutes the room was packed with happening insiders, Cynthia Rowley, Allison Sarofim, Terry Richardson.

Marchella’s first solo show had tons of innovative flourishes, beaded tights that matched wispy dresses, long fur over overcoat. The common thread was sexy, edgy dark beaded fabrics.  JT had on a dark knit cap and was sitting with Johan Lindberg, Marchella’s husband and her little daughter. JT sometimes babysits for her.  Johan and Marchella consult on JT’s William Rast line. It’s a family affair.

Arrivals at the Calvin Klein show, by comparison, were choreographed like ballet by an army of handlers in suit.  Andre Leon Tally squired Whoopi Goldberg to their front row bench.

Backstage, Stella Tennant was catching up with Helena Christensen.

Naomi Watts and Kate Bosworth, who said she thought she looked grown up, were doin’ the smoochfest with Calvin women’s designer, Francisco Costa. Costa brought back the minimalist old school Calvin touch, but gave it to today’s big coats.  Midnight was his hot color.  And everyone fell in love with Isabelle Lucas, the Swiss actress.

Brook Shields and Dan McCann, her right hand man, handled the mobs at J. Mendel deftly. JM is the furrier with the most elegant side line of non fur fashion. Brooke looked sensational.  The older society ladies all knew her grandfather who was tennis pro.  In fact, Anne Slater once told me that he made the finals in Wimbledon long ago, went to go say goodbye to someone on a steamer ship, didn’t get off in time, and MISSED THE FINALS! Brooke had me in stitches twenty minutes later, backstage at Naeem Khan, talking about changing in a handicapped bathroom that didn’t have a lock at the Bryant Park Hotel.  And Naeem, who had a kind of biker chic look going on with his sparkly ballgowns, did one of his best shows ever.  The gowns have sensational old school workmanship he loads up in layers of gold and sequins, and braiding on the dresses.  Some of these gowns looked as if they might have been inherited from some fabulously stylish grandmother. Yes he Khan!  And, sad indeed, Tommy Hilfiger was the very last show in the tents at Bryant Park… EVER!  Next season the tents move to Lincoln Center.  The lineup of stars in the front row, Penn Badgley, an Olsen twin (sorry, can’t tell them apart), and Rosario Dawson, was formidable.

But in a hallway nearby, hung Patrick McMullan’s images of the ghosts of Bryant Park tents past: Leo looking like a little boy; Ashton Kutcher when he was a model, standing in his undies; Chloe Sevigny, looking all of twelve, standing with Kate Moss who practically had her hoo hoo on view.  Yes, the lines of porta potties provide a hint of stench backstage.  But we have had 18 years of good times in this behemoth great white plastic temporary structure.  Tommy’s show was one of his best (thank goodness), but, meanwhile, 18 years of memories flooded past the eyes of fashion’s front row crowd.

I recalled Giselle asking me to come with her mid-interview to a porta potty backstage.  She then asked me to wait when she stepped inside, “I have to pee!” I recalled Naomi missing a bag of jewelry after, was it a Luca Luca show?  She threw a full on meldown, until it turned out one of the stylists had “accidentally” taken it home.  There were the mad Heatherette shows, romps on rollerskates, where people didn’t just cheer, the shrieked in glee afterward for twenty minutes.  There were Peta attacks, when soy terrorists would throw yogurt at fur clad models at, Oscar, for one.  Boy did he she get decked by security and carried out squirmin’.  And there were Soy pies—Anna got one in the face.  And the time Britney Spear’s bodyguard shoved Anna, who was racing out the door, and she socked him.  Never underestimate AW. And the fashion editor who passed out and puked and had to be carried away on a stretcher.  One time Cynthia Rowley had wanted to use red Polaroid cameras on the runway and the guards wouldn’t let her go on with her show, until she backed down, as Cannon, I believe, was been paying for the tents that year.  Silver haired Polly Mellon standing, clapping thunderously after even minor shows. We had a hurricane, the roof had been convulsing before the whole season was shut down.  And then, saddest of all, 9/11, when designers had to spend the night to watch their collections after fashion’s darkest moment.  All shows were cancelled.   The last show that season was Marc Jacobs in a tent on a Pier not so far from Wall Street.  The show was far more than an hour late.  And there was little air in the overheated structure. And, the next morning instead of racing off to shows, we woke to the news of planes hitting the towers .  Later in the day, during a run on supermarkets, there was a civil war-like procession on the streets of gray dust covered Wallstreet suits trudging home, an ominous plume loomed up over the city from downtown.  Though the economy has yet to quite recover, on my way out of Paris 68 on the back, 14th street exit, I did notice that the McQueen store has now reopened.  What do you say to consol your salesperson?  Still, I so have to go snag a tie. The company is apparently freaking out about getting back samples, each now worth a fortune, back from mag hags the world over.  That night, Calvin Klein, threw a bash in a raw open lofty space on Little West 12th.   Thin, metal framed glass fireplaces decorated tables surrounded by white couches.

Ryan Philippe said he was digging his free Calvin suit.  Naomi Watts and Kate Bosworth were on their second Calvin change du jour.

And Joey, from the Standard Hotel, invited me to afterparty with the tastefully tailored minimalists at The Penthouse at the Standard, aka the Boom Boom room with its sweeping views right into rarified Manhattan penthouses. It is the Rainbow Room of our age. But my muscles, my feet, even my brain ached, from all the throbbing music, and I could barely lumber to a taxi. For this scribe, Fashion’s last season in Bryant park had ended.  Kudos Fern Mallis. And, to our great white tent lover, now, and forever lost, we offered you our youth and shared an era, an age, an unfolding ebullient pageant. B’ bye Bryant Park… Xx’s and Oo’s.

DAY 7  Tory Burch, Anna Sui and the Wonder Girls!

10:04 a.m.  Just made it under the rope in time to witness Tory Burch’s presentation at The Salon in the tents at Bryant Park which officially ended at 10 o’clock.  The space is small and Tory has truckloads of tony friends.  So the venue was jammed.  TB had a colorful rich hippy look going on.  Didn’t expect that.  Past presentations have had a polished uptown look. But this was the big sweaters, colorful pants and sparkly leggings. (http://blog.toryburch.com/?cat=15)

Look mom, no sleeves. Kind of like what your bohemian, wild older sister might wear on the Upper East Side.  Fun.  And at TB, the Wonder Girls made their first appearance of the day.  I am told they are a South Korean pop group.  Okay, sorry, now I have to hear their music. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFjP-OJ7Bh4] Wow.  Can’t beat that!  For some reason, I’m becoming obsessed with all things Korean, although, the cuisine doesn’t send me.

After a cold Starbucks Frapacino in a bottle in the Mercedes lounge, which has big white couches, I found Laura Linny hanging in the W lounge before the Kors show. She had on a light blue suit.  And they wanted to bring her out front, but she stayed as long as she could so as not to deal with the mobs of press up in her face.  The day before, Lee Radziwill accidentally walked into the W lounge backstage, which has futuristic airline-mod style this year.  She thought it was the door to a show, walked in.  And everyone inside was floored.  Living legend. Really, so unique and gorgeous and apparently, in Paris, she’ll just lounge around her apartment in leather pants and a little sweater. . WHAT STYLE!

Meanwhile, every season Michael Kors, comes up with a fun, tony theme.  One year it might be Italian Riviera, and he brings that kind of leggy glamour to the runway, the prints, the jewelry, the hairstyles, the attitude, another year, its the stars of the 70s look, and he’ll throw in cool jeans.   And he always has a big sign up backstage that gives the models directions to act the part, smile big, give the distant, haughty look…whatever.  I got to the front of the house late as they were just giving away my seat, but pretty blonde Kors flunky gave me a terrific option on the end of a row.  But I was sitting on my run of show list that usually tells you what the look of that show is.  Well, Kors had chamoi shirts, and did the pancho thing up and down.  And, all day long, I was guessing what the theme was.  To me, he was giving a kind of Colorado collegiate look, although, at the end, they played “You’re a native New Yorker.”  And, now, for the reveal:  Just found the list on my desk.  Okay, I wasn’t far afield.  He was doing American Sportswear wardrobe. . urban casual versus country lux.  The front row included Donald Trump and Melania, Michael Douglas, and Molly Sims.  And at the end, when they passed me, I was talking to Melania, and Mr. Trump, who has become friendly with me over the years, claimed that he only sleeps three hours a night.  I felt so much better, because I’d really thought that the late nights might be killing me.

Nanette LePore was the next show, next door.  Backstage, before the show, she mentioned that she and Bob, her husband, had been inspired by Pierro di Cosimo’s Portrait of Simonetta Vespucci, 1480 [http://janineflynn.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/piero_di_cosimo_simonetta.jpg]  Well, they win for most inspiring inspiration.  She did the hair up, and used velvets and renaissance prints.   And she still hit the pancho thing, and the really great sparkly numbers, and the sheer. But it was the renaissance styling inspiration that carried the show.  I was seated directly behind Abigail Breslin and Kelly Osbourne.  And AB’s mom was next to me, and I could just feel her cringing and Kelly told Abbie her antics from the night before. KO has fab spirit.

The next show had to be way over to the West side at Milk Studio.  Love that I was mentioned for my previous visit to Milk (http://myitthings.com/FashionWeek/Post/fashion/It-Thing/A-Supermodel-and-the-70s-at-Erin-Fetherston/) We not only had Neuro water on our seats at Jeremy Scott he had had a big bag folded up on every seat.  It was cloth with beautiful leather straps and printed images on it of little shinny plates with Scotts name on them.

Smart carry on.  And the generosity in this down economy–when the gift bag is practically an endangered species.  Cory Kennedy, also in the front row, told me she had never quite made it to bed the night before.  Her eyes did appear a bit rouge.  She was with Peaches Geldoff.  Kelly Cutrone, of Kell on Earth TV-show fame reps Scott, and there were cameras everywhere.  The show opened with a few models in body suits that had life-sized, black leather silhouettes of people attached to them at the belt. So the models were face to face with a second shadow person.  Even Fern looked impressed with this inventive madness.  One sweater had stripes that were actually just an enlarged bar code.  Some leather pants had big faux gems all over them, including on the rear.  One wondered how one could even sit comfortably, as the fake stones were so big.  And Scott did great velvet getups with shimmering crosses dangling all over them.  Yes, each moment was a clever trick, but the show was both consistent and fun.

Meanwhile, back at the tents, 3.1 Phillip Lim hit all the trends, but did it swelligantly.  Earlier in the day I heard Mr. Mickey of Paper fame telling a Japanese reporter that tan was in.  And she said, “But wasn’t that last year, too?”  Touché.  Lim did cool pancho skirts, and pancho shorts, and one shoulder pancho tops.  But he also did dreamy gray sweater dresses.

And there were sequins and brightly colored, big fur.  He hit all the notes, but he did it with fun and flair. He he told me later he was trying to do disco punk. But the man can’t seem to turn off the effortless glam. Damn.

Back downtown, oy, at the Chelsea Art Museum for Marchesa. Years ago, Marchesa had a runway show.  I recall The Duchess of York, and Mohamed Al-Fayed, Anna Wintour squeezed into the audience, cheek to cheek.  And there were problems with the sweep of the dresses, and there were stairs involved in the show.  And it was nearly impossible for some really important models, like Stella Tennant to walk. They were tripping all over the place.  Shortly thereafter, Marquesa began to do a presentation instead.

Now the models stand on boxes for an hour, while fashionistas walk through and rave about the orgasmic, museum quality creations of Georgina Chapman and her business parter, Karen Craig.  The dresses were created of the most ethereal tulle in dreamy colors, like confections.  They are fantasy gowns are out of a fairy tale you wished had been read to you as a child.

Nichole Richie came by in a little white number that looked oddly like a wedding dress, Estelle was enchanted, Beth Ostrosky, Howard’s wife told Harvey to tell Howard she wanted two.  Everyone was drooling.  The jewelry was a nod to American Arts and Crafts.  Karen Erikson, Mandy’s mom, who owns the showroom which provides Erikson Beamon jewelry, collaborated with Sui to create hippy-fabulous necklaces and more.

The show opened with a stylized Asian landscape. And Sui also hit a lot of fun, au current notes:  metalic Spray jacquard Anorak, a print metallic silk jacquard blouse, cocoa raccon fur collar.  Not so certain about the granny dresses that finished the show. Did I mention the Wonder Girls were in the front row! Oh, Lord, can we have another song.  They’ve toured with the Jonas brothers, by the way…

Strange how big fur is this season.  What happened to the whole green thing?  Brian Reyes showed fur mitts.  Really?  And June Ambrose, who has styled Rhianna, wore a big fur hat in the front row.  Reyes told me after the show he had been inspired by trees.  But that didn’t help make this quiet, beautifully-made collection grow on me.

After the fact I was told that his big beautiful backdrop got stuck in customs.  That likely sucked some of the life out of the show.  Bummer.  Just wonder if I’ll see the Wonder Girls again tomorrow?  Fingers so crossed.

Nobody Lyric:
Nan dareun sarameun sirheo niga animyeon sirheo
How can I be with another, I don’t want any other
Song writers Park, Jin Young; Rhee, Woo Seok

Day Six: Neuro Gasm, Smart Car, and Happy Tears

Day Six:  Okay, I got a note from the pr guru Deborah Hughes yesterday that I had missed a letter or two in her name.  Oops.  She does tons of shows, and the most wonderful ACRIA benefit in the summer. And she works closely with Donna Karan on store fetes.  And she is a dear friend.  So Mea Culpa.  It is true, she sat me in the third or forth row at Georges Chakra. But to be fair, I am signed up for so many shows, and, at times, I realize at the last minute, one may be uptown and, the next, on Wallstreet five minutes later, so I am known to miss a show. So my seat wasn’t completely out of line (although I’ve been getting A LOT of great seats this year).  In any case, everything I have seen of Georges Chakra’s work on the red carpet has been terribly glam, which is why I went to check out the show.  And many dresses were terrific, I’m recalling some very big scoop dresses. Didn’t love everything, but then again, I don’t have time to mention everything.  XXOOs to Hughes.  Hope she can forgive.  Her question was, What is HotelFashionland?

Well, this is it baby.  Personally, I’m lovin’ the look.  And there are some great characters involved. Shout out to Duane, Caroline, and genius Jake Torem in Tinsel Town.  Oh, and I also neglected to mention that hottie, Natalie Press, of Fifty Dead Men Walking Fame, yesterday, who showed up at Chris Benz, which, by the way, was sponsored by Neuro beverages, that are meant to help with focus and weight loss and  . .. and sleep!  Nuero is also sponsoring Elton John’s AIDS foundation Oscar fete, and at C. Benz, they INVITED ME TO THEIR TABLE! YEEHAH!  I’ve actually tasted the stuff at the Elise Overland show, the day before that, and everyone in the front row loved.  Also loved Lauren Santa Domingo’s Smart Car parked out front.

Morning six began with Badgley Mischka.  The boys, who are tall and handsome and uniquely successful, I think they have a horse farm in Kentucky, and they were telling me about their place in Palm Beach before the show, were launching a lesser line. They called it, simply,  Mark and James, and were presenting right after their quick first show of the usual Badgley Mishka line.

The first show had the full length, full on ballgowns, with lots of sparkle and umph.  The second show, and again, I wanted to love it, had some great daytime looks, but, then again, some shorter sparkling numbers, some a lot of fringe, that was giving me Show Girls and Russian hooker.  That’s likely why they are so successful, because show girls and Russian hookers still buying dresses.  But here I am, again, sounding mean about the NICEST GUYS on the planet.   Oh, and Christina Hendricks from Madmen, who loves their work—neither a show girl nor a Russian hooker—brought her mom, who was seated behind her.  Mom looks just like Christina, but she’s tiny. Same red hair, but cut short.

Merle Ginsberg, from Launch My Line was also in the house. I had to tell her she was robbed (when she lost).  She really does plan to launch her own line.  Merle’s line was the prettiest.  And if they didn’t like the idea of clothes that could convert from short to long, and with removable pockets and such, they should have told her long before the end of the show.  STRANGE.

Rodarte showed down at Eyebeam Atelier on 21st Street downtown.  And it didn’t stick, but there was a blizzard going on today.  Before the show, I was talking to Jason Schwartzman about sleep and he freaked out, because he knew ahead of time the show was about sleepwalking.  The runway opened with a cross between a white volcanoe and a birthday cake (on a small scale). And it was covered with tall white candles. And when the photogs saw the candles in the dark, they started singing happy birthday.  They can take the art and glam out of most sophisticated moment.

After the show Kate Mulleavy, one of the two sisters who design the line, told me it was based on boarder towns and sleepwalking.  And the dresses looked like dreamy fantasies, ghosts walking, floating on tall heels with little green lights shinning, right there in the heels.  Her mom’s family is Mexican. To be fair, I was irked because they didn’t let my buddy, Caroline Torem-Craig, who founded Hotelfashionland, come shoot her beautiful, arty, fab pictures during the show.  So while everyone I talked to, loved, loved, loved the clothes, I was thinking of Caroline, and the fact that the clothes looked like you could wear them once and they would fall apart, and that only waifs could even dream of wearing these little sewn together bits of flounces.  There were broadly knitted sweater tops, with little streams of fabrics wrapped around, and floating trains sailing off behind the dresses.  The whole color scheme was muted and soft, like, as Kate mentioned, like a dripping candle. Yes, beautiful in the extreme. But sooooo rarified.

What everyone loves is that you go to a lot of other shows and there is no real art, the merch is a commodity, and then at Marc Jacobs, and Rodarte, and, of course, the late Alexander McQueen, there are concepts and beauty and not just thundering music to rock your chest and to try to keep you from thinking.  That said, while Morticia Addams would look terrific Rodarte, the clothes are very not cheap, and one would have to be living a rarified lifestyle indeed before they would make sense for anything but photo shoots—or to inspire a fragrance one day that everywoman could own. That said, Rodarte was terribly ethereal and dreamy.  I hope Caroline can come photograph again next year.HOTEL

Back to the tents for Max Azria.  Max, with his wife, Luba, designs Herve Leger, and BCBG, and this eponymous line.  Anna Lynn McCord, who had been seen rocking a backless Jill Stuart dress the day before, and several other looks, was in a tight tan skirt and sandy sweater at Max.  And Max was smoochin’ all the gals in front of a step and repeat backstage, including Estelle, who Max said looked great in the outfit that they had sent her. But it was a definite miss.  I mean, what’s he going to say, “Oh, my God, you look horrible, someone on my team should be fired?

Anna Lynn looked sensational in sand.  As Max had told me the day before, tan is the new black.  He started the show with sand, and there was a lot of sandy tan in shows come.  A poof on one shoulder is another Kooky trend I’m seeing.  Donna Karan did one number with a huge poof on one shoulder yesterday.  Sheer shirts or just sheer sleeves are omnipresent.  The pancho thing is big.  And sometimes the pancho can just be on one shoulder. Oh, and there is a leather thing happening, very Planet of the Apes, tan leather.  And furs aren’t just big they’re massive, see Dennis Basso, below.  Max had one whole section of clothes in his show that looked like someone had tried a look for Herve Leger, with wide bandages, they didn’t make it into that show, and, as plan B, they were put Max A.  That said, the man is a business genius to keep three lines going at once.

Dennis Basso, too is a lovely gent.  He has a deep booming voice as if he were knocked in the throat at some point by a boxer.  Alfrie Woodard was seated next to, I believe, Denzel and Samuel L. Jackson’s wives.  Some of Dennis’s furs were massive. Personally, I’m no fur lover. But the fashion kids do love their fur.  And Dennis had huge purses that resembled whole animals, the way the drooped down on their chains.  Did I mention that Lee Radziwill was in the front row next to Andre Leon Talley (in a big fur, but of course!).   He was sweet the way he walked out her at the end of the show.  Anna charged out.  Wow can she move.  But that isn’t Lee’s style.  And Andre tried to wrap himself around her to protect her from the crowds, but she turned and grabbed his arm and he simply escorted her. She likely had work done, but the very, very best work.

Diesel Black Gold showed at an empty building that runs between 41st and 42nd streets, right near the tents.  But the snow was comin’ down crazy at that point.  And at 5 pm when the show was supposed to start, there was this huge courtyard full of fashion editors, waiting in the sleety, raining snow.  So not good.  There was as plastic tent where they were checking people in.  And just when everyone thought it couldn’t get worse, all the wet snow just slid off the tent and onto fashion editor heads. Bam. Inside, Renzo Rosso, who founded the line, was seated in the front row. He is a real guy’s guy.  I visited him in Bassano di Grappa in the hills outside of Venice once.  I had to get up really early and go running with him in the hills. That was fun, but then his team wanted to know if I wanted to go do the sauna thing with them.  Wasn’t feelin’ it.  And Renzo had just bought the Palladian Villa that he was restoring.  We went to see that and it still had black plastic, that looked like trash bags, covering the windows.  Loved that look.

The Diesel line looked like macho denim.  Diesel always has cool stuff at the stores, but they lost me with the netting that covered the dresses.  Kind of dug the James Nares-like swirls on some of the women’s clothes.  Of course, the fashion calendar is so dense that there are always tons of shows one wants to see that take place at the same time. Christian Cota showed at the same time as Diesel.  And I know his work is arty and wonderful, but couldn’t make it. Love threeASFOUR usually, but they showed at 7 pm, at the same time as G-Star, who always do a really inventive fun presentation, and Narciso Rodriguez, another fashionista darling, was showing at 8.

Instead, I took the night off to accept an invite from Donna Karan to see Demi Moore’s new movie with Rip Torn, Happy Tears at her Cinema Society screening at MoMa, the Museum of Modern art.  Demi had on the first look from Donna’s show the day before. She looked better than the model who wore it.  Ashton had on a big Russian-style fur hat (fur trend).

This is one kooky movie.  And I wanted to walk out through a lot of it, but then at the end, they all moved into this really great modernist house, and I suddenly loved that part. Usually, it is the arty fantasy parts of a film (Lovely Bones), where the director looses me.  But in Happy Tears, the arty drug-induced fantasy scenes were great.  Demi remembered me from the day before, backstage with Donna, and was really open and generous and lovely.  The dinner after, was at Mr. Chow.  Oh, Lord, I just flipped the page of my fashion calendar.  I have Tory Burch at 9 a.m.   And it is now 3:08 a.m.  Yikes!  Maybe I’ll sleepwalk there with candles. Time for a delish Neuro Gasm . . .

Day 5:  Are We Alive; Marc in a box.

The 9 a.m. call time for Zac Posen’s show made me so nervous, I couldn’t get to bed until like 3:30 a.m.  Later in the day, on Tues, supermodel Coco Rocha, mentioned that she had to be there at the Altman Building where the show took place at, like, 6:00 a.m.   Ouch. But she had had her head on the pillow by 11:00 p.m.

Had breakfast at a dive around the corner from Zac’s show with a well known photog who claimed that Anna Wintour hates being in Milan, so, in her honor, they have all the shows in a very few days there.  Imagine the power… Well, AW showed up on time for Zac.  But some fashionistas didn’t, and my row wasn’t quite so full when the show kicked off.  Zac mentioned afterwards that with this show, he wanted to display the process of constructing the dresses.  Apparently, that was why a few of them appeared unfinished.  There were several knock out pieces.  Depending upon your stand about fur, the slightly deconstructed furs in bright colors, pelts showing, were Furtastic.  Posen also hit the dress over sheer shirt trend and the side panel thing. Some getups and coats looked exactingly finished.  Others appeared to be sewn together remnants.  What I missed from the high production value shows that Zac used to do at the tents, was the cohesiveness.  But the short red velvet dresses—trend alert—were smashing. The kid is serious talent.  Go Z.  Carolina Herrera displayed her usual big dress glamour with lots of major ruffles draggin’ behind.  And a truckload of socials showed as usual, but this unsocial only knows about the clothes through pics.  Zipped home, skipped the show, and didn’t wake again until Jill Stuart at noon.  Personally, I find Stuart lovely. I hear she’s a huge deal in Japan.  And she’s a second-generation designer.  Her mom had a big company in the sixties.  But I think it is time for her to maybe light the fire under the young ones in her office to perk up her runway look.  The line appeared clunky and not fun.  The last model’s boots were so awkward, it appeared as if she might be crippled.  And I overheard a major fashionista sitting near me quip, “Hellen Keller must have styled this one,” when patterns that should never have gone together did. That said, Anna Lynn McCord was wearing a backless brightly-sequined Jill in the front row and nearly caused a fashionista traffic jam before the show.  She looked so hot, the photogs and crews mobbed her.

On Greenwich street in the far West village, Donna Karan’s 25th anniversary collection also experienced pre-show gridlock when Demi Moore, in purple, Brook Shields, in pink sidled up to a newly single Susan Sarandon in the front row.  Donna really came through for the big event, with big ruffles, big coats, and pretty fur flourishes on the runway.  She, too, did the partial sheer thing.  The clothes were just spectacular enough for the big event, but still subdued and tasteful.  Demi, who flew in from Paris, Brooke, and Susan said they LOVED, backstage. Am I getting easy?

Chris Benz, too, wowed moi.  He comes from Bainbridge Island, near Seattle, and grew up in the coffee shop, thrift store set of the grunge-hip northwest.  His bright 1960s fluorescent furs, cool plaid jackets and shorts rock. His models are young. His customers are mod, and glam, groovylishous.  It seems as if his muse had thrifted in Palm Springs, but had a fabulous tailor. Benz is my pick for young one to watch… And then there was Marc Jacobs.  Well, here is the show…

I’ll only add that the behemoth stage set-like venue was built in the center of the giant 26th Street Armory on Lex.  And the walls and bench seating were then covered in unopened, flat, pristine cardboard boxes.  It had an arty, not cheap feel.  But it gave a hint of that episode on Get Smart, when the budget ran out at Control, and everyone had to sit on boxes.  The models were hiding behind paper that covered a wooden frame structure.  They remained absolutely still until they began walking, pinpointed by spotlights, weaving through the bench seating.  In years past, the Jacobs show has been plagued by press-mobbed celebs. Last year Gaga and Madonna showed up late, screwing up Marc’s timing. So Jacobs decided to take it in a very different direction this season.  This time around, it was all about the exquisite clothes. Hotel Fashion Moment sat in the balcony, a sauna skybox, so I could barely make out details, but, as the smoky rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow played endlessly, many dresses and coats shimmered on the runway as if the good witch herself had added the magic sparkle dust. Each coat, each pencil thin ballgown that billowed out on the floor, each purse, was classic Marc.  The editors, no longer in the shadow of Beyonce and Wynona Ryder, appeared blissful as they cheered, clapped, and then raced backstage to smooch one of fashion’s last livin’ darlin’s. To her credit, Anna Wintour took the gold in that fierce competition.

Day 4:  Erin Featherstone Hearts Birds and Chocolate

Happy Valentine’s day.  My wife took my kids skiing this weekend.  So the only Valentine I got was chocolates and a rose waiting for me at Erin Fetherstone at the end of the day.  Some Japanese fashion Bessie collected a big bunch of the pink roses after the show from all the front row benches.  So smart.

Kids are out of school this week, so a lot of the editors are screwed and have to bring their children to the shows.  Sasha Charnin Morrison, step daughter of famed Vogue sittings editor Jade Charnin, brought her little twin boys.  They fought over the one extra seat. And they were so cute taking pictures of the models at Luca Luca until one of their camera’s broke and then they were fighting about that.  And Luka Orlandi and his wife Oluchi, the supermodel, had their attractive little one with them in the front row.  I guess Luca doesn’t design the show anymore.  It was kind of a shock to see him sitting there with the row of fading supermodels, Carol Alt, Kelly Bensimon, and Alison Brie, from Madmen.

The show was sweet, it looked like clothes from a really tony Euro boutique.  We’re seeing a lot of the sheer material holding up a regular cocktail dress.  And little slices out of the dresses, and especially, a cleanly cut axe chop out under one arm. That is a theme that has repeated over and over in all the shows, and dresses with sweater top attached to sparkling bottom. Luca didn’t do big panchos, and that droopy silhouette, but we saw it everywhere else. Derek Blasberg was wearing one at Luca and someone complimented him on it, and he kind of dissed them, “Really, I’m not so sure about it.” I rode down to Catherine Malandrino with Freddie Leiba, who styles Janet Jackson and Liz Hurley, and he wasn’t so sure that Luca Luca really needs to do a show. But if he’d seen the last ten years of Luca Luca, as I have, he’d know that this was one of the best, most tasteful ones ever.

Malendrino was a presentation at the Chelsea Art Museum.  And the models and buns towering on top of their heads.  The room was crowded like a bus station in India, and the flow didn’t work so well.  But the clothes looked attractive and inventive as always.  CM has a real eye for that Chic French hippy-cool.  Seen a lot of fur this season, Luca and Catherine did that in a serious way. And by the way, Catherine and her husband are two of the very nicest people. The Calvin Klein men’s collection drew some serious cool dudes, Ryan Phillipe and Kellan Lutz, from Twighlt and Calvin Klein underwear fame for two. Kellan said his galpal, has seen his skivvies ad and dug it.  And, after the show, Ryan said he’d consider doing a Calvin add. Uh, hunk. The clothes were sensexsational.  Kellan had on a shiny tie and thin lapelled suit from the collection, but some on the runway had sheer over fabric to give it a shine and there were lapels that had a plastic-esque hipness-factor. Yum.

Herve Leger, too, knocked it out of the park.  One would think that Max Azria continuing the line of a dead designer who mainly did dresses that looked as if they were sewn together out of elastic bandages would suck in a spectacular manner. But strangely enough, Max’s best work derives within the constraints of trying to keep the legend alive. They are super inventive, making the bandages black, or cutting them into triangle shapes, and then sewing them all together.  Or using eyelets on the sides of the dresses, or weaving them together with lacing, the way a shoe ties.  The results were exceedingly happening.  And he, too, hit all the side chop notes, and dark panel thoughts, that have been making the rounds this season.

And the gals in the front row, Alison Brie, Melissa George, Maggie Rizer, Maggie Q, all love the fact that these dresses don’t really require anything under them at all.  They are basically like wearing a girdle (or so I am told).   Brava Azria!  For a very straight guy, he sure can work a skirt. Y-3 took places at the Amory on Park Avenue (uptown).  I chatted with Ciara in the green room, which was actually shrouded in black curtains.  She’d been singing the night before, and her Y-3 thang she was wearing, looked a bit Herve-esque. Generally, I have never been wild about the Y-3 line. But I must say, the use of laser walls on the side of the runway, with just a touch of smoke to make them undulate gave the huge armory space a look. And there was something spot on about the baggy, easy, dark hipster moment Yamamoto captured.  Haiti, a small beautiful happy but poor country has just been pulverized. And Alexander McQueen hung himself.  It just isn’t OKAY to sit and watch adorable sparkly froufrou Euro-pretty little nothings float down the runway.  But Yoji was giving us baggy, economical clothes that would be appropriately somber, but cool even if you were to go pitch in in some disaster.

Oh, and the sneakers were out of this world silver, day glo. They had a real custom feel. And there were platforms and boots.  But one flock of models literally sprinted down the runway in them. And then Yoji himself did a little kick boxing with a couple of models, and it got kooky, and he did lose me for a bit, but ¾ of the show was really spot on.  I mean really, who is buying a big expensive fur just now, and giant sequined ballgown, unless they’re a total A-holes.   Yoji did the pancho thing in a big way, and there was that silhouette where the clothes pancho’d down on both sides.  But he did it in a non-precious way, for everyman and with sneakers.  I only wish the sneaks had had more Velcro (like Sprouce), rather than being lace ups. And of course there were big cut outs under the arms like everybody else. What up with dat!

At the end of the day, I raced down to Milk Studio in time to find the pink rose and a tiny box of Jacques Torres chocolates on my seat. Erin’s show was all about Erin. The hair was cut very much like Erin’s, with the bangs in the front (no kidding, every model).  And the models wore clothes that look a lot like what Erin wears.  Flowing easy shirts and dresses, light silky clothes that seemed to float. And she did bird fabrics and scarves that reminded me not just a little bit, but an awful, awful lot of my brother, the artist, Hunt Slonem’s work.  Ahem.  She hosted a dinner for him a couple of years ago and we gave her a book. I guess this was an, ahem…homage. Flattering, I’m sure.  Really…the dresses and scarfs with birds on them were super adorable cute. Tweet, tweet.

Day 3.  Icy Wind and the My Dick Song

I usually do get up for the 10 a.m. Lacoste show.  Years ago, they had colorful pillows on the seats (giveaways), for say, the first 8 rows. And then it was big beautiful bags in bright colors; literal gift bags As the economy soured, only the first row got bags. And this year, hedging my bet on no gift, I decided to catch an extra hour of sleep.  I do love Lacoste polo shirts and sweater, however. Did manage to attend the Editions by Georges Chakra show, at 11 a.m.  I got there, at the Tent, at about 10:52 and there were a thousand people waiting to get checked in.  If you have your seating assignment written on your invite, you can just walk right in, but I could barely find a pen to scratch mine down. Inside, Deborah Hughes, who runs the thing, gave me a third row seat. Okay, fine, but believe me, there was noooooobody recognizable in the first or second rows, except for Alex and Simon from Real Housewives of New York.  Ahem.  In the past few years on the red carpet in Hollywood, I have been hearing the words Georges Chakra a lot.   And some of the dresses were great. But what killed me were the three or four Celine-Dion-style backwards tux jackets that were really dresses. You know, buttons up on your back, big open space for shoulder blades where one expects a bust line.  Didn’t Celine Dion ruin that look for all time, forever, caput. Iceberg on the runway.  Brrr. Did I mention that last night in the Fashion for Relief in Haiti show, Agnes Deyn fell hard, twice, before removing her shoes. Bam!.

Prabal Gurung, the designer who hails from Nepal, did a presentation last season at a gallery in Chelsea. He had a very good year.  Demi is now a big fan.  So I was expecting big names at the oddly tiny venue at the tents called The Salon.  Name fashion editors, who shall go nameless, had third row seats.  And I had missed an email from Prabal’s peeps saying I needed to contact KCD about the show.  So I had no seat at all.  Oy.  I sat on a loudspeaker in the back, trying to hide behind heads so as not to be noticed by friends who were well situated.  When Barbara Bush, the younger came and sat, from my position, for a moment, I thought she was Victoria Beckham (wishful thinking).   Zoe Saldana joined a moment before the show.  She’s now stars in Avatar, but I knew her when.  When?  Well, I recall one night a few years back when she was reading the doormen at Bungalow 8 up and down in Spanish for not letting her in.  And after she left, I told them she pretty famous and that they should have opened the door. Gurung worked for Blass for a time, and the show had the theatrical big ruffles, and various other Blass elements, but exaggerated in a hip toned-down fashion.  He updated with muted jewel tones. And he added black panels to give the pieces edge.  The hair was long with wave-like bubble bouffant on top, smoothed down.  It wasn’t McQueen http://www.style.com/video/fashion-moments/fashion-moments/1896809784/spellbound/66153924001 nothing is. Well, I shouldn’t say nothing is. This clip from 1935 for Max Reinhardt’s A Midsummer Nights Dream, choreographed by Bronislava Njinska, for example, is on that level of genius:

But it’s rare, indeed.  Okay, so as Gurung finishes up, I rush for a taxi, and arrive in time square as Broadway lets out.  Oh, and there is killer, icy wind.  I had to walk to 45th and 10th to get an f-ing taxi.  And Alexander Wang does his show on 55th and the river in the iciest, cab-free zone one could imagine. It was one of those massive empty warehouse spaces.  Vanessa von Bismark’s company did a spectacular job setting it up.  The building was mostly empty and dark, and then the seating was black risers, that zigged at both ends, so it looked like a big black river of fashionistas.  And in the “preferred” standing, there were literally thousands of hip fans.  The kid has a Biblical-scale following.

Frankly, my seat was so bad, that I can’t tell you if it was great or not. Caroline T C, Fashionland founder, who had an eye view, said that she LOVED.  The hair was smooshed down and long and some models wore big dark glasses.  There was a memorable jacket with pin stripes made of big silver beads.  The dresses had skin showing in unexpected places. No sleeves.  Then, also, sleeves that are too long on purpose. And there were fabrics cut out like Mexican placemats, similar to something Chacras had showed earlier.  It was a real Marc Jacobs scale event, without the big conceptual underpinning. Just tons of cool stuff for gals to wear with thigh high boots and such. Anna Wintour came, Peter Brandt, Zoe Kravitz.  It reminded me of the attention and production values that Zac Posen used to get. When the fashionistas anoint a young one, they really give them a chance.  Shades on the runway seem to be a trend, by the way.  If you didn’t have a black car waiting after the show, however, you were screwed.  I snuck out just before Wang walked.  Nabbed a taxi, and a few minutes later, found myself discussing McQueen’s circle and their sadness with Kelly Osbourne in the front row of Elise Overland at Exit Art.   She said that the friend who introduced her to McQueen is catatonic.  Those who knew him well are irreconcilable. Tough.  Heidi Klum was also allegedly shooting the German version of Top Model in the front row. Elise had some beautiful velvet numbers, that recalled 1930s elegance, but one does get the feeling after a while that pieces from a number of these shows are practically interchangeable.

(more photo’s at Zimbio.com)  Even tougher to get a cab after Overland (I saw CTC on a corner freezing and swooped her into my cab).  I’m over the bitter wind.   I then skipped ahead to the Alice and Olivier presentation at Provocateur in the Meat Packing district.  It’s a really great- looking club at the Gansevoort Hotel.  They had a big red carpet.  Mina Suvari’s hair was frizzed and fluffed, and my crush is  officially over.  In the better light, I noticed Kelly Osbourne’s bod.  She has really lost weight. Says she’s on the diet where you avoid sugar content and carbs.  What will power.  Okay, she’s my new girl crush.  She smooched me hello at Overland.

At Alice and Olivier, the concept was to have the models stand on platforms in the midst of a party.  They were definitely the best dressed in the room.  Cute stuff.  Designer Stacie Bendet has it goin’ on. Waitresses served tiny cupcakes.  And Mickey Avalon was singing. On her way out, Kelly Bensimon told me he does the My Dick bigger song.  Love that:

My dick need no introduction
Your dick don’t even function
My dick served a whole lunch-in
Your dick, it look like a munchkin

DAY 2:

Woke up hurting.  2 hours of sleep before day 1 and 5, day 2, hit me like a sack of wet cement.  Bleat of the alarm.  Throbbing fashion-tent-blasting-Gaga-music hangover. Yigal Azrouel was my first show at 11 am.

One used to get Billy Joel’s wife, Katie Lee in the front row, his former muse.  But that blew up last summer.  Her marriage went South. Gossips linked the two, so Katie is out (of the front row).  And Malin Ackerman, who was sooooooo great in Heartbreak Kid perked up the front row. Seriously perky blonde. She was a few seats down from Hal from In Style.  Love her.

Again, I had a seat in front row, on the other side.  And when I got there, there was this young guy in black tights and a big fur in my seat.  I had someone take care of it for me, but he wasn’t budging when they asked if it was his seat. Oy.  He had a great seat at Preen later, so he wasn’t a nobody.  He got up, finally.  The show itself had a few clunkers, but also, some really beautiful clothes.  Much of the mens stuff was as good as it gets, really cool, and oddball.  Long sweaters and tweeds with lots of unexpected shapes, really stud-like and funky, not an easy combo.  Very Yigal.  The women’s clothes were more challenging.  They were more evening, sophisticated, but a little project runway, in that very four or five dresses he sent out one that added little, and might have sent him home if there were judges.  Some of the guys pants hung funny in the back, but I think some of the models didn’t have rear ends, to be fair.  He’s also great with really skinny tall thin women like Katie.  And the gal next to me, a fashion editor screamed out that she loved him when he came out at the end. Really?  Not even, I love your collection. Sounded a bit needy.  I guess people think he’s really good looking.  Some of the so-so women’s stuff had sculptural tubing squiggling around the shoulders.  A bit like Urs Fischer, but too art school for moi.

Jason Wu showed true promise, on the other hand.  And all the big gun editors turned out for this pink carpet spectacular. It was down on 11th Avenue way by the water in this huge old space, that they whittled down into a pencil thin space, so all the editors were having trouble getting by the photogs.  Lots of  vomit pink carpet.  Anna Wintour, Suzie Menkes, Hilary Alexander (both on the verge of tears at the mere mention of the world McQueen).  The real deal fashionistas.

And Kerry Washington and Amanda Peet (is she pregnant? I’m starting to think everyone is preggers) The show itself was just very light and pretty and unique, but not difficult.  Little easy hanging dresses with art designs drawn on, one was like a little white bell on the model.  Everyone loved. Each dress was it’s own thing. One had ripped up shredded strips. Another was a big wedding dress of a gown at the end.  And when the clothes came back out, it looked like a lot of gals had put on Wu’s coats.  So that was kind of great, because it just looked so real to wear this elegant, light sheer long dress and a big coat.  They looked like cool girls, not trying.  And yes, Anna did the b-line right after for the door, but people were being supportive.  It is nice to have young appreciative talent, and not emerged, disgruntled designer.  He’s really sweet and young and lucky. A great fashion M(oment) Made the mistake of running down to Preen next.  They did the holes in dresses look again.  And then big shell coats, that were nice.  But it didn’t feel wonderfully creative, more like more of the same, but less pushing the limits than last show.  Just made one realize how rare someone like McQueen was, who could just go hog wild hit it just right every time out. HUUUUUUGE, painful Lossss to the whole globe and the history of fashion. Raced back up to Christian Siriano, but, something was very, very wrong with traffic, and I missed it at 3pm.  I guess the guards know me after all these years, because I walked right into the back of the house.  Caught bits of show on tv in W lounge.  Looked very finished and elegant, which is a big right step in the right direction for CS.  After show, I hung with Mena Suvari and her fiancé, they are the cutest couple I know.  I think I have a crush on them. And she is so nice. We were talking about Virginia Beach. I guess she has relatives there, and my rents used to have a place on the beach.   We were in the Mercedes lounge, backstage and there are comfortable couches, and they are so cute and nice, I just didn’t want to leave.  And lastly, at 7 PM, Naomi Campbell and Duchess of York did a show to raise funds for Haiti.

I arrived at around 6:30 and cute little brunette ahead of me, stopping and chatting with everyone was Victoria Beckham! Backstage at Naomi’s show, I saw Karen Elson—so gorgeous.  And then  I just zipped over to Charlotte Ronson’s to say hi, and who is in the back corner getting her makeup done, but Naomi Campbell and Donna Karen.  Patti Cohen, Donna’s fab right hand woman was there, too. And the handlers fell out of their chairs when Naomi saw me standing there like a deer in headlights at the end of the row of porta potties.  She waved me to come over.  And, sadly, Naomi seemed really fragile.  And the handler next to her asked who I was, and Naomi, who was having her makup done, couldn’t see terribly well, but patted me and said, “He’s okay.  He’s okay.”  I think she thought she was patting me on my hip or something, but, hilariously, the hand was reaching out to the crotch, not the hip.  So Naomi was nudging my junk.  I mean, it was my biggest moment backstage since Kate Moss whipped off her clothes while I was standing right next to her.   She is so sweet, Naomi, and it was so sad to see her hurting.  One can assume it was the loss of her closepal McQueen.  I mean, Haiti was on her mind, but she told me she hasn’t even been to Haiti.  I, by the way, have been to Haiti twice.  And is a sensational, sensational country… I stayed in the Grand Hotel Oloffson in the Lady Antonia Frazier room.  And when I told her daughter, Natasha that, she quipped, “I hope they’d changed the sheets.”

Charlotte’s show—love her easy fashion–was a family affair.   Mom, Anne Jones was in the front row loaded up with her own jewelry that she now designs.  Samantha was spinning.  Annabelle was the first model.  And step brother Alexander Dexter Jones, who looks more and more like Mark Ronson, was sitting next to  Anne in the front row.  At other shows, the models show up in great looks, and then change into something nuts that most people might wear one evening out of every six months. Whereas at Charlottes, the models change into the clothes and look like they’re wearing their own coolest clothes.

She just has this innate knack for nailing that look, the way, Kimora Lee Simmons does hoochimama to perfection.  Charlotte does clothes that could likely make anyone look like a young rich spoiled hipster trying to dress down just a bit.  Peaches Geldoff was in the house. .. Mick Rock and his young daughter, who tried to take my seat.  Need I say more?

Day 1:  Feb 10.

BCBG  Very difficult to get up and get there by 10 am.  Had a great front row seat next to Kiki Palmer from Nickelodeon.  Okay, not Madonna, but better than being stuck in row 16, HotelNosebleedLand.  The show was actually more sophisticated and muted and dark ages chic, kind of flowing and sheer for todays runway than I expected.

I expected that everyone would just show up because Max is a big advertiser, but the clothes were kind of fine, wearable.  And I’m already seeing this silhouette with two long wide drops on both sides of the dress.  Last year it everything was lopsided, now it is lopsided on both sides.  INOVATION!  Gwen Stefani did L..A.M.B. At Milk.  She climbed up on a ladder to watch the show from a back corner right next to me. And I could barely watch the show I am so attracted to her big bleachy Marilyn hair.  And her kid was playing with little japanese dolls nearby and he was really cute.  The clothes looked generic hip to me.  She could wear them.

Anyone could wear them in the someplace hip, and wouldn’t stand out either way.  She was mobbed by press, and then I was leaving and she and Paul Wilmot walked right by me, and Paul called me over to talk to her.  And in fact she was wearing her own little leather jump suit which looked perfect on her.  But you can’t help but remembering how fabulous she looks on red carpets in everyone else’s clothes.  So, it’s like, Gee, why don’t you do spectacular, special stuff like that.  That’s what’s going through your mind.

But I suppose not everyone can make that or sell that.  And if everyone did it would be a really crazy world.  That would be the future.  For now, those kind of clothes are mainly for people like GS.  Heart Truth is this show at the tents for Women’s Heart issues. It was a real breath of fresh air that Mrs. Bush, the former president’s wife didn’t come this year.  Kim Kardashian’s handler, Jill, my friend, insisted that I come back into her dressing room to talk with her.  I love Kim.  And what with Reggie doing so fabu in the Superbowl, she’s huge right now.

But it was also Estelle’s dressing room. So when she came in, it was like, What the Fuck is jeff slonim doing in Estelle’s dressing room, and Kim was appologizing to her. But Estelle is really sweet. She was wearing McQueen leggings and really big fake eye lashes.  I had been talking to her earlier when they glued them on. And her eye lid was fluttering when they crimped it.  Quite an FM, fashion moment.

Valerie Harper was backstage, and Felicity Huffman and her husband, who told us about getting into drag for some women’s only party.  He’s not at all fem.  But we were amused.  And he was saying that at one of those award shows someone told him that none of the women wear undies under those fab gowns. And how it really turned him on and he danced all night.  Verbal viagra.  Felicity looked really great without makeup backstage. All american.  They all wear different designers onstage, but everyone wears a red dress.  Heidi klum threw a hand out to Joan Collins on the runway, and Joan lost her footing, and she was really trying to recover, but all of a sudden, under all the pancake and big hair and the big dress, she looked old for a second.  But she was a trooper and marched off the stage without falling.  Bethany Frankel of New York Housewives looked preggers, by the way.  The show took forever and I missed the GQ fete, but made it to Keith Harring Paradise garage thing by Pat Fields at Good Units on 57th street.  Had a chance to tell Patrick McDonald how much I loved his fashion on Launch My Line.

I thought D Squared really had weird taste in judging that show.  And, of course, everyone is wrecked about McQueen. Soooooooooooooo sad.  Caroline Hotel F Land T CRaig was telling me she followed all of his tweets and he told about his demise by tweeting.  And DJ AM did the same thing.  If Warhol were alive, he would make a comment about how people get so into tweeting that they just try to do more and more spectacular things for all of their followers. Sooooo hope this isn’t a trend.