Oh, my aching head.
Fashion week is upon us. And Pat, along with her long-time design partner David Dalrymple, has designed a line for the Home Shopping Network called Destination Style New York. Last night was the fashion show and it was highly entertaining and theatrical, featuring a mafia funeral tableau and some really cute dresses. You can see some of it here: DESTINATION STYLE
I am not a big one for fashion shows and I never actually go to any of them, even though I could use my job to get into some. I like the clothes but the struggle to get a seat and the hierarchies therein are really uninteresting to me. If I’m going to vie for status placement I’m going to do it at a Motorhead show, I get enough of the gay power struggle every day right at my desk. But I do like to go to Pat’s shows because they’re never traditional fashion shows, and I’m most definitely going to THE BLONDS show this year. They are so much fun and I missed them last year, when they garnered rave reviews for their over-the-top glamour.
Pat is styling Ugly Betty now, so a few of the actresses from the show showed up–some people I didn’t know bc I always forget to watch the show, Judith Light (She’s the Boss, He’s the Boss? What the hell was that sitcom? I’m too hungover to google it) and the fabulous Vanessa Williams. Vanessa is so gorgeous and has a really nice energy about her. My only issue is that she wore a goofy equestrian ensemble, which I believe may have even featured an ascot.
Pat’s personal assistant Ingrid and I stood on the balcony and watched photographers rush and swarm around anyone even remotely famous. Paparazzi events are so bizarre to me, but it’s fun to watch from a balcony view. Ingrid actually liked Vanessa’s outfit but I said that’s because she’s preppy and doesn’t really know what she’s talking about. She said just because I’m in the Encyclopedia of Metal doesn’t mean I have to always be a bitch. And then we went back to the bar for more free booze.
So it wouldn’t be a Patricia Field event if the downtown maniacs weren’t there, and we watched LADY BUNNY and SULTANA sit on each other in a struggle for the chair next to Pat. Sultana is fascinating to me, she is a rotund little Egyptian man with a gorgeous accent who works in an elegant black suit at Tiffanys all day, and then squeezes into gowns and wigs at night.
And of course Bunny is the funniest person alive and shoved her way in front of the cameras and then launched an impromptu lipsynch when an Yma Sumac song came on. She waved her arms and emoted and crawled back and forth on the runway on her hands and knees while we screamed and clapped for more. Even after all these years I can’t get enough of Bunny–her antics, her rotten jokes, her blogs, her presence–she is a true star.
But the most delighful moment for me was when Pat went to speak to her styling partner Molly Rogers, who was seated across the runway rather than next to Patricia. Pat sort of flopped onto the runway and showed us all a little panty while spilling her cocktail all over the place. I clapped in delight as she laid there unbothered and still yelling to Molly while people scrambled to wipe things up so that no waifs slipped and died on Pat’s vodka. It’s these kinds of moments in life that I cherish.
Afterwards we drank more free liquor and I did an interview for HSN pretending to be a viewer and not a PF staff member. Then we collected one of the models who was dancing on the runway by herself as the Edison Ballroom staff swept up and piled chairs in the corners.
She was like a floppy little doll, wearing a t-shirt minidress and actually much prettier in person than in this photo. We just loaded her into the car with us like so much flotsam and headed to Mr. Black, which is where all the gays go on Saturday night. It was hideous, of course, with pumping techno music and more vogueing than any rock chick should ever be forced to endure. Blargh. But it was a PF fashion night after all and they gave us a good table and we watched a skinny black dancer in drag tear up the room with a wild dance, actually hanging from the ceiling at one point. It was really fun to see and MISS TOBELL VON CARTIER introduced us and said he works on Broadway, but I can’t remember his name.
Our little model, named Ilona (Elona?), was most definitely not 21 but got into the club immediately, further confirming my belief that if you are young and gorgeous you move through New York swimmingly, just like a shiny little fish. But there are many sharks lurking, and the bouncer told Ingrid he knew the girl was more drunk than the rest of us and that Ingrid was responsible for making sure she didn’t get any drunker. Ingrid panicked and said to me, “Dude, I don’t even know her!” We like to call each other dude. So I took over, as I always do with these little girls, and pulled Ilona aside and said, “We just got chewed out by the bouncer so you can’t get any drunker.” And she waved her lithe little bird arms and danced around me on impossibly long legs and said, “I don’t drink!” We watched her dance and dance, the absolute embodiment of youthful freedom and perfection, and speculated as to whether she was on drugs or just naturally a little floppy.
ANDRE J introduced me to a friend from Austria named Deiter or Neiner or something equally Sprockets. He had ironic facial hair and was wearing all white–white pants, white shirt, white shoes. And he kept his hand casually draped over Andre’s thigh. Andre said, “Dark Lady, he’s so cute! But he’s straight.” I said, “Andre, straight boys don’t usually wear all white and drape their hands over other men’s legs.” And he said, “Really?? You are so wise in the ways of straight boys, Dark Lady…”
Sultana turned to me and said of Ilona, “Dahling, that gerl is stunning. STUNNING.” And then asked me if I was a transsexual. Le SIGH…
But I was feeling no pain and said, “Of course, Dahling.” And ordered another cocktail with my drink ticket and then got down and crawled around on the floor like Bunny, looking for drunk Ingrid’s lost phone so we could stumble the hell out of there. Ah, the glamorous life…