I must admit that before this weekend, the extent of my knowledge about the sport of polo revolved around what I’d discerned from the Ralph Lauren logo—I knew there were horses and mallets involved, but that was it. After venturing this weekend to Bridgehampton for the Opening Day of the Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge, I still know nothing about the sport, but I have learned that it’s the quintessential Hamptons society activity during the summer.

Polo in Bridgehampton is hardly about who wins or loses—I don’t think that anyone even pays attention to the announcer—it’s about which spectator has the best time—and looks the best while doing it. Held every Saturday at the Blue Star Jets Field up until August 22nd, the fabulous and famous crowd together beneath the white tents for some polo watching and some people watching. The latter was what most interested me so I was out observing the fashions.

Instead of the wide hats and Oscar de la Renta dresses I half-expected to see, women dressed much more casually, preferring sundresses and the sort. Surprisingly, most of the peacocking came from the men, who sported a wonderful array of colors. White jeans were predictably popular, along with tailored sports coats and bright accents. It was really all about the color, and it was refreshing to see so many men dress so boldly.

Guests mingled and enjoyed the beautiful weather, fueled by libations from the open bar as well as an assortment of snacks and hors d’oeuvres. I personally couldn’t get enough of the mini cupcakes passed around in the VIP tent—I must have eaten an entire passed tray throughout the two-hour-long event. Celebrity wattage came from famous faces like Star Jones, Chase Crawford (who hosted last year’s opening), Beth Ostrosky and several realty TV stars.

Even though I was a polo neophyte, I still knew about star player Nacho Figueras from the Ralph Lauren fragrance ads and so the day’s highlight may just have been spotting him in the front of the Ralph Lauren Black Watch tent. And yes, he’s just as beautiful in person as he is in those pictures.

Adrien Field

Editor-in-Chief Garcon Mag

Some expeditions are so rare and fantastic that they merit a huge celebration forty years later—as was the case for last night’s Louis Vuitton party honoring Buzz Aldrin (above left) and the first successful voyage of man onto the moon. My own expedition—across the park to the Upper West Side to the Museum of Natural History—was decidedly less buzz-worthy, but I can almost guarantee my destination was more fashionable than Neil Armstrong’s forty years ago.

Because Louis Vuitton is one of the few luxury brands surviving—and thriving—during the recession, it is to be expected that they throw over-the-top, lavish parties that compete with the bacchanals of ancient Rome—after all, who’s left to do it?

I arrived early and the atmosphere outside was unexpectedly calm—no ravenous party crashers frothing at the mouth for their free Moët. Usually I walk the step-and-repeats, but I took one look at the gigantic carpet with a cluster of video crews at the end and decided to pass. I imagined later that it would have been one small step for me, and one giant rattling of my fragile nerves.

Downstairs was still mostly empty and so the full selection of hors d’oeuvres could be enjoyed without the terrible despair that ensues after you trail one of those handsome cater waiters, only to find that their silver platter has been pillaged. Food, however, lost all value when I spotted Bill Cunningham in his signature blue windbreaker, darting rapidly around the room with his camera like a lone ranger. I positioned myself strategically and waited. Sure enough, my outfit was blessed with Mr. Cunningham’s approval in the form of a few camera flashes and I quietly checked off another achieved goal on the running list I keep in my mind.

The first celebrity I spotted was Cassie—immediately recognizable by her half-shaved head, which on one side makes her look like a glamorous goddess and on the other, like a Thai lady-boy. I assumed from the star shape etched into Cassie’s bald side that she was she was celebrating the celestial occasion in her own special way.

Shortly after, Whitney Port arrived. Almost immediately, a steady stream of strangers approached Whitney—all wanting a piece of the reality star. I was guilty of this as well—but at least I was fabulously dressed, so it was excusable in my mind. I went up to the delightful Ms. Port, who’s bubbly and beautiful in person. I asked if she ever had dreams of being an astronaut while growing up.

“You know, I think everyone somehow thinks in one way or another that being an astronaut is so whimsical and amazing, but I don’t know, after fourth grade, learning about the whole solar system and doing a report on Venus, I was fine just settling with that.”

I couldn’t bait her on what she’d do if she were locked in a space shuttle with her City

co-star, Olivia Palermo. “I’d make it work,” she said. “I’m not like that; I’m not territorial.”

The most interesting interaction that night I had observed was not Buzz with the president of Louis Vuitton North America on the grand staircase, but rather between Whitney and Jessica Szhor (Gossip Girl) when the latter had arrived. Despite having ostensibly never met before, Jessica made her way over to Whitney and introduced herself. It made me wonder whether the famous share some sort of supernatural bond with one another.

Jessica was wearing Louis Vuitton Fall 2009 shoes—the ones with the sky-high crazy heel that looks like an hourglass—and that, come to think of it, wouldn’t look out of place as moon shoes. I posed the same question to her.

“I think I was always a little bit too scared of what would happen, but I think it would be amazing to go to the moon and that’s the one place I’d want to go to that’s crazy and far away because people have made it back.”

“If you could go to the moon, who would you take with you?” I asked her. “My mamacita!” she cooed.

–Adrien Field

www.AdrienField.com

While we all know I am pretty Undercover-obsessed in general, there are 3 collections that sit high above the rest for me. One is the recent SS09, the other is the unforgettable FW06 and the other is this stunner here. “…but beautiful”, the second edition to be exact.

I collect pieces from these 3 collections whenever I have been able to over the years, and while say GuruGuru is much more in line with my usual ‘look’, these But Beautiful pieces are always the most precious, whimsical and fun to wear, compared to the other collections. And never has a name been more apt; the perfect way to describe these pieces really is, “strange… but beautiful”.

As we all know, Takahashi is a master of contradictory design, we’ve seen it so many times from him and it’s always done with such class, even if there’s also a heavy dose of irony or cheekiness involved. However, sometimes he just puts out a really dreamy collection which has all the elements of strange – but also an incomprehensible beauty that will both puzzle and entice us… but mostly the latter. This collection always really stood out for me in that way; it is just gorgeous, despite all of the oddities. The fact that all of the clothes, no matter how unusual – are completely practical and 100% functional. I have found from wearing some pieces. that the deconstruction work is mostly on the surface and does not ‘interfere’ with the garment’s form, from the wearer’s point of view.

The fabrics of this collection are one of it’s strongest attributes; it really feels like revisiting your childhood room, finding forgotten nightgowns, old doll clothes and a bunch of memories… reinvented into something you can wear as an adult. The runway styling, while it does a great job at portraying the theme – this is not one of those collections that looked magical due to the styling. These pieces, on their own, posses so much unexpected detailing that every single one is a work of art all on it’s own.

SOURCE: Undercover Spring 2005

I’m often fond of saying that after a certain while, living in New York becomes like living on a Monopoly board: same players, same places, same scene—the only thing missing is the free parking.

I found myself reminiscing about Fashion Week as I exited the cab on the south corner of Bryant Park for my first event on Wednesday evening: the Rachel by Rachel Roy launch and über-private reception in her showroom.

Arriving on the twenty-something floor and walking into the well-appointed and chic showroom space, I almost felt like I was back in the exclusive Mercedes-Benz Star Lounge where many happy memories have been formed over the past three seasons, most involving champagne and celebrities.

My first instinct was to relieve one handsome cater waiter of a cocktail and then scope out the room.  Teen Vogue editor Amy Astley was perusing the collection while Beth Ostrosky Stern mingled with other guests that included Kelly Killoren Bensimon and model-turned-DJ Sky Nellor.  In the back, Alexandra Richards was DJing, playing lots of Cut/Copy and MGMT that put me more in the mood to dance than look at clothes.

I went over to Ms. Roy to ask her about her new collection.  She was imposingly tall with dark, piercing eyes.  “The new collection is a bit younger and edgier,” she said.  “It’ll be sold exclusively in Macy’s beginning in early August.”

My next stop was the Belvedere Black Raspberry launch party downtown in a pop up space created just for the three-night long celebration.  Inside, slogans like “Maceration is perfectly natural” lined the walls.  Confused but intrigued, I had to ask one of the publicists outside what this meant.  Apparently, maceration is one of those words like “jactation” that sounds dirty but is actually quite technical—it refers to some type of esoteric fermentation process that infuses fruit with vodka.  Sexy stuff.

Within the next half hour, nearly everyone that had been at the Rachel Roy presentation was now here, drinking their macerated cocktails (there’s a two-word combination that definitely sounds dirty but isn’t).  Kelly Bensimon was the first celebrity to arrive, carrying the Jonathan Kelsey “Belvie” bag, specially designed for the occasion.  Sky Nellor also made the trip downtown.  “I’m flying out to LA to DJ the USA/Vanity Fair party,” she told me when I asked her what she was up to.

Soon after, the woman of the hour, Estelle, arrived to a flurry of flashbulbs.  “I’m working on my new album,” she said when I finally got my chance to speak to her.   Next up was Erin Lucas from The City, wearing a lace ensemble with Christian Louboutin pumps.  We talked about sudden fame and having cameras around all the time—both seemed quite natural to her.

The next evening all my events were on the same corner of the Monopoly board in SoHo.  Running an hour behind, I headed over to a giant loft for the Serge Strosberg vernissage called “Les Demoiselles de New York” featuring nightlife icons such as Kenny Kenny painted in an expressionist style on a giant tableau.

After a few minutes, I had already rolled the dice and landed at my next stop: The Randolph on Broome for the StyleCaster/Famegame party.  The tiny space filled up quickly—to the point that it was nearly impossible to move—no one was passing go, no one was collecting a cocktail at the bar.  We stayed for a drink and on the way out and once again ran into Erin Lucas as well as designer Keith Lissner (now also a cast member on Bravo’s Project Runway spinoff, The Fashion Show).

We had come full circle when we ended up once again at the Belvedere pop up space for the second night’s party with Out Magazine hosted by Patrick Duffy.  I first said hello to Kenny Kenny who I had just missed at the vernissage before hijacking the passed hors d’oeuvres plate.  Perhaps to escape the monotony of characters that had been imported from The Randolph, I soon turned to drink—a dangerous thing in the presence of an open vodka bar.  Before I knew it, I’d ended up at the unofficial after party at SubMercer, hanging out with a group of drag queens when in walked Erin Lucas.  If one of us owned the properties on which we both seemed to keep landing, the other would definitely be mortgaging Pennsylvania Railroad right about now.

At the end of the day, maybe it’s sort of comforting knowing more or less exactly what’s to be expected with each event—after all, when you take a chance, you might just end up in jail.

Adrien Field

Fashion writer Adrien Field attends the Conde Nast Traveler Hot List Party at Pranna on April 15, 2009 in New York City. Conde Nast Traveler Hot List Party - Red Carpet Pranna New York, NY United States April 15, 2009 Photo by Theo Wargo/WireImage.com To license this image (57191509), contact WireImage.com

In New York, as in The Beatles’ song, you get by with a little help from your friends. So, when you find yourself not invited to any fun events, you reach out to those around you and do everything short of begging to be their plus one.

When on Sunday at the DKNY fragrance launch my publicist/friend Meghan invited me to the GenArt party that Tuesday night, I jumped at the opportunity. The GenArt film festival had already been in full swing since last week and I had yet to attend an event. It seemed fitting the party was hosted at BLVD on the Bowery as this year’s main sponsor was a car company.

Exiting the cab, I had high hopes when I saw paparazzi circling outside like hungry vultures—furtively glancing over in a vain hope one might take my picture. When that inevitably did not occur, I at least expected a celebrity-packed room inside. While there were a few bold-face names including Moby, Jennifer Love-Hewitt and that minx of a teacher from Gossip Girl who seduces Dan Humphrey, they were hidden away as GenArt separated the famous from the ticket-buying fans.

Even though I wasn’t one of the people forking over cash to go and gawk at B-list celebrities, I still couldn’t help but feel a little unfabulous after the event. So attending a party for “Beautiful People” was exactly what I needed to get my spirits and ego back where they belong: in a deluded fairytale world of red carpets and photographers.

You know a party’s exclusive when an editor can’t get into his own magazine’s event. On Thursday night, the stretch of sidewalk around Ninth Avenue and W 16th street was packed shoulder to shoulder with hipsters and downtown nightlife fixtures all vying to get inside Hiro ballroom for Paper Magazine’s “Beautiful People” party, celebrating the latest issue.

Word on the street was the event had received over 4,000 RSVPs and so the door was tighter than Joan River’s face. Thanks to my photo in the last issue and blatant disregard for the two-block-long line, I was lucky enough to make it inside, briefly making an appearance on the step and repeat before heading downstairs to partake in the revelry and company of the evening’s beautiful people.

Guests who made it in before the fire marshals put Hiro in lockdown included Kat DeLuna, Erin Fetherston, The Blonds, and Richie Rich while among those stuck outside were recording artist Estelle, Lydia Hearst, Paper Editor-at-Large Peter Davis and countless others.

While hundreds were left simultaneously fuming and freezing outside, inside DJ Cassidy—who also appeared in the issue—warmed up the party with a set of mostly 80’s dance hits. By 9:30, everyone seemed to be feverishly awaiting cover girl Katy Perry’s performance. Camera flashes exploded as Katy came on stage in a shimmery sequin mini-dress and launched into Hot N’ Cold. She rounded out her four-song set with a spirited rendition of “I Kissed A Girl,” all the while wielding a giant inflatable tube of chapstick.

After a night like that, I would have normally cashed out and ended the week on a high note, but when I heard from a much cooler friend there was a secret “Free Beatrice” party being held to rally support for the recently shuttered haughty hipster haven, I knew I couldn’t miss it—if only for indulging my ego by getting into yet another ultra-exclusive fête.

It was with some nervous excitement that on Friday night I made my way to the chic and newly opened Cooper Square Hotel where an elevator took us up to a giant penthouse with soaring city views on all sides. The picturesque location was probably the furthest thing from the darkened and dungeon-like basement of Beatrice, but the skinny hipsters were very much the same. There was smoking, Mary-Kate Olson and guys relieving themselves off the balcony and in the showers—all proving that you can the hipsters out of The Beatrice, but you can’t take The Beatrice out of the Hipsters.

Adrien Field

www.AdrienField.com

Adrien@AdrienField.com

Let me start out by stating that I am not normally a superstitious person: I don’t throw salt over my shoulder when I spill some, I don’t think twice about walking under ladders and my only chagrin about breaking a mirror is that I have one less surface in which to admire myself.  After this week though, I must say that I absolutely believe in omens, especially when delivered in the form of clothing.

Fashion is my religion so it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that it was a pair of pants that decided the fate of my uneventful week.  It was with great excitement that I broke my recession shopping rule and purchased a pair of Cheap Monday dark navy pants with bright red polka dots (size 25 inch waist!) from Inven.tory.  In anticipation for the Topshop opening party, I knew that I needed something funky and fun as I would be competing with some major celebrity wattage for my Patrick McMullan photo credit.

When Tuesday night came around, I could no longer contain my enthusiasm for the pants and decided to give them a test run at Nylon Magazine’s 10^th Birthday Party.  Held at the Shang Restaurant in the “it” hotel of the moment, the Thompson LES, I thought they would be the perfect statement for a downtown, hipster party.

Alexandra and I had somehow confused the time, arriving half an hour before the party was scheduled to start so after making friends with the publicists at the door, we went across the street to a little French bistro to kill time.  As fifteen minutes turned into an hour, a veritable throng of bodies in furs, leather jackets and high heeled pumps had formed a line around the block.

Finally refusing to wait any longer, we pushed our way to the front and immediately entered thanks to our earlier brown nosing.  Thinking we’d walk upstairs to a nearly empty room as we still hadn’t seen anyone else coming through the door, we were shocked when the entire restaurant was packed with the who’s who of the downtown scene.

I was disappointed to see that there was only one photographer in front of a meager step and repeat.  “I brought out the polka dot pants for this?” I whispered to Alexandra incredulously as we posed for pictures.  After pushing to get a drink at the besieged bar, we moved into the back room where we ran into Richie Rich hanging on the arm of singer Kat DeLuna.

We were quickly tiring of the pushing and shoving around us so as soon as we overheard that there was a VIP gifting suite on the 7^th floor, we ditched the frenetic main room and made our way to the promise land (so we thought).  It turned out that the joke was on us as the alcohol had run dry upstairs and the most ‘famous’ person was a castmate from The Real World: Brooklyn.

Slightly befuddled, we made our way back downstairs where things had started improving.  The crowd had thinned out but the ratio of celebrities to commoners had increased.  I ran into my friend, America’s Next Top Model Winner Jaslene Gonzalez, who was hanging out with club impresario Matt Levine.

In the other room was a dour-looking Taylor Momson, party hopping from the private Topshop dinner at Balthazar.  Inexplicably, Alexis Bledel (Gilmore Girls) was hanging out and looking rather out of place among the slightly grungy hipster set.  Definitely non-hipster, though, was Lydia Hearst, back from her charity work in Africa and wearing a custom silver corset by The Blondes—the same one Britney wore in her Circus album.

There was something slightly unfulfilling about the night and lack of press so Alexandra and I were out of commission for the next evening, vowing to come back strong for the Topshop party on Thursday.

When Thursday arrived, I once again donned the polka dot pants, determined to get them the press they deserved.  Our intel had told us that the Topshop party was in the store at 7PM.  I thought this was rather strange as the store had opened for business that day and it seemed unlikely that the place would be cleared and cleaned up for such an early party.

My suspicions were confirmed when the line snaking outside the store was filled with shoppers instead of socials.  After some urgent texting, we discovered that the party was actually at 9PM at The Box.  Already dressed to impress, we decided we’d do a “filler” event before Topshop to kill time and get a buzz rolling.  This was to be our downfall.

We bounced around from no-list to no-list event, the worst of which was the Marc Ecko store ‘party’ where a massive man straight out of a Suge Knight video was actually walking around with a pimp cane and hat.  The last time I felt that out of place was on 2^nd grade picture day when all the boys and girls were in their Sunday best and my mother had irreverently put me in a LA Laker’s jersey because she didn’t want to buy the photos anyway.

After forty miserable minutes, we left to attend the Complex Magazine party at Anchor Bar celebrating the Kanye West cover.  Once again, we had arrived early and were told to wait, something for which I have no patience.  When fifteen minutes passed and we were still on the wrong side of the velvet rope, I had had enough.  The last straw was when the flack outside told me they weren’t letting anyone inside as he opened the rope for a group of five to come inside.

I had such a bad taste in my mouth from the night that I refused to prolong my pain by going over to The Box.  Such was my week.  If you disapprove of the dearth of excitement, don’t blame me—blame the pants.

Adrien Field

Adrien@AdrienField.com

Sometimes seemingly small incidents occur that really rattle your foundations and make you reevaluate your beliefs. My week began with some drama as I was embroiled in a bit of an internet mini-scandal involving a “rival vapid fauxcialite.”

I attempted to put it behind me for Monday night’s Ballet Hispanico Benefit at the Soho House. As flamboyant as I may be, I am not actually a fan of the ballet—though to be fair, nor am I a detractor. I have nothing against men in tights prancing around, it’s just that why pay to see others do that when I do it in the street on a nearly daily basis? So it wasn’t necessarily for the dancers that I paid $75 (tax-deductible) to attend the charity event.

My logic was that I would probably spend just about that much on a regular night out of drinking and cabs, so why not donate it to charity while enjoying a fabulous setting? There was an open bar that quickly ran dry of champagne but I felt entitled to every last drop of alcohol so I had begun drinking rum into the second hour, determined to get my money’s worth.

Zac Posen had donated the dresses worn by the exotic (non-Hispanico) dancers but the man himself was sadly a no-show—I maintain a glimmer of hope that we will one day meet and live happily-ever-after.

Usually after a night like that, I would have had my fill of chi-chi, pretentious society events, but I came crawling back the next evening to the Hudson Hotel for the A Private Club party. A Private Club is like A Small World—but even smaller. It’s the Skull and Crossbones Society of social networks: slightly mysterious, laughably exclusive and entirely contempt-worthy.

Everyone more or less knew one another and my new internet enemy Kristian Laliberté was there pretending I didn’t exist, which was quite fine by me. While the environs where chic and the crowd was comprised of the self-coronated social royalty including Jules Kirby, Luigi Tadini and others, the atmosphere couldn’t have been any stuffier. I felt like Rose in The Titanic when she has an epiphany during a lavish dinner in First Class that her life sucks and she tries to throw herself off the boat.

Instead of hurling myself off the balcony of the Hudson, I instead trekked downtown to the Eldridge for the Urban Zen charity event hosted by Justin Parks. I don’t know what Urban Zen does, but I did know that there was going to be an open champagne bar so that was enough for me. As I looked around and saw a frumpy middle aged woman brushing her hair at one of the banquets, clearly unaware of just where she was, (if you’ll allow for a little Carrie Bradshaw-esque self-introspection) I couldn’t help but wonder what the significance of being a part of the “social crowd” was. Does it really matter at the end of the day that you can get into exclusive places and are photographed doing it? I was beginning to feel as empty and vapid as a character on The Hills.

On the brink of an existential crisis, I forced myself to stay in and skip the GenArt party on Wednesday in favor of an Ugly Betty marathon. But don’t you worry you social-enthusiasts, I was back out in full force on Thursday!

My first stop was the Esquire Big Black Book launch at the B&B Italia store in SoHo. The BBB has heretofore been an annual issue of classic style, but this marked the first seasonal issue for Spring. The party turned out to be the best all week with champagne, hors d’oeuvres and very attractive men.

Even as I was decked out in Armani and fur, I still felt out-fashioned by many of the male guests–Esquire editors no doubt–in their classic, immaculately tailored-suits. I tried to make eyes in hopes of finding either a job or employment (chew on that for a moment) but apparently fashion editors are too much into themselves to pay attention to anyone else. Go figure.

Once the party had run its course, I walked a few blocks downtown in the rain to the Timberland store for the Nature of a City photo exhibit. Let me address the most important issue first: I have never been to an event with better or more copious food. Catered by Dean and Deluca, you can bet that I got my dinner’s worth of hors d’oeuvres, literally standing at the cheese table alternating between bread sticks and the passed plates that included everything from mac & cheese puffs to fried shrimp and mini cheesecakes. It was like a forty course meal.

The last stop of the night was Above Allen at the Thompson LES Hotel for the Prince Peter party celebrating both his birthday and his T-shirt collection. It’s lucky that we had indulged our gluttony at Timberland because by the time we arrived at the Thompson, the last bottle of champagne was being swilled by a manifestly manner-less guest.

Guests, who may or may not have all been there for Prince Peter, included Talia Eisenberg of the downtown Heist Gallery, nightlife fixture Malik So Chic and a few fresh-faced male models.

I forced myself to go home early as I had an 8AM flight to Austin, Texas the next morning to interview Carson Kressley. The sojourn couldn’t have come at a better time as I was in desperate need of some perspective and my night of bar-hopping in Austin where the handsome southern men exhibited none of the self-conscious bitchyness of their distant (in nature and difference) Manhattan social counterparts was just what I needed to bring me back down to earth.

As much as I would have like to stay in the land of people where flip-flops are considered acceptable wear in fifty-degree weather, I know where I belong and won’t relinquish my title as “chuckle-worthy fauxcialite”—I’ve worked hard for that moniker.

Adrien Field

Once again, my week began early as Alexandra coaxed me out of my family visit in the boondocks to come back to the city on Sunday under the pretext of finding a suitor. Alexandra’s friend “Chicago” was performing at the Ritz. “It’ll be fun!” she said in her reassuring, sweet voice. “It’ll be good for you go to out and meet new people.” Bah humbug, she hit me at my Achilles Heel and so I agreed. I tried to convince a few more of my friends to come out with us but they lost interest as soon as a specified that I meant “The Ritz”—as in the gay club, not the hotel.

I had never been to The Ritz but I heard that Madonna and Jesus had stopped by during the previous week to dance. “How bad can it be?” I thought. Well, I was in for a surprise. It goes without saying that there was no open bar and I refused to pay for drinks so I sat on the banquette and watched the performances—clearly not meant to be done in a sober state. The show ended when the fat lady sang, literally. Said fat lady stripped off her dress and belted “Don’t Stop Believing” to an audience that had mostly paired off for the night. It seemed to me that the crowd had stopped believing in the performances somewhere after the man singing an opera ballad threw off his trench coat to reveal a pale body suit and ran around the room screaming, “I’ve got no privates.”

Because we refused to end the night on that note, we made our way to the Greenhouse for Vandam Sundays, the weekly blowout gay party hosted by Kenny Kenny that’s reminiscent of an acid-trip. Besides the usual drag suspects in eye-popping makeup, there was also a girl on five-foot stilts swinging her purse around as she stomped to the music. Mary-Kate Olson was inexplicably downstairs dancing but had left before we could catch a glimpse of the mythical creature.

The next day was comparably more staid: the 25th Anniversary of the Wellington Hair Spa. Organized by PR Noir diva Danita King, the event featured complimentary wine by Bouké but most importantly there were enough hors d’oeuvres to get one’s fill for dinner. Hey, it’s a recession.

If I hadn’t been invited to any parties, I might have missed the fact that Tuesday was Saint Patrick’s Day all together. I was greatly looking forward to that night’s ACRIA benefit at the chic Soho House thrown by promoter-legend Patrick Duffy. The party was a late starter (all the bold-faced names were at the Valentino Film premiere) and there was no open-bar. Alexandra put it best when she said, “I feel like we’ve been duped.” Well, technically we had been Duffy-ed. Most exciting for me, I spoke with Ken Doll incarnation Leif Stacey who walked the Barbie Show during New York Fashion Week.

As no Saint Patrick’s Day is complete without society saint Patrick McMullan, we attempted to head over to PMc’s annual party, appropriately held this year at Greenhouse. By the time we had arrived, which was about an hour after the start time, the place was over-capacity and we were told we’d have to wait in line. Madonna doesn’t do lines and neither do we so we skedaddled like two Leprechauns.

I wasn’t in the mood to make another trip back to Greenhouse the next day for Wednesday’s Nylon/Bodhi Bags party so I didn’t resurface until Thursday for the Saks/FIT Gala. Held at the glamorous Cipriani’s Midtown, I knew I had to take it up a notch for the step and repeat so I stopped by Versani to borrow some bling. Guests included Teen Vogue’s Amy Astley, IMG’s Fern Mallis and other industry heavy-weights. The event, which included champagne, lavish hors d’oeuvres and photographers would have definitely been categorized as a “hit” had we actually had a seat for the sit-down dinner. In my quasi-press capacity, we were only invited for the cocktail hour. As such, I technically can’t report on how Mayor Bloomberg supposedly presented an award since I was not there to witness.

Alexandra and I were dressed to the nines and we refused to go home before 9PM and cry into a bowl of Lucky Charms so instead we dropped in on the Bowery Hotel for the Festa Brasileira event hosted by the Nature Conservancy Young Professionals Group. Lucky for us, the champagne and hors d’oeuvres continued there and we even managed to get photographed. It was a perfect and classy way to end the evening.

It was back to the Bowery on Friday night for the Layla Love benefit, which was raising money for blindness treatment of the photojournalist. If the Bowery Hotel represents the new glossy Manhattan, then the Collective Hardware space at 169 Bowery represents the vestigial, gritty Bowery of yore. I thought we might be mugged at any moment or at least see the ghost of Sid Vicious as we mulled around the industrial space, though neither incident occurred. Instead, we waited around for something to happen but left before the scheduled runway show at 10PM.

Even during a week of misses, it’s impossible not to reflect on how lucky we are to attend all these glamorous functions. It’s easy to forget that there are people who actually pay for alcohol—now that’s a crazy concept.

Adrien Field

Spotted these shoes on the Costello Tagliapiertra runway. They remind me of something Pepper Potts (aka Iron Man’s chicklet) might wear. Love them. 

LINKAGE: Would You Wear the Metal Heels at Costello Tagliapietra?

My assumption is that Tori Spelling was recently possessed by the spirit of her dead father and is currently injecting a cocktail of Holy Water and Botox into her face to excises him. That or she’s realizing that showing up to the prom (cause seriously, is there any other reason to that) with another chick doesn’t grant you instant Lohan-status, it just makes you look really, really desperate. 

[New York, February 13. Image via WENN.]

LINKAGE: Kelly And Donna Hit Up The West Beverly Sweethearts Dance [Snap Judgment]