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Andy Warhol—no stranger to nightlife or society—once said, “I’m the type who’d be happy not going anywhere as long as I was sure I knew exactly what was happening at the places I wasn’t going to.  I’m the type who’d like to sit home and watch every party that I’m invited to on a monitor in my bedroom.”

It’s a sentiment that’s likely felt by anyone suffering from event fatigue—I can’t even count the number of times I’ve thought about skipping a party for a quiet night at home only to be suddenly gripped by fear: what if there’s a great step-and-repeat?  What if the party is fabulous and everyone’s talking about it the next day?  It’s the eternal fear of the “what if” that more times than not is the motivating factor to go out when everything else implores you to stay in.

This is my curse—if I know about a party, it is nearly impossible for me to resist attending.  The thought that people are having fun and drinking champagne without me is just too much to bear and like a pregnant woman to a pickle jar, the pull is irresistible.

So predictably, despite the rain and mounting pile of magazines on my desk, I found myself attending the Life Ball Pre-Party on Tuesday night—an event that if Andy Warhol watched from a screen, he might think that he was tripping on LSD.

Since I haven’t yet racked up enough influence—or frequent flier miles—to make it to the annual Life Ball party in Vienna, the pre-party hosted by The Blondes, Patricia Field and Alan Cumming was the next best thing.

I felt slightly as Alice did when she tumbled down the rabbit hole and found herself in a very strange world with talking caterpillars and guillotine-giddy queens—only the queens at this party were mostly quite friendly.  One of the first things I saw was a chocolate colored (I say this because he looked to be sporting full body paint) man in a neon technicolor coat and sparkly purple headpiece that made him look somewhere between Willie Wonka and the most flamboyant Ken doll that could ever be imagined.

The club kids were all united under one roof with guests like Richie Rich and a bevy of drag queens—each more fabulous and fantastically frocked than the next.  At some point near the end of the party, DJ Paul Sevigny stopped the turntables when Patricia Field, accompanied by Phillipe and David Blond along with the Life Ball organizers took stage.  My feeling was that most of the room was too drunk from the Belvedere cocktails to pay much attention—though that may have actually just been me.

Even though I had resolved to only attend one even a week until my novel is published—a sort of event anorexia—it only took the mention of a party from Alexandra to get me and my leggings outside for the Ben Sherman party the next night, afraid I might miss something amazing.

It turned out that this was an event best watched on mute while drifting off to sleep.  There was a very sad lack of photographers and even alcohol couldn’t lift my spirits.

I was mulling around when Nylon’s Faran Krentcil came up to me.  “You are not wearing that shirt,” she said, referring to my “Save Anna” T-shirt designed by Christoper Lee Sauvé.  “Wear that while you can because that shirt is going to be old in a few months,” she continued enigmatically, “I hear things first.”

I was intrigued—was I receiving a scoop on Anna Wintour and her imminent, yet still under-wraps departure at Vogue?  Look what I would have missed had I stayed home!

Adrien Field

Adrien@AdrienField.com