Amy did a great job of being on trend, I LOVE the shoulders of this top, but this editor-in-chief seems to have missed the mark at her own party (Teen Vogue’s Young Hollywood Party)..it just looks a little unflattering on her..am I just crazy?

LINK LOVE: Gawker

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

Alexandra and I are fond of saying that New York events are always “hit or miss.” A hit usually comprises complimentary champagne, a few photographers and at least one or two B-list celebrities (though I’ll often settle for a Tinsley or Fabiola). A miss lacks one or more of these things and are especially disappointing considering the time and effort required to look fabulous: usually at least an hour of preparation and don’t forget that the outfit you wear can never be worn again; it’s finished—you might as well throw it in the trash since the only other place you might get away with wearing it is a cousin’s sweet sixteen in New Jersey. This week could generally be placed in the “miss” category.

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