Why Miss New York When New York Can Miss Itself?

Adrien Field March 23 at 12:39
Read More:ACRIA, amy astley, bowery hotel, danita king, fern mallis, jesus luz, leif stacey, Madonna, mary-kate olsen, Nylon, patrick mcmullan, PR Noir, Saks Fifth Avenue, soho house, the ritz, valentino, wellington hair spa

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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