Edited by Adrien Field
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.