Sooooooooooooooo. Went to the Fifth Avenue Fameball Fake Friends Soirée last night, my expectations just a tad lower than my ostensible hostesses' necklines. The IMI Club turned out to be a cushy, slightly Deco space atop 745 Fifth Avenue , the thoroughly Deco hulk overlooking Bergdorf's. Met at the elevator with a gent bearing cocktails; the spread of sushi and cheese was ample, yet tasteful, and ornamented with lovely bouquets of flowers. The President, Vice-President and Director Emeritus of the Lemoncake Stupid Society were all there, faming away. Or I think they were, as I don't really know Mary and Meghan from a hole in the ground. JA, on the other hand, fills a room with steaming heaps of charisma. She is surprisingly petite for a person I had always imagined to be rather tall and voluptuous; if I may degrade a quote from Henry James' "The Europeans," "she may not have a huge bosom-but she holds her head the way a woman with a huge bosom should." With a fairy-tale complexion and a poisoned apple-laugh, she's Snow White, Rose Red, the Wicked Stepmother and the Big Bad Wolf wrapped up20in a Pez-dispenser sized pack. The other guests arrived and lo, they were a far more attractive and interesting bunch than expected, if a little tentative. I met and spoke with several people in music, law, finance, medicine and the arts, representing a fair cross-section of our fair city, none of whom seemed to have any clear idea of why they were there or why a sequel to "Heathers" was being filmed a little to the left of the cheese plate. Ironically, the vibe was much more High Society than Non-Society, suggesting that our erstwhile adventuresses had once again overshot the mark and were in danger of being outclassed by their crashers. Part of the disconnect was the simple fact that JA, Grumpy and Happy were continually surrounded by the camera crew, which made mingling with their guests a little awkward. Those admiring the (stunning) view were temporarily herded indoors at one point so that the main camera could film JA and either Mary or the other one talking or laughing or pouting or maybe just being disappointed with themselves. The other reason was that while initial comments suggested that our mutual friend Jennifer-of course you know Jennifer-had invited us all, subsequent mentions of Gawker page views left me suspecting that anyone there not working the event or a little white dog was one of you lot, in which case, next commentor's ball should be clothing=2 0optional. It's a bit hard to go up to someone and say "I think you're kind of a clown and I am here sort of on a dare." Particularly when the soft-shelled crab cakes are ZOMG sooooooooo super-yummo! I am not fond of those who abuse hospitality, which is kind of what I'm doing here, so allow me to say: Julia, your party was fab. The food was great, the venue was beautiful, your dog is adorable, I really enjoyed the whole thing. My regards to Whosis and Whatsherface. That said, in retrospect, the event seems profoundly weird. Why was this party-which must have taken quite a bit of planning and expense-thrown together "at the last minute?" How is it that three girls about town could not fill an intimate room with 35 people they actually knew? (I am guessing at least half of those there were responding to the letter on Gawker.) Why was the party taking place in 1986? Was there a PS on the Gawker letter that said Cplease come dressed as a bit character from American Psycho?" And could it be20that Miss Mary is less disappointed in herself than in herself standing next to Julia Allison? In which case, sucks to be you, kiddo. You just hitched your wagon to a publicity black hole. In closing, why did I have so much fun? Is my life that bereft of adorable dogs and guys trying not to knock me out with a sound boom? Could it be that every one of us is alone on an Art Deco terrace, slightly disappointed with ourselves as we nibble the miso-infused strip steak skewer of fate? Aren't we all, at the end of the superglamorous slightly Spy Magazine day, Mary Rambin? Or the other one? Except for Julia, of course. And her little dog, too.