After Fashion's Night Out, An Open Letter to Mary-Kate Olsen

I went to Fashion's Night Out at Bergdorf's last night to see you bartend, but you were gone. Always wanted to thank you for that magical moment we shared at the Beatrice Inn. So I thought I'd do it here!

You remember, don't you? I was sitting in the back room of the Beatrice about a year ago, drinking a Stella and checking out the 2 a.m. dance floor scene. You walked over and said, "Did you used to work at Page Six?" I agreed that I had, and you sat down next to me.

I was impressed that you were smoking a Marlboro Red and drinking what looked like a whiskey on the rocks. You told me that you had just filmed an episode of Weeds for Showtime, and asked what I was up to. I said I was working at Maxim, which was true at the time. Or maybe I said that I owned Maxim. Or owned all magazines. Let's just say I was trying to impress you.

I don't recall much about the rest of our conversation, other than you were very sweet, were wearing a lot of black eyeliner, and that your hair kind of smelled like clouds. But I do remember that once we were done with our surreal little chat, you said, "Well, I just wanted to say that you look really good tonight." And then you got up, walked across the room and sat with the friends you came with.

I wondered if I had just been totally goofed on. Because by that point in the night I was most likely a wobbly, red-eyed beast who was only capable of engaging women by doing that magic trick that I do with the handkerchief and the collapsible wand. You know the one.

But in retrospect I think that you were probably just in a really good mood. Had you not been Mary-Kate Olsen, I would probably tried to get your number, or at least asked if you wanted to take a ride in my van. But instead, I just smiled and accepted the compliment. Always wanted to say thanks for that. But I've never been able to, because that was the last time I saw you!

So I thought I'd finally have a chance to tell you in person last night when I saw you at Bergdorf-Goodman, where you and your twin sister Ashley were doing a relentlessly-hyped bartending appearance for Fashion's Night Out.

I knew it was a big deal because my cab driver actually asked if I was going to "the thing were the Olsen twins were bartending." We pulled up to a mob of several hundred eager young women clogging the front entrance. I talked my way into a side door and began to look for you in the oppressively-lit department store that reeked of decades of perfume-squirts and shoppers' flop sweat.

I navigated past the throngs of girls roaming the racks to get on the escalator to the 7th Floor, where you were allegedly pouring drinks. Even the escalator was jammed with squealing humanity, and I started getting claustrophobic and sweating a little myself. Honestly, I hadn't seen that much hubbub since the last time I attended a Jonas Brothers lunch box signing!

But once I got to the 7th floor, you were already gone. Mind you, this was only 7:30, and the event started at 7. When I said, out loud, to no one in particular, "Where are the Olsens?" a sad-eyed teenage girl told me that you had left the building. This was particularly devastating because at this point I really needed a drink.

So I pushed through another mob that was surrounding stylist Rachel Zoe as she was shot by about 20 photographers, towards the nearest fire exit. When I finally made it outside, a black Escalade slowed to a stop in front of the crowd spilling outside Bergdorf's. I thought maybe it was you, but it turned out to be designer Zac Posen, who popped out of the sun roof and waved at everyone.

I went to a few other insanely crowded boutiques before I headed back downtown: The Versace store, where the MisShapes deejayed and Taylor Momsen darted past me wearing a garter belt and a white dress shirt; the Calvin Klein store, where the disturbingly pretty male model Jamie Burke played a set with his band; and Barney's, where so many strangers rubbed up against me that I felt like I owed them money afterwards.

But you weren't at any of those places, so I hopped a cab back downtown and met some friends at the Jane Hotel, which is kind of like the Beatrice was, except not quite as much fun.

Your pal,

Chris

P.S.

Call Me!