I couldn't get into the big Marc Jacobs party at Hiro Ballroom last night. I didn't get to see Lady Ga Ga play a white piano, nor did I witness her violate a completely-shaved centaur backstage with a strap-on.
I'm actually not sure about the centaur part, but I imagine that's how fantastically decadent the most buzzed-about bash of Fashion Week was. I tried to beg my way onto the list, pestering the p.r. company who ran the door, the liquor sponsor, and a friend who worked at Hiro, all to no avail. I skipped the sad final scene of pushing past the braying hordes and the security guys with earpieces to plead with some clipboard-wielding door girl to part the velvet rope. Marc Jacobs is evidently not a big fan of Gawker, and that's cool with me. The truth is, my week-long Fashion Week party binge had sapped my usual desire to make out with an open bar and mingle with drunken drag queens and barely-legal Latvian models. My nasal passages were badly clogged, I had an old man cough, and I basically felt like a pig had shit in my head. So I stayed home, put on fencing mask and a pair of Spanx, gulped a fistful of poppers, and danced the pain away to "Poker Face" in front of a full-length mirror. You wouldn't believe how good my abs looked!
I'm feeling much better today and will be out again tonight, most likely wearing a crotchless gold lame' jumpsuit. For those of you who care, this evening's festivities include supermodel-saurus Linda Evangelista's party at MoMa for avant-garde artist Ron Arad's latest exhibit, a screening of "Coco Before Chanel" at the Paris Theater followed by a dinner hosted by Audrey Tatou at Monkey Bar, a big Dsquared Eyewear get-down on W. 28th Street, and a Fashion Week battle of the bands at the John Varvatos store judged by Perry Farrell, rock photographer Mick Rock, Spin editor Doug Brod, and Varvatos himself.
Now if you'll excuse me, this clown porn DVD isn't going to watch itself!