By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
Fashion Week started with a promotional bang, the press getting a mailed advisory demanding that we refer to it at all times as Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. Well, I'm a hasty reader, so I kept calling it Mercedes Ruehl Fashion Week, but whatever it wasBenzedrine Fashion Week?it seemed to be filled with the usual beauties, fabulosities, and nightmares going gaga over the season's new hemlines and buffets, then quickly regurgitating both into a gilded bucket.
Partywise, it was all about exclusivity, with gaggles of fashionistas flocking to APT, a/k/a The Apartment, a two-level hangout with no name on the dooryou have to be tragically hip and connected to even know it's there. (This will be topped by Amy Sacco's Bungalow 8, which you'll need a key to get into private parts of; I'll probably get one, but not know where the door is.) The Oxygene perfume launch at Tribeca Rooftop was findable, but mainly by thick-skinned celebs like Jason Sehorn, who bravely showed up despite the Super Bowl, and Donny Osmond, who insanely attended despite Inside the Osmonds.
The CFDA kickoff bash at MOMA brought out Girlfight's Michelle Rodriguez, and she got other offers too; photographer Patrick McMullan begged her to go to Studio 54 later for a Wilhelmina male model party, insisting there'd be lots of guys. "Yeah," Rodriguez said, smirking, "and they'll all be gay!" Just then, saucy sisters Paris and Nikki Hilton entered in appealingly gaudy, different-yet-matching outfits and allthe gays took notice. The gals looked a bit vulnerablethey involuntarily rule every place they're at, yet they're always the element that seems a little out of placeso I pounced, asking them what exactly it is that they do. "We work, hon," said Nikki, meaning the runway. "I thought you were socialites," I gurgled, adding that whatever they do, I can't seem to stop reading about them. "We hatebeing famous," moaned Paris, her lips shimmering with rageand gloss. "We don't like reading about ourselves. It sucks. People are mean." It was a poignant moment and I totally believed her, even as the girls were cajoled into a 10-minute photo op!
But wewere the victims outside the Visionairemagazine party at FIT, where one of those unbelievably sadistic prison-guards-turned-doormen screamed ultimatums at the assembled throngpeople are meanforgetting that my giant fashiony ass likes to end the night with a lip, not whip, imprint. But everyone screamed with joy when Eric Goode and Sean MacPherson's sprawling new restaurant, The Park, had a bash celebrating Jalousemagazinewell, almosteveryone. "Shit, we have to be nice to Eric Goode again," one longtime nightlifer whined, noticing that the place is a big hit. (I've alwaysbeen nice to him and practically pay his rent with an endless succession of blue plate specials at B-Bar.) It was especially thrilling to see Monica Lewinsky there, though she now seems to decorate all the same B-list parties I'm at and will no doubt touchinglyand feelinglyreunite with Bill Clinton when he hits the very same circuit.
The screams were internalized at a weird MAC party at Tuscan Steak where no one actually partiedthey all stood solemnly in place staring at the spectacle of Mary J. Blige and Lil' Kim being photographed against a MAC backdrop for hours. Someone must have put something in the mascara.
And then, after a few more shows, a dozen more nightmares, Anthony Haden-Guest lighting up like a Christmas tree when I gave him a drink ticket at Eugene, and Puffy admitting he kills animals but not people, Mercedes McCambridge Fashion Week came to a glittering end, and it was back to cleaning toilets.
Of course the disses kept coming, but in a more high-cultural context. At BAM's spring gala, I kept hearing the very flattering cry "What are youdoing here?"the idiots not seeming to realize that the opera came with dinner. Besides, the stunning work in question was The Makropulos Case, a stylized romp about a 337-year-old woman who can't go on one more second. It's the Geri Halliwell story!
These Old Broads, that TV movie about four337-year-old women, was a strained salad of overripe tomatoes, but there were a few bitchy, desperate laughs, and Liz Taylor was too much, planted on a sofa and bellowing "Nympho?" (PS: Did you catch the commercial for the Judy Garland teleflick, asking, "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" At least they know their target audience.)
Unveiled at a gala premiere, HBO's version of Witis filled with brave work, but the camera's literal gaze tends to flatten everything out, the way it did with adapted plays like Bent, M. Butterfly, Dancing at Lughnasa, and even Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. Wit, the play, was about ideas, but Wit, the movie, is about a woman dying of ovarian cancer.
Full of female genital life, The Vagina Monologuesnabbed its ultimate production with the V-Day 2001 event at the Bush, I mean the Garden, where a bevy of stars created a veritable VulvaFashion Week. "How many vaginas are there in the audience?" asked author Eve Ensler by way of an intro, and it turned out there were tons, all cheering on the evening's winky, bawdy humor and heavy preaching, cosponsored by Tampax despite the monologue decrying those godforsaken cotton balls. Oprah Winfrey was a bit much, swathed in a red chiffon body scarf as she tried to invoke the suffering of Afghani women, but generally V-Day was such a cunt-agious cliterary event I left convinced I have to get me one of them there vaginas.