By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
Fashion Week parties were the other indication that summer was over. At the Tuesday-night Mao Mag event, the only bona fide celebrity was the guest of honor, the newly trimmed ANNA NICOLE SMITH, whowith the WORLD FAMOUS *BOB* encased in a champagne glass nearbyperformed a faux burlesque strut down the catwalk and disappeared faster than her fat did. Oh, the irony.
While there were rumors the OLSEN TWINS would come, it looked like we were going to have to make do with our own LYNN YAEGER, but then THEODORA RICHARDS turned up, and LADY BUNNY nearly knocked everyone over with her humongous pigtail wig. MURRAY HILL arrived with his date, DIRTY MARTINI, in color-coordinated red outfits. (Later, when traipsing around town with the devilish duo, I discovered that nothing gets you into a club faster than a drag king and a burlesque bombshell. The velvet rope parted like the red sea at PM, the site of the after-party for When Will I Be Loved, directed by JAMES TOBACK and starring NEVE CAMPBELL, both of whom were sitting two feet away from us.)
Thursday was an epic clubbing marathon. INTERPOL unveiled their gallery on 199 Lafayette Street, called InterpolAntics. Alas, the band itself was in Europe, so we had to make do with two-dimensional images in works by SHEPARD FAIREY. Uptown, Fader magazine hosted the prettiest, most mixed crowd, but the event was in a space with the worst acoustics possible, so we didn't stick around to hear British rapper M.I.A.
Outside another loft space on Gansevoort Street, tall statuesque girls in expensive clothes stood in line to get into the EARNEST SEWN shindig. A couple who were not tall, statuesque, or wearing expensive clothes griped when they didn't get in. "It's because we don't look like models." Unfortunately, probably, definitely, yes, so we have no idea how we were allowed entry. Inside, the YEAH YEAHS YEAHS' NICK ZINNERthe humblest, nicest guy on New York's rock scenerelayed that he had just gone to Maxim's party at Crobar, not because he wanted to cruise hot babes but because PUBLIC ENEMY were playing. He tried to blag his way in using his rock-star credentials, but he was turned down even though the paparazzi were shouting his name. I told Zinner not to take it personally: They probably didn't let him in 'cause his hair isn't blond enough and he doesn't have triple-D tits.
We shouted over the music provided by THE DONNAS, who were "DJ'ing." Clarification: The four Donnas were dancing to songs they picked from their iPods, which were set on the unused turntables as two guys in matching shirts who looked like they worked for a professional DJ service (but were not ANDREW ANDREW) stood behind the booth and programmed their iPods for them. Friendly advice: When it does not involve a skill like beat matching, DJ'ing is not hard, and is even fun.
Maybe lessons from FRANZ FERDINAND's drummer, PAUL THOMPSON, are in order. He DJ'd at Rothko for the post-Roseland party during the night's last stop. As JAMES IHA and Zinner (who got in just fine, thank you) hobnobbed with RADIO 4's GERARD GARONE, Thompsonwho DJs frequently in Londonmoved effortlessly from dancehall to BOWIE. And while the Donnas had a couple of fun iTunes, at least Paul had physical records to lose.