A dash downtown to 7 World Trade Center and we were at the Calvin Klein party. Located on the ear-popping 52nd floor in a large, white loft space lined with aquariums glowing blue and little circle spotlights dotting the fashion mavens, it was the sort of party you see in movies but weren't sure really existed. Just when you thought you were out of your element, you stagger over to the DJ booth and see . . . the MisShapes. It was 1 a.m. and they still had to play at Hiro, but they're young and still don't get hangovers, so I pity them not a bit.
At Scott's after-party held at Tens strip club, Steve Aoki spun all the songs from my junior high school dances (and a few from this decade) while fellow Los Angeleno Mark Hunter (a/k/a the Cobrasnake)snapped pix, and his muse Cory Kennedy (the Leigh Lezark of the Left Coast) chilled in the V.I.P. area. It was one of the best parties I'd been to in a long time, but when a random nearby photographer who'd been on fashion week duty all week long said, "I don't even know where I am anymore!" I knew what he meant. Final total: four days, two fashion shows, nine parties, one brain cell left. Party over, oops, out of time. Aimee!