The first thing I think when I approach the Rebecca Taylor shop and lay eyes on a mini-red carpet hemmed by actual paparazzi is: “Looky here, a surefire blogger circle-jerk party!” Actually, the first thing I’m thinking is “It’s fucking March and I’m getting pelted by hail and freezing rain.” But back to circle jerks.
A while ago, a journo I admired taught me about blogger circle jerks, otherwise known as “the plight of the boring party with the bold-faced name.” Basically, it’s when pseudo-gossip bloggers—the most rampant kind—attend parties only to post generic photos of whatever star was in attendance the next day. These sort of people are to blame for the downfall of events as we once knew them: They ruin the atmosphere as they wait with a puss on until a celebrity appears, and then wreak havoc as they swarm said celebrity like moths (with bad manners) to a flame. And this, boys and girls, is where celebrity handlers come from. You can’t even have a proper tequila shot or do a proper line in a bathroom with a celebrity anymore, because they need their handlers to beat off these eager bloggers. It’s like a big circle jerk with no climax.
Anyway, this is what’s happening when I first arrive to the Rebecca Taylor opening party in the Meatpacking District. I can’t even make it through the front door, because the sight of 30 Rock‘s Katrina Bowden has turned some perfectly normal folks into slack-jawed zombies. Then I’m moving toward the corner to dump off my umbrella, and even when a glacier of ice slides off it, and lands on a girl’s bare back, she doesn’t so much as flinch. The celebrity trance is powerful. So I’m stuck in the front of the store, utterly aware that the bar and general sanity is located in the back. The masses are pushing toward Bowden, who looks so skinny, by the way (you’re welcome Kat! Kiss, kiss). So I start pushing too, with polite “excuse me’s,” naturally. Katrina is wearing both Rebecca Taylor and a general look of annoyance, because this kid in front of me is all up in her business, telling her handler that he needs his 5 minutes with her because he has “a dinner,” which, in case you didn’t know, is the new way to sound busy and important. “A dinner reservation” sounds too generic, but “a dinner” could mean something else: Lagerfeld could be present at “a dinner.”
I make it past this very important blogger and his dinner plans, and I’m home free, a straight bee line to the bar. No champagne left, and martini it is! Rebecca Taylor is looking proud as a peacock because she’s celebrating 15 years in business with this store opening. She’s looking radiant too, because inside it’s spring and we’re all surrounded by frothy frocks on hangers and on people like Alice Eve, Tika Sumpter and Selita Ebanks, who looked absolutely gorgeous. I really wanted to talk to her, since I had interviewed her once for a magazine article, but just as I went to set down my Baked by Melissa cupcake, I remembered that she wasn’t too happy with a quote we used thinking she would laugh along with us. She did not, and we had egg on our faces. Or I did, actually. So instead, I just spent the evening staring at her like everyone else.
Then, of course, there is this guy here that I see at absolutely every party I go to. You know him, even if you don’t. He’s always with a Russian or Swedish girl with huge breasts, or taking pictures of Russian/Swedish girls with huge breasts. I don’t know how he does it; the partying and the girls. I ask him about it, too. His newest big-breasted Russian is one he recently met on Facebook a few weeks ago, and now she’s living in his apartment. He’d call her his “Penthouse Pet,” but he lives on the second floor. She’ll stay for a few weeks and then move on, that’s what happens. “They want the party penis,” he tells me. It’s weird to hear the word penis around such precious spring dresses, and I look at them as if they’ve overheard.
Then it’s off to Soho House, which is crawling with people who have the same sort of game as this playboy, and then to Villa Pacri, which has the Last International Playboy’s art hanging in it. Villa Pacri is a really great place, and the friends who have gathered in a quiet corner booth are a nice departure from playboy land. But I’m too drunk from Pacri’s Latin Lovers—a cocktail that tastes like a smoothie, but is actually a lethal combination of Tanqueray Ten gin, Carpano Red vermouth, fresh orange, passion fruit and berries topped with Aranciata Pellegrino. I trip through slush to find a cab, and head home to take it out on my boyfriend, who in all actuality, is not friends with any party-penis hunting, big-breasted Russian Swedes on Facebook. It’s only midnight.