The title of this post should technically be “about two nights ago” as it’s now Saturday and I’m writing about my fabled/ill-fated Thursday night. Last Thursday was rather extraordinary in that I had about five events spread throughout the city where I could have showed up and expected free booze: the Tom’s Shoes event at Bergdorf’s, The Macabi Charity Fashion Show at Tenjune, Jesus Luz’s party at the penthouse of the Rivington were just the highlights. I also had a scheduled interview with Wyclef Jean at the Timberland store in SoHo where he was making an appearance to promote his Yéle Haiti boots.
On the morning of Thursday, as I wrote in the last post, I was contacted by the lovely people at Swide.com in Milan and asked to cover the New Moon premiere. Of course, I dropped everything as 1) it’s not every day that D&G calls you and 2) despite not being into the Twilight hysteria, I am well aware of the status of the Cinema Society and its harem of celebrities and socialites that flock to each premiere.
I could barely describe my excitement and the nervous flutter in my chest as the cab sped down the FDR in destination to the Sunshine Cinema. It must have only been a minute after the car turned onto Houston that you could see the entire street bathed in exploding flashbulbs and shouts. Yes, the New Moon was indeed upon us.
There were police barricades everywhere as if a riot was expected instead of the arrival of some pallid actors who play mythical creatures for a living. I walked up to the two list girls and gave my name. After being CC’d on about four emails from Milan to New York and LA, I was pretty confident that everything was set. I was supposed to be live-tweeting the events of the evening for D&G’s Swide.com, attending the premiere and after party. The list girl searched for what felt like several minutes, coming to the conclusion that I was not on the list. I stared at her rather incredulous and confused as first Ivanka Trump passed me by to a roar of paparazzi, then Olivia Chantecaille and Jessica Szhor.
Long story short here, my D&G contact came out and told me I came too late. ”But, I was told to come at 7:30–and it’s 7:25 right now,” I stammered. ”You should have come at 6:30,” she said. This was news to me and she never thought it sufficiently important to mention in the four emails on which she was CC’d. ”Come to The Box at 9 for the after party. That will be more interesting anyway,” she instructed.
Disenchanted, confused, and altogether quite annoyed, I walked west away from the absurdity of the premiere and made my way to the Timberland store where I got my interview with Wyclef for VIBE and stayed long enough to watch him freestyle. I killed time by also stopping at ORO and devouring a conciliatory red velvet cupcake.
By now, it had started lightly raining outside and I walked sans umbrella over to The Box hoping that my mascara wouldn’t run. This time, I actually made it inside and felt a slight sense of triumph. This was not to last.
Having arrived well before the rest of the people who attended the screening, I set about eating just about everything that passed my way (the passed hors d’oeuvres were amazing) and consumed a couple glasses of champagne (you would too if you had cancelled your evening plans to attend a premiere only to be rejected outside).
As 10PM rolled around, the place started to fill up and The Box became The Oven. Everyone was at first crowded near the entrance and downstairs bar and I quickly realized that anyone who’s been mentioned in Page Six before was escorted upstairs while the plebeians were sequestered downstairs. The satisfaction I had from being inside sunk as I felt like a passenger confined to steerage on the Titanic while the First Class guests (that included some of the cast, various socialites, and several B-list celebrities) all gathered in a cabal of celebrity upstairs.
I was soon reminded as to why I hate clubs, New York, and publicists (sorry to the rare ones that are decent). I tried to make my way upstairs so that I could actually do the job I was asked to do–report on what was going on/what celebrities were there/etc, which was impossible as there was nothing to see from the ground floor–and was systemically rebuffed by club security as well as the two guard girls standing at the base of the stairs. One had a penchant for repeating the lie, “The upstairs is closed,” which did not change as I varied my queries to her. She was like one of those annoying toys on which you pull a string and hear the same phrase over and over again–amusing the first couple of times and then extremely irritating. I did, however, have a fleeting moment of schadenfreude when the same thing happened to Justin Kirk, the actor who plays Andy on Weeds.
This post has gone on quite long and is mostly self-indulgent. More than the event itself, I am disenchanted by the hierarchy in the social sphere of New York. I suppose it’s an achievement that I’ve made it “this far” considering that I came to New York in 2007 with my only social contact being my lawyer aunt. One might consider rather remarkable that at 20, I was at The Box at all–let alone for the exclusive after party of one of the most hyped movies of the year. The thing is that I’m impatient and irrational. It’s what’s driven me up to this point. Maybe that’s also a bit of New York, which feels like a pressure cooker, pushing you constantly shove your way forward. The thing is that I’m tired of it.
Well, dear New York, rather than end our relationship with a cliché, I’ll just say Fuck You and goodnight.
