Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
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