That stupid intern...I will write about him on the morrow, but for now, there's much to catch up on.
At the Metropolitan Museum Gala celebrating "The King of
Fashion," Paul Poiret, there were the usual contingent of hideously scrawny models (oh, pardonnez moi...small-boned women with high metabolisms).
Note how the poor dears have to hold each other up. The haute monde showed up in force, dressed in all manner of outfits. Diane Von Furstenberg designed her own dress, and to moi it was a toss-up whose forehead was higher, hers or Barry Diller's.
To add a touch of John Wayne-style masculinity, costume jewelry king Kenneth Jay Lane stopped in:
Not all of the women there were fleshless wonders. Here is the ever delightful Marjorie Gubelmann Raein, in Carolina Herrera.
My only criticism is that Marjorie is attempting the same effect with a healthy bosom that the clavicle crowd obtains sans breasts; that is, no apparent cleavage. Next time, Marjorie, let your decolletage BREATHE! This young man--I assume he was a cross-dresser--was quite impressive, no discernible soft tissue at all.
(For the record, he is wearing Burberry.)
A number of my favorite people were there, including Oscar de la Renta, Anne Grausso, the spectacularly beautiful America Ferrera, the Yurmans, and oh, so many others! Cocktail hour was spent in the European sculpture garden, where I remember so many happy hours as a child. Then four trumpeters blew--what else--trumpets, and we were ushered in to dinner inside the Englehard Court. I admit, I was none too pleased to be seated by Conde Nast's Chuck Townsend, because all he likes to talk about is himself, but I merely nodded, smiled, and sipped champagne.
Here is Chuck with two unidentified women, the one to his left illustrating why women over the age of twelve should not wear babydoll dresses. Renee Zellweger sat next to Andre, and she has also become frighteningly thin...what on earth is happening in Hollywood? A famine? The Zone Diet gone berserk?
What a beautiful dress. If only there was a body in it.
Well, it was the evening was all jolly good fun, and hard on the feet. Here are my nominees for the two worst dresses at the Gala. First we have Kirsten Dunst, who must have been smoking a tremendous amount of weed (or snorting peacock poo) when she chose this babydoll-style nightmare, complete with headband:
Second, Fabiola Berascara, in Givenchy Haute Couture (!). Words fail me. A bubble dress covered with netting and hemmed with those sort of paper streamers they hang at children's parties, only in brown. Good Lord. Oh, and look, in the background in white, another of those amusing cross-dressers. Admirable muscular definition, nçest pas?
Feel free to vote here for your choice, or any other sartorial choice that violated your senses.
And don't forget, dahlings - Meg Cabot will be visiting here ere long! I shall devote a special blog to your questions.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
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