By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
By Frank Owen
By Allie Conti
Another three hours on the job, the velveteen mob arriving with Carrie Fisher's former husband, the Creative Artists Agency's Brian Lord, whose dalliance with a male companion created considerable consternation. Lord traveling with his buddy, and, naturally, running into his tabloid Boswell, Richard Johnson of the New York Post. Now there was a moment to savor. Naomi Campbell and Calvin Klein immersed in conversation forever, Campbell eventually going off to make an urgent phone call to Los Angeles. Two adjacent glitterati unzipped with a Klein debate, Pret-…-Porter revisited: "Calvin's a genius." "He's a monster." "Well, he might be a genius tonight." Geffen continued his charm campaign on Madonna, and everyone stayed on till the celebrated left, Patrick McMullan contentedly announcing, like the tiny slayer of ghosts in Poltergeist, "This room is clear."
But by then the fever mounting for other crowded rooms, other voices, with me dragging McMullan and Johnson along on a quest for the fresh terrain of Club USA, the terminally industrial Steel space gone disco lush. The clubs blurring after that, the three of us taking a 4:00 a.m. dinner at the News Cafe, Mario Van Peebles at an adjacent table. The following day, Thanksgiving, all cruel aftermath A life as a hurting unit. Friday bringing the Kenneth Cole/Interview party on Collins Avenue, not your ordinary shoe-store opening: barbarians and Hare Krishnas swarming at the gates once again. God forbid anyone should miss anything.
Saturday night, and the movable feast starting off at the Delano for Kelly Klein's Underworld party, a benefit for the CFDA (Council of Fashion and Design Associates) Foundation Fund for AIDS. The same cast from Liquid turning out again -- Geffen, Gallin, et al. -- and wandering among the public, a roped-off celeb corral going totally unused, the democratic nature of the circumstances taking the thrill out of blood-sport journalism. Photographer Bruce Weber representing the new-faces division, and trainer to the stars David Barton squeezing my limp muscles and liquid flesh A a dream come true A while muttering like a concerned oncologist. Everyone talking about the tan-and-trick boys who'd lolled around the pool all weekend in search of sugar daddies to buy them the whole plantation. All conversation everywhere ceasing with the arrival of Madonna, her presence automatically robbing the guests of their own authenticity. But that's the way the fame game goes.
The press, always up for free food and booze -- if it's not catered, it's not journalism -- stumbling along to the roof of the Sony building on Lincoln Road, where the Health Crisis Network is saluting its White Party benefactors. Moving on to a civilized birthday gathering, the vanishing point unraveling at Wallace Tutt's impromptu bash at his North Bay Road estate -- sort of like the White Party without costumes, Vizcaya, or mangroves, the power crowd everywhere at once. By that time the week encompassing 40 hours of chitchat in various shattering contexts, but there's always something new on the rounds. A treat to speak with one cultivated gentleman, enviably centered and composed, full of useful information and insisting that he hadn't been to a party in sixteen years: "Have I missed anything?