Another night, another party and another chance to remind ourselves that we're not nearly as fashionable and glamorous as we like to think we are. Yes, Fashion Week is upon us, which means shapeless pillowcase dresses are the new black and naturally slender is once again the new morbidly obese.
And yesterday, we spent the better part of our evening ogling the reality stars of yesteryear at the Bravo/Entertainment Weekly party for Tim Gunn at the Soho Grand and marveling at the fact that somebody had the lack of foresight to serve miniature Reuben sandwiches at a snotty skinny-person party.
As always the event was, well, eventful.
Ever wondered what it was like to attend a fancy-schmancy book party thrown in honor of Sudanese supermodel, Alek Wek? Well, yesterday we decided to crash Wek's downtown bash at Socialista to find out what happens when 300 or so fashion snobs stop being polite…and start getting real ridiculously drunk on Mojitos.
And we weren't the least bit disappointed. While we explored the cramped two-floor event space and downed champagne in a sincere—and selfless!—effort at fitting in, we spied on various washed-up reality stars and ran into our old friend Patrick Huguenin from the NYDN (whom, we're told, "screeched with joy" at Diane von Furstenberg's arrival) as well as the lovely Jennifer Barton (a newbie associate editor for Fashion Week Daily) who shamed/intimidated us with her tres chic accessories such as a "working tape recorder," "ballpoint pen" and "standard reporter's notebook."
Fortunately, we were able to flag down just enough mango margaritas to keep from blowing our cover, and even managed to jot down a few astute observations. Our fuzzy, morning-after recollections, after the jump.
Editorial Director
