Phew. Award season is over. Whether you are pleased with the results of the Oscar winners (I am), or the Oscar telecast (I’m not), or the Red Carpet gowns (I’m OK overall) or the constant coverage (I’m exhausted), you have to be somewhat relieved that the barrage of celebrity overload is over…for now. Look, I, too, love celebrity culture, but you have to admit, with the rise in urgency of every award show (including the Razzies), we are now chock-full of Gabourey Sidibe (someone tell her to stop screaming), Jason Reitman (your daddy directed Kindergarten Cop, stop thanking him) and (the non-feud between) Kathryn Bigelow and James Cameron. (From the looks of the new Mrs. C., Kathryn got out in the nick of time, figure in tact.) We have not heard an update in the media from Haiti, outside of Sean Penn‘s valiant efforts and surly no one gives a hoot about Chile. “Yes, it has been unseasonably chilly in Los Angeles this award season.” Is probably what is on everyone’s lips.
Anyway, let me take you away, like a Calgon bath, to a place where people really don’t matter. Where Jennifer Lopez would sooner be caught dead, and ne’er a Marchesa dress is worn. That is the New York party scene. Flocks of wanna-bes and never wases fill the cavernous nightclubs and retail events in an effort to catch the thrill and feel like a celebrity(ish), albeit a really sad version. Limelight and celebrity are two different things, but, you gotta love people for their vain, little attempts at fabulosity. Herewith are some folks that will never go to the Vanity Fair after party and clearly not the Governor’s Ball…well, maybe to the Governor Patterson Sayonara Soiree.