NEW YORK--At long last, your blogstress has made it to the Land of Oz, that mystical city that served, if not as the place of her birth, the birth of your Webwench's worklife. At the age of 18, your cybertrix, then of long hennaed hair and a rust-colored Qiana body shirt, assumed her place at the reception desk of a fabric showroom on West 40th Street. But enough about her. (Yeah, right.)
Manhattan has been overtaken by the Republicans, their protesting nemeses and an assortment of law enforcement outfits. Fifth Avenue has never before seen so many Stetsons of the cowboy variety, leaving one to dread next season's imperative reinterpretation of Texas chic, a phenomenon that cries for a collaboration between Ralph Lauren and Arnold Scaasi--then to be, no doubt, sent up by Marc Jacobs and Isaac Mizrahi for Target.
While the string-ties prowl the East Side, Grand Central Terminal is watched over by soldiers in combat fatigues, wielding semi-automatic rifles. The forest fatigues do little to conceal their presence. One would have thought that SOME-one could have designed faux-marble-patterned togs that would have performed far better in that palatial environment. (Isaac Mizrahi, are you listening?)
Welcome, B-listers!
When New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg throws a party, he obviously makes sure to know his clientele. His timing, however, is less precise. At least that seemed to be the case at last night's giant media bash at the Time-Warner Center, a new palace of consumption sprung from the ashes of the old New York Coliseum at Columbus Circle. In keeping with journalists' reputations as gluttons for free eats, miniaturized versions of various delectables flowed 'til evening's end, along with free booze and free magazines (courtesy of those nice People at Time-Warner). Entertainment ranged from the sages of Jazz at Lincoln Center to men in harlequin-patterned spandex, encased in blue neon and wearing some sort of newfangled curved stilts with jumping springs in them.
Despite her love for spandex, your blogstress could have done without the harlequin-neon-stilt-men, and arrived too fashionably late for the jazzmen (which really is a pity), but did take in a swell act by a troupe called "Street Beats." The Beats perform a variety of prettied-up street arts, from bucket- and trash-can percussion to a form of dance that brings together modern and break-dancing. However fun their schtick is, your cybertrix could not help noting that only one of the players, Earl the bucket-king, is African-American. She spoke for a moment to the group's founder, a young man who calls himself Zoilo, who grew up in Westchester County. That being said, your blogstress admits to having been raised in perhaps the most vanilla town in Northern New Jersey. And that hasn't stopped her from trying to sing like Sarah Vaughan.
As for the timing of things, His Honor was a day early and a few dollars long, as few of the pooh-bahs of Medialand had yet to take up their luxe digs in New York's finer hotels. Our good friend, media maven Mr. Winken Nod, tried to forewarn. "It's only gonna be a bunch of lame producers," he said. He was right. Well, except for Don King.
Though the food was quite good, your blogstress, being a woman of hearty appetites, is not easily satisfied with morsels, preferring instead a full plate of macaroni or, say, half a duck. So she amused herself in other ways.
For this special affair, your cyberscribe donned the classic little black dress to great effect. It never ceases to amaze her how certain iconic garments reflexively turn the heads of unwitting straight men. Old men, middle-aged men, men young enough to be your blogstress's--well, never mind (poolboy?)--they all seemed to take note. (Alas, the young women were notably less impressed.) Just goes to show you how distractible the other sex is by little more than eyeliner and a well-corseted figure. Straight men are easy, they say--except for those complicated, spiritual types. (You know who you are.)
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