Punta Day 2: Breaking & Entering

Remember in childhood P.E. classes the dreaded running game known as a “relay race?” You’d pass off a baton, ball, stick, or rock (pending on the funding of your elementary school’s P.E. program) panting like a maniac trying to beat the opposing team.

The process described above is similar to how we attended La Huella’s Lacoste party.

First, a little background: Punta parties operate on a bracelet system. No bracelet equals no entry. Some bracelets are mailed out months beforehand with invitations. Some are acquired three or four days before the party, usually by visiting the ranch, mansion or estate where the house party is being held and checking in with a secretary in the foyer to see if you’re

a) On the list and
b) Eligible for a bracelet

Note: While this system is helpful in that it forces you to do a daytime drive to the party location so you’re less likely to get lost the night of, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. If there’s already a list, why not use it at the door on the night of the party? Instead, Punta people like to make you drive out into the wilderness where the party is held to be checked out in person, make sure you’re on the list, and then fork over a bracelet i.e. entry key to the best open bar of your life. Show up with a lot of hot girls, and for one name on the list you might acquire several bracelets.

This is a system we eventually mastered – wait till you here the four-security-checkpoint- Arab-Prince’s-party entry story on Day 9. On Day 2 however, and since the Lacoste party is notoriously difficult since they utilize a bracelet AND list system at the door (unheard of), we had to revert to elementary school P.E. strategies.

The following parallels the riddle where you have farm animals that eat each other, which you must transport across a river in one boat:

Our party of five friends had one name on the list (with no bracelet), one used bracelet (with no name on the list) and three people with nothing but their good looks and charm, which weren’t going to go very far since Ralph Lauren Polo and Lacoste models were in attendance by the dozen. We were also already in trouble with the doorman since our friend whose name was on the list asked if we could come in with her. This angered the doorman so much that he practically spit into his electronic headset and didn’t even her in.

The entrance looked something like this, with tons of camera crews and paparazzi interviewing the Brazilian and Argentine starlets, and me snapping photos of the paparazzi just to shake up the world order and piss people off.



I saw Giuseppe Cipriani, already inside, at the door. I thought about soliciting his help, then realized that even though he’s slept with three of my best friends, he probably has absolutely no idea who I am. Even one of Giuseppe’s trusty sidekicks who’s my Tribeca neighbor told me that tonight was, “really tight.” They couldn’t do anything.

Cavalli, being sly, cunning, and quick, utilized our used-bracelet to get past security check point number 1 and using the jumbled crowd as a diversion, snuck past security check point number 2 where they were checking names off a list.

So we had one person in out of five.

Then good fortune struck.

In the parking lot, I complimented a stunning 40-year-old woman in a flowing Versace gown on her beautiful dress. She happened to be Italian. So we chit chatted away as her lover/boyfriend/husband revved their convertible Mercedes and checked himself out in the rearview mirror. I casually filled her in on our situation (that we were trying to get our entire friends group of five inside) and she ecstatically offered:

“Here! Take my bracelet. Beautiful! You should be inside having a good time.”

In what looked like an extremely painful process, she somehow pulled the very tight, seemingly child size, bracelet off her wrist and over her hand (note: a broken bracelet has no value). She then slid into her convertible with a smile. She and her Romeo sped off with a wave.

The pain we endure: Next, my two friends had to slide this teeny, anorexic wrist size bracelet over my significantly larger hand. It took five minutes and some Chap Stick lubricant, but we did it. And I strutted through the bracelet VIP entrance and the list entrance, never stopping, never looking back. And our girlfriend who was on the list and previously rejected pointed out me walking through to bouncer, who realized we might be legit, and let her in as well.

Now we were three in out five.

Sadly, the moment I regained feeling in my hand and was about to enjoy a Mojito, Cavalli snatched my drink away and we had to work on pulling the bracelet off my wrist so he could relay it to our other girlfriend outside. She snuck past the list entry (it was still extremely crowded) and we had 4 out of 5. Then I put the Italian woman’s bracelet back on and relayed Cavalli’s used bracelet to our last male friend in the parking lot, stuffing the bracelet into his pants pocket as I pretended to chat with him over the gate. Unfortunately, by this time the crowd at the list table had thinned, and when I reentered they tried to stop me.

Years of going out in New York without a legit ID taught me a very important lesson: Never stop walking. Play deaf, play ‘the bulldozer,’ play mute, because if you stop walking, and turn, and talk, and engage authority figures at the door in any kind conversation you’re fucked. You just have to plow through, and come to find out – they’re very rarely going to physically stop you. So when the now-bored list-girl started calling out to me in Spanish:

“Stop! You have to have your name checked off the list. Stop!” I just kept walking, held up my bracelet-ed wrist and said in Italian “I was already inside.” She touched my arm and I kept walking, never turning my head and repeated, “I was already inside.”

And I was through. End of story. I relocated another drink and focused on enjoying what was the most elaborate party I’d ever been to.

Open bars and bonfire grills were spread across the beach. Like an additional beat of the music, you could hear the crashing waves. Amazingly glazed shrimp skewers, gourmet mini pizzas with corn, sushi, sausages, baby lamb imported from Patagonia, and stuffed tomatoes and vegetables roasted to perfection were circulated around by waiters in a never-ending supply. In addition to utilizing La Huella’s restaurant and deck space, they’d erected a huge tent with additional chef stations and a dance floor on the beach. All the areas were interconnected with boardwalks, which ruined the stiletto heels I’d worn that night. Basically, it was like the most extravagant wedding on the planet without the wedding part. One of my girlfriends loved the food so much that she got Head Chef’s contact info for when she eventually ties the knot.

And it didn’t stop there. For dessert, chocolate soufflés were floating around. There were also several ice cream stands and of course, Lacoste shaped cookies.

The two highlights of the evening were as follows:

1. When drunk, I started rudely laughing at one of the Uruguayan ambassadors relatives who claimed that Shakira had “ruined” his Jose Ignacio neighborhood by importing paparazzi and police. I think I uttered something classy like, “You’re ridiculously obnoxious, man,” and then spit up champagne through my nose.

2. When we were treated to an impromptu fireworks show on the beach. Here’s what I managed to capture of it. Enjoy!

Blasting Out

So we made it through Christmas only slightly scathed, and I realize I’ve also been trashing New York New Years right and left. I guess the question on everyone’s mind is ‘Well Model Behavior, since you’ve trash talked every end of the year activity known to man, what are you doing for New Years?”

Answer: I blasting out of this city like Buzz Light Year and flying down south. Way south. Think equator.

I’m going to a mythical adult play land in Uruguay called Punta del Este.

Never heard of it?

Neither had I until some irresponsible, partying, miscreant of a playboy planted the idea of going to Punta del Este for New Years in my head two years ago. He painted me a ridiculously vivid picture of endless beaches, a classier Mykonos on steroids, horses, polo, golf, fashion shows, breakfast on sea side cafés watching the sun rise, and clubbing till dawn, while still reminding me that the “real” parties took place in private mega-mansions that the hosts had spent eleven of the past twelve months preparing for. He described security, endless barbeques, five hundred person lawn parties, all conceived by Brazil and Argentina’s elite.

The Punta trip has been a dirty secret of mine ever since this encounter. This year, it’s actually happening.

According to about.com, my guy’s word picture wasn’t too far off:

Punta del Este, Uruguay is called the St. Tropez of Uruguay for its miles of beautiful, pristine beaches, its upscale and exclusive resort tradition, famed nightlife, and the wealth of its summer visitors. For decades Punta del Este was an exclusive resort for wealthy South Americans, and it is still expensive, but not as much as famed European and US resort areas. Punta del Este offers a relaxed life style. It is geared to vacationers who get a late morning start. Hotel dining rooms and services may be open before noon, but the rest of the city may not be. Dinners are late, at 10 PM or later, and discos go until dawn, allowing revelers to see both the sun rise and set over water. The Cipriani Lido at the Cipriani Punta del Este Resort in La Barra is one of the hottest spots in town.

See? You can never escape Giuseppe Cipriani, not even down by the equator. According to my sources, Giuseppe frolics around on his boat in Punta every year. I’ll try to avoid him, which shouldn’t be too difficult since there’s a frightening amount of social activities going on. I was recently copied on what appears to be a Punta partier’s Bible, a mass email called ‘The Agenda.’ ‘The Agenda’s’ so spectacularly long that I took my beloved iPhone three downloads to ingest it. ‘The Agenda’ is a piece of work so detailed and so organized that I remained in awe of it – like I should give it some bound cover and place it in a unique mahogany stand with lapis. This is a powerful document one feels they should pray to.

To let you in on the kind of stuff we’re talking about, I’m providing an excerpt of ‘The Agenda’ here:

Dec 26: Beach - Opening Personal Beach , Playa Brava de José Ignacio.
Dec 26: Beach - Opening Playa Movistar en Montoya Beach.
Dec 26: Golf - Copa Tudor - Brela en Cantegrill Country Club.
Dec 26: Event - Fashion Show of Oscar Alvarez at Club del Lago Hotel - Contact: María Shaw Difusión -094416366 - .
Dec 26: Opening Kandy Bar La Barra - Opens from 9 am to 5 am - Breakfast, lunch, dinner and disco, by Hotel Montoya. Contact: Diego Velázquez

Exhausted yet? Keep in mind we just covered 1 of the 18 days listed in 'The Agenda.'

Impressive, right?

I happen to know the genius who created this masterful organizational compilation is a woman, and I plan on making out with her in gratitude the first chance I get.

So my bags are packed, and if that schedule serves as any hint, I’m going to be a pretty busy girl. Don’t worry as I’ll be recording all the juicy gossip in my journal as I’ve made an executive decision to leave both my iPhone and my laptop locked up in my New York desk drawer. It’s kinda of like a New York girl’s version of “Into the Wild,” although I do plan on purchasing a Uruguayan disposable phone and trying to score some local numbers. I’ll throw a flare or two in my Fendi in case I get stranded or things get really rocky. I don’t speak Spanish, and have never been farther South than San Diego. Worried? Nah. I’m fearless. Bring on the bison, barbeques and Latin American princes. Anyone who’d like me to find them a husband feel free to post your specifications in my comment box.

So while I won’t be officially blogging until my return in mid-January, Model Behavior is NOT shutting down. I’ve planned all sorts of surprise entertainment to amuse you’ll while I’m off sunning next to a turquoise sea with two Latin body builders simultaneously massaging my spine – that’s the kind of nice person I am. So be back looking for updates and check out the archives…and please, have a crappy happy New Year. I’ll be thinking of you all!

Christmas Wishes and Non-Existent Karaoke

I call Christmas Stress-mus. And my Holiday wish it that would cause us angst every other year instead of every eleven months.

Wouldn’t that be great?

If Christmas came every other year it might help the season actually feel ‘authentic’ and ‘special.’ The idea of gift shopping might evoke emotions of love and charity instead of nauseating visions of shoppers sword fighting each other at Macy’s and even worse –
trying to find parking at the mall. I realize some people like the inevitable strain, travel, traffic, fake cheer, financial exploitation and family time that comes with Christmas, but I’d even vote for celebrating it every four years. Like the Olympics! Then I’d get really excited about it!

It’s my belief the hullabaloo that comes with the holidays is just too much for us frail human beings to handle every single year. I think medical authorities would back me up on this. Don’t we deserve a break? If Christmas came less often, heart attacks and other stress related illnesses might go down over twenty percent! Who needs Christmas every year?

My life’s frankly quite fulfilling without spending hours locked in my family’s basement like an Indonesian child laborer wrapping a stack of presents higher than the fire’s mantelpiece. My life’s fulfilling without pretending to enjoy decorating a perfectly good fur tree that belongs in a forest with chirping birds and sun. Ultimately, it’s the shopping and commercialization of Christmas that gets to me – not any of the Holiday’s underlying values. And then we get to the worst part of all…Pink Elephant’s attempt at December decoration:




Is this really necessary?

Even a miserly, non-charitable establishment like Pink Elephant had to get on the Holiday bandwagon?

Is there no sanctuary?

Karaoke

On Wednesday, I hustled myself into the cold, intent on reporting what was to be the SoHo club’s Upstairs’ first Karaoke night. Sound like a carbon copy of Giuseppe’s ingenious idea to turn Sunday nights into a festival of alcoholism and embarrassment at Cipriani’s Upstairs?

It is.

Those you who’ve watched my video footage / soundtrack of Cipriani’s on karaoke night can understand why I kept my iPod buds handy while climbing the staircase to Upstairs – karaoke in New York clubs is like audible shit. If you’re eardrums aren’t completely desensitized from drunkenness hearing it may make you shriek. Yet as I entered the club, I saw a DJ, heard normal music, and saw no one slobbering over a mike. The karaoke screen hung at the very far end of the bar, stark white and barely visible.

Apparently, Upstairs had experienced “technical difficulties.” Karaoke was nixed and it was a night like any other. I let out an audible gasp of relief.

Sure I’d been lured out of my house on a Wednesday night under false pretenses. But Cipriani’s is bad enough. The last thing this city needs if for the clubbing karaoke idea to spread like Christmas decorations.

Oh! And are you short on Christmas gift ideas? How about getting your favorite douche or douchette this delightful Pink Elephant snow cap?

Kill Me Karaoke Videos

Karaoke rarely sounds good, but it’s usually not this bad.

You guessed it. This time around at Cipriani’s Upstairs’ weekly Sunday night shit-faced singing shebang I had the genius to videotape what was going on. I wanted visual and auditory proof of the ridiculousness because I don’t feel anyone who reads this blog can fully understand what an embarrassment this entire establishment is to the human condition.

For juicy background details on Sunday’s at Cipriani’s Upstairs check out my previous article.

The brief 411: models, modophiles, creepy Italian men, Giuseppe, gold diggers and extremely drunk partiers gather together on Sunday nights in this private club to enjoy spending a few thousand on tables while singing along to karaoke.

DON’T EVEN WALK UP THE NARROW STAIRS TO CIP’S IF YOU’RE GOING TO STUMBLE.

You must attend this party entirely inebriated. Not doing so will result in death, as I’m pretty sure any sober person would hang themselves with a tablecloth from the rafters mere moments after having to endure this adult sing along.

Bartok and I prepared appropriately. We consumed an entire water bottle full of Bacardi and Diet Coke on the walk from my place to West Broadway. Then we jumped around like apes at Diva as the lounge was celebrating its Four Year Anniversary with a Euro dance party starting at 8 P.M. The Diva party was noteworthy, and I’d like to take the time to write about the fabulous Enrique look alike DJ, the relaxed vibe, and the delicious aromatic seafood at another date. For now, just know that Diva served at the perfect vodka heavy pre-gaming event to our eventual arrival at Cipriani’s across the street at 12:30 A.M.

So here you go. It’s dark, my camerawork sucks, the visuals are bad. What’s more noteworthy is the singing – or lack there of. What’s amazing is that when you’re standing on top of a table at this party, you actually feel like a superstar. Looking at these videos, in retrospect, you can barely even decipher what song is playing. Even the karaoke machine sounds like it’s on crack.

Observe my drunken genius in Video 1, as I attempted to create a lighting system for my movie with a candle.

Observe the cocktail waitresses slithering together on the bar in Video 2.

And please, don’t judge me.

Socialista Ain’t Social

I’d like to take a quick moment to ridicule Tenjune’s failed attempt at Halloween décor. See below:
What is that stuff? Bubble gum? Strewn cotton candy? An effort at spider webs? If so, why is it the color of Pepto-Bismol? Note that the crowd seemed generally happy. No one seemed disturbed by this plentiful pink nastiness but me.



This week I finally got myself to Jane Street and West Side Highway to check out Socialista. Was I excited? Not really. I’d just had one too many people ask me ‘Have you been to Socialista yet?’ and was sick of replying in the negative. My underlying motivation for going however, remains that the place is co-owned by my favorite Mafioso Italian in the city, Giuseppe Cipriani along with former Bungalow 8 doorman Armin Amiri. I felt I owed it to Giuseppe to check out his latest creation of exclusivity and frivolity. Just for fun.

On the cab ride over, my friend warned me to lower my expectations.

“They sort of pride themselves on the place always being empty,” he said.

Sigh.

Now I was bracing myself for a sight worse than Rose Bar on a Saturday night – the pool table gathering dust and the place so quiet you can hear scurrying cockroaches. I feel the whole ‘exclusivity’ by keeping a place empty tactic is kind of like cheating. It takes a lot more hard work, energy and talent to keep a club full than it does to just turn everyone away. But then again, that’s assuming these establishments want to make money, which for Socialista isn’t the case. It just exists as Giuseppe and Armin’s ‘pet project.’



Upon ascending the rickety staircase to the main bar my first thought was: “Really? So much freakin’ hype for this?” The place looked like a frail haunted house, and that’s without Halloween decorations. As promised, it was empty. Eight other patrons. Two bar tenders. A DJ. That’s it.

But after ordering a drink and settling into one of the many plush and available mauve couches, the place began to grow on me. The design is minimal, Cuban-style. I felt like I’d landed on the Hollywood set used to shoot Casablanca, which is actually pretty cool. The lounge’s relaxed vibe suggested that a Rick type character might push through the kitchen’s wooden shutters at any time and serenade me with “As Time Goes By.” The fans, the white washed walls, the quiet. Socialista felt like our living room away from home. Which wasn’t what I was expecting at all.



As we got increasingly drunk, we became mesmerized by this Van Gough-like painting to the right of the bar. At first I thought it was a cat with bound feet, but then I starting noticing and counting all the geese.

So there’s everyone’s weekend homework. How many geese do you see?

Pains and Plans

So scratch everything I wrote yesterday about Tavern on the Green capitalizing on Halloween most effectively, I think Giuseppe Cipriani and Roberto Cavalli are going to win the prize. My prediction is that their Halloween event at Cipriani’s 42nd Street on Wednesday is going to put all other activities to shame – and don’t worry, it’s only $200 for general admission (and to think I was impressed by Tavern’s $40 cover…). I highly recommend checking out this randonkulous promo video some underpaid marketing intern at Cipriani’s Incorporated put together for the event here. The link will lead you to ticket and table purchasing info as well if you’ve got some extra Halloween money to burn. If it’s any consolation, I think some of the dough is going to charity.

How exactly remains unclear…



If you don’t want to fork over hundreds of dollars to have a ‘fun’ Halloween, but still want to wait outside in line for hours, I suggest Buddha Bar’s ‘good and evil’ themed event. You decide if you want to show up as an angel or devil, so basically hope of seeing any creative costumes is nil. You can view the official online invite with table price quotes here.

HEAVEN & HELL HALLOWEEN NIGHT
Wednesday, October 31st
Good & Evil will collide at
BUDDHA BAR
Featuring
DJ Stephane Pompougnac
Doors open at 9PM
25 Little West 12th Street

Meatpacking District, NYC
Good or Evil Costume Mandatory

Note the “Costume Mandatory” part of this invitation. Don’t think I’ll be going just because I don’t like the idea of a club telling me what to do, least of all telling me what I can and cannot wear. Besides, angels and devils? Could it get anymore boring than that?

I’ve always liked small clubs where you can check everyone out with one eye glance across the room. I’ve never been a huge Buddha Bar fan since the place is large enough to stable sixty horses. The club’s size makes it difficult to fill up, and frighteningly easy to get lost in. And last time I was there, women were making out with each other in the center of the dance floor surround by men tossing one-dollar bills in their direction. Classy? I think not. Granted Pink is despicable, but to their credit, I’ve never seen women in there act like common strippers. Men acting like strippers, maybe…

The low-key option is Bust-a-Move NYC’s (the more mature Italian rivals of the promotion group Made in Italy NYC) party at I Tre Merli, info below.

Dear friends and friends of friends,
THIS IS A REMINDER FOR THE HALLOWEEN PARTY
ON WEDNESDAY AT I TRE MERLI.
FREE ENTRANCE
WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 31
Please join
DJs MASSI & LUCA
@
I TRE MERLI
463 West Broadway Between Prince & Houston Street

This invite gets five Model Behavior stars. Note the word “Free” (who doesn’t love that word?) and that there’s NO mention of costumes / requirements / competitions whatsoever.

In local non-Halloween related news, my DVR suffered a mental relapse and thinks it’s the week of October 15th. This means a week’s worth of my precious programming disappeared into the ether, and I’m never going to get it back. I’d call my cable company to complain, but most interactions I have via phone with Time Warner leave me feeling like I’ve suffered a mental relapse myself. And I need all the brain cells I can get right now. Especially since this song, which I’ve kindly featured below, has been slowly but surely decreasing my intelligence for the past month it’s been stuck in my head. Enjoy watching will.i.am (Get it? Get it? It’s the worst rap name double-entendre ever) molest girls on a beach.

Not My Normal Stomping Grounds

Those of you interested in reading more about Made in Italy’s weekly party can do so here at a review I wrote for PMBuzz.com, complete with pictures.

Recently, I was taken aside by a friend who pointed out that considering the title of my blog, perhaps I should attempt to party more at model hangouts as opposed to places where I can ogle hot foreign guys. Business over pleasure. I begrudgingly agreed. I mean, I can’t write about Pink Elephant forever. Speaking of which, Pink’s celebrating its three-year anniversary this week – details below.

Please Join The 
Pink Elephant Family

For Our 3 Year Anniversary

With 3 Nights Of Celebration

Wednesday, October 10th

Brandon Davis and Andy Valmorbida

Host an Event Introducing Ariva
 With DJ Rocktakon



Thursday, October 11th

Resident DJ Marco Peruzzi
Opens For
 Superstar DJ Roger Sanchez.



Friday, October 12th

We Cap Off The Celebrations
With
DJ Mitch, L.J. from St. Tropez




Pink Elephant 
527 West 27th Street New York

So last night I veered away from my normal stomping grounds. Being out on a Tuesday was a kind of novelty in itself. First we hit Cipriani’s Upstairs, where don’t worry – absolutely nothing has changed. Giuseppe was there with his usual mix of businessmen and models (with out his son this time). Foreign promoters were there, most of who passed the night nervously rearranging everyone’s seating arrangement at their table, attempting to showcase hot girls in front and an appropriate man-woman ratio. What happens to these poor promoters if they have one too many men too near a bottle of champagne? Are they instantly fired? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Next we swung over to Goldbar. It was still early, so I enjoyed viewing the establishment’s stunning art collection for the first time sober.

In broad terms, Goldbar pisses me off. The door’s extremely tight and the place is never packed. They’re super snoody and won’t let patrons take pictures inside, and no, I don’t think this is to protect the artwork (I really doubt they’re hanging paintings that valuable in place where people come to get shitfaced and often climb/fall into the walls). I guess Goldbar’s just really paranoid someplace else will copy their gold skull décor, really the only thing Goldbar has to distinguish itself from every other wanna-be bar in the city. I also happen to think Goldbar’s music sucks, and the DJ works purely off a little Apple computer similar to mine. You’d think if the place could afford a thousand gold skulls they could scrape together the money for a decent DJ booth and stereo system, but no. And considering the outrageously overpriced drinks, you’d also think they’d be able to hire a real DJ, someone who knew how to play something other than bad eighties pop tunes. I’ve just never been a fan of Goldbar’s energy. Granted after enough champagne I was doing the ‘head nod’ dancing in my chair thing a bit. Still, I wasn’t sad to leave.

Our last stop was Tenjune. Tuesday’s apparently the ‘it’ night and when I entered, I was blown away. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party playing hip-hop music that the whole clubbing experience began to feel like a novelty. Literally everywhere I go out in the city plays house or a house-based mix with rock. At Tenjune, everyone was rocking out to Kanye West and clearly loving it. It was just so…American. And as we all had predicted, there were models everywhere. You could round up various ‘looks’ by the dozen. So men in search of models, your quest ends here. Tenjune’s door also didn’t seem particularly strict to me, so even if you’re not a model I don’t think you’d have any issues getting in. The place was annoyingly overcrowded, but the energy was noteworthy. And when you’re being forced to rub against a lot of six foot one Slovak girls, who’s complaining about being shoved around a little? Everyone seemed generally good-natured considering the lack of space, definitely a friendlier, younger atmosphere than Pink.

Tenjune’s music quality actually surprised me. I thought hip-hop tunes would dominate all night, but the DJ actually mixed in some Motown, excellent eighties remixes and even a few of my favorite house tunes. Yes, I still bailed at 2 am. But at least I attempted to broaden my horizons and managed to have some deep conversations about New York relationships with an older and wiser friend. A report on that part of the evening is to come…

***

From wholesale handbags one often ends up with exemplary handbags. Even in jewellery, sometime fashion jewelry is right under the heap in from of you. Learn from this and do go to the sales of bras and other lingerie.

Box Gets Busted

As if Giuseppe’s tax evasion fine and the threat of Cipriani’s losing its liquor license didn’t put a big enough damper on the summer, now local downtown hotspot The Box has been raided by the NYPD. Full Page Six story here. Apparently, no one was allowed to leave the club and police searched patrons. I think that’s every club-goers worst nightmare. A cop in your face checking your ID in the middle of the night while your shaking your booty to Timbaland is a major buzz kill. This exact raid scenario was a reoccurring nightmare of mine when I was partying underage in NYC with a chalked extra US Passport of mine that said I was twenty-four. And even though I’ve progressed to past legal drinking age, this paranoia hasn’t gone away. I still feel like I might get caught and grounded in a juvenile detention center whenever I’m having a good time.

I’m interested to see if The Box will drop on New Yorker’s hip meter after this embarrassing scenario. I’m sure glad I missed this run-in with the law, although I’d love to have seen the policemen’s expressions when they burst in and busted the joint. I wonder if they entered during the S&M stunt with the Russian twins or during the singing transvestite solo (he lifts and swaggers beer bottles between his ass cheeks). Monday I’ll start asking around and try to find out...

Cipriani Tax Evasion & August Evacuation

So anyone who reads this blog on even a semi-consistent basis knows that I’m not into celebrity gossip, nor do choose to write about it. I really don’t care how many babies Britney’s dropped or how many DUIs and drug arrests Lindsay’s acquired. Paris going to jail barely piqued my interest, but when we’re talking about scandals involving eligible Italian bachelors, suddenly you’ve got my attention.

Since Giuseppe Cipriani is a personality I’ve written about previously in this blog, and since I frequent his theoretically ‘members only’ downtown club (and briefly worked there), I felt compelled to report yesterday’s breaking news – that Giuseppe and his dad Arrigo pleaded guilty to evading $10 million in New York state and city taxes. They ain’t serving jail time, but will have the pay the dough back and utilize an independent tax monitor at the family businesses until 2011. In my personal experience with Giuseppe, he’s never been anything but reserved, courteous, and kind. Yes he’s slept with half my attractive female friends, but if I were in his position, I probably would too. Despite the legitimate rumors of him being a notorious playboy, I’ve never heard him described by those who know him as anything other than a gentleman (and apparently his downtown apartment is ‘spectacular.’)

Since Cajun boy is intensely worried about my excessive over indulgence in Euro trash hot spots (as am I), I didn’t attend my regularly scheduled night of karaoke debauchery at Cipriani’s downtown this Sunday. But an insider emailed me this report:

I saw Giuseppe on Sunday night upstairs; he was very calm, enjoying himself as always... Not something that you could normally do, if you were going to get nailed for 10mill, 48 hours later, right?

They probably evaded much more than what they are paying.... Plus they probably cut a deal, where they would plead guilty to make the justice system look good.... Nothing like a high profile case, to give the impression of the system working!

Plus Giuseppe just bought a Falcon (Private Plane), that is worth 24 million... What's 10mil to him and his group? And I am pretty sure they can pay in installments, again probably part of the deal...

So the plot thickens, right? Last Sunday was considered Cipriani’s Upstairs final night since all of their ‘members only’ clientele are evacuating New York for the month of August. So we’ll have to wait until September for more juicy Giuseppe gossip.

Speaking of city evacuations, I, Model Behavior, am following suit. I take off tonight from JFK at 6 pm to cross the pond. This is presuming AlItalia can successfully fly; they’ve been technically bankrupted for over a year. Maybe they should’ve spent less money on their Armani designed red and green uniforms (which are HOT, don’t get wrong) and focused more on restructuring the company so it didn’t utilize the government as an operating crutch. But let’s not venture down the unsteady and shady road that is Italian politics. I arrive at Milan’s Malpensa airport at 8 am tomorrow morning where I have a lengthy layover before hopping another flight to Athens. But don’t worry about me. Model Behavior and Malpensa airport have a very intimate, intense relationship. I’m actually looking forward to spending some quality time in the 40 kilometer outside of the city center airport complex where I’ve began relationships, ended them, cried so hard I’ve been promoted to first class, bought my favorite Feragamo purse, and had lengthy yet fondly memorable arguments with the Italian VAT employers. Since one of my closest Italian girlfriends and ex-roommate became a flight attendant for AlItalia and was based out of Malpensa, I also know employee ins and out of the airport like the back of my hand. So off I go to Greece. I have a full and exciting itinerary, and have been guaranteed wifi access, so this blog will continue with as little disruption as possible after tomorrow.

If you miss me Thursday, read about more nights that ended at Cipriani's or check out the tale of my last Euro August summer vacation Let’s see if I can top that!