One girl’s journey
from Naive Nerd ---> Model in Milan ---> Writer in Manhattan.
Attempting to bring you
fresh, witty, and often
poignant stories.
BENVENUTO
The charges had something to do with liquor license violations and a legal problem with the sound system. All I focused on was trying to hide my inherent panic: Where would I go to hear Hip Hop and Bruce Springsteen in the same night? Where would men go to meet models age sixteen and under? Where would Leonardo Di Caprio go to schmooze low key with his entourage?
Separately, my Friday night out was a nightlife disaster. A going out abortion. And I still want a do-over. I won’t bore anyone with the tragic details, but I’ll say it started at the Black & Light Ball which while festive, would’ve been much more entertaining had I consumed hallucinogenics, beta-blockers or even just liquor before attending. That’s my own fault for leaving my apartment sober and wearing outrageously uncomfortable shoes.
I then voyaged to Made in Italy at Mansion which was such a horrifying hive of undulating, wasted, slithering bodies that I left after twenty minutes. CallingMansion ‘overcrowded’ would be an understatement. Not only that, there was no liquor in sight and I didn’t consider body surfing to the bar a viable option – so I remained sober even longer.
Next I tried my luck at the usually fail-proof Upstairs, only to discover Leonardo Di Caprio happened to be frequenting the place, and therefore the security guards were treating patrons like undervalued cattle. So we made a quick detour to 1Oak, and when it became apparent they weren’t going to let anyone in at 4:15 AM, we drove aimlessly around the city before arriving it home.
Going out too much can make you feel crazy. No locale however can compete on the crazy scale with The Box, Manhattan’s whacky version of a Freak Show, Cabaret, and Dinner Theater rolled tightly into one notoriously high-priced package. All the glittery songs, stripping, contortionists, and acts of defilement start at $2,000 minimum just to sit at a table, further bottle minimums apply after that. FULL ARTICLE HERE.
For those of you who can't make it to New York, enjoy a scandal or are just curious, below’s an ‘Inside The Box’ photo and video tour, mainly the late night crudities since I didn’t get there till 3 AM. Be forewarned that nudity is involved. For my original Box impressions back in 2007 when it first opened, fly here.
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!
This comprehensive website outlines every single New York club / bar hosting overpriced New Years festivities and allows you to purchase tickets (all in the $100 and up range) for entry, an open bar, and the privilege of being allowed to watch the ball drop in their establishment.
Frightening: This website also has a New Years countdown clock. Like right now it’s 26 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes and 30 seconds till January 1.
Grrraaar! Who cares!?!!?!?!?
Now while $120 may seem reasonable for a 4-hour open bar, don’t be fooled. These people are selling tickets to capacity. Even if you make it into the club without being trampled, your chances of body surfing toward the bar and then actually succeeding in getting a bar tender’s attention are about as likely as Pink Elephant miraculously going bankrupt. It ain’t going to happen. You’re essentially paying to rub up against people…and if that’s your thing, go for it.
In selecting a New York New Years locale, I also highly suggest choosing something within walking distance of where you plan on passing out that night. It’s more likely you’ll stumble across a leprechaun with a pot of gold than a free taxi. And even if you see a free cab, you’ll most likely have to club your fellow Manhatteners to get it. So put a crowbar in your purse.
Now that we’ve covered that horrific topic, onto more bad news… MANGO one of my favorite European semi-affordable designers has taken up residence on Broadway near Prince Street in SoHo. Now I know what you’re all thinking:
“Model Behavior, shouldn’t you be happy one of your favorite clothing stores is now available walking distance from where you live?”
Me: “NO!”
Perhaps 60% of the chicer part of my wardrobe is Mango, and until now it looked incredibly coveted and unique.
“Amazing top,” some girl would say, “Where can I get it?”
“You can’t,” I’d reply. “It’s Ming by Mango. Only in Europe.”
She’d be crestfallen and I’d get style points, which I need. Despite a background in the world of fashion I have very little natural fashion sense. Am I a bit evil? Perhaps. But Mango was my special thing, and now that they have a Zara-like department store on Broadway.
Nothing’s sacred. In addition, word’s out that Penelope Cruz is designing for them. I saw her on a Mango billboard and was like, “Yikes, she’s getting old. Good thing she’s pulling in these last minute endorsement deals.”
Now I find out she’s also designing the clothes! Shouldn’t that be left to the professionals? Why aren’t actor-models ever content just being actor-models? Why do they always have to sing, make a fragrance or start a handbag line?
I worry, because the last time I saw Penelope Cruz in Union Square she looked like she’d gotten dressed in a dumpster. And I don’t really buy the whole “woe is me the superstar, I’m trying to blend in excuse,” because she’d have had more success blending in wearing jeans and a sweater rather than the black, wool, seemingly lice-infested mui mui she’d awkwardly wrapped around her frail body: an outfit so horrific I noticed it before I noticed her.
This is the person who’s now designing for my once-favorite, once-Euro, now Americanized clothing store. None of that’s going to be on my Christmas list.
I previously mentioned, I’m not a fashion expert. I just have the good sense to blatantly copy whatever my fashion savvy roommate Tatas is wearing – the dress story being a prime example. So having renounced any claim at expertise, I’ve just gotta say: Would any woman in her right mind wear this? And it’s been in a SoHo boutique’s front display for WEEKS. I learned at Pink’s space party that silver, pleather-like fabric is unflattering no matter how thin you are. The dresses’ unusual collar / necklace looks like part of an android suit. Can they just ship this thing off to a Star Wars convention already so I don’t have to scrunch my face up at it bi-daily as part of my morning and evening walk?
I haven’t been to Pink in weeks. I was under the impression that I’d actually kicked my Thursday night addiction, yet somehow got dragged there (I blame the wine at dinner) for Wilhelmina’s Modeling Agency’s 40th Anniversary after party last night. The first thing I noticed as I approached the 27th street strip of debauchery was Marquee’s super-weird new awning-like entrance.
In this picture it looks white, but I swear the atrocity was neon green. It looked like an alien hovercraft had landed on top of the club and Martians had perhaps taken over inside. I doubt this was the look they were going for. Apparently, Marquee was hosting some sort of NASCAR party, but the only thing I saw on the red carpet backdrop were lame ads for Sprint. So who knows? More importantly, who cares? I just can’t believe the city of New York let Marquee extend their already obnoxious entrance into two lanes of traffic. My shocked cabbie had to swerve in order to not collide with the thing. Let’s all hope this ridiculous glowing awning is temporary.
Enter Pink. New phenomena to note!: Men with bright color pashmina scarves. More specifically, men with neon PINK pashmina scarves. Observe Pink’s doorman (sorry I don’t have a better photo, I didn’t bring my camera out and took this with my phone…SEE…proof I wasn’t planning ITAL to going out).
When it started to get chilly in the city, Euro men had some sort of hidden fashion conference and decided to dawn colored pashminas with dark jackets. Most of these guys were sexy anyway, and the spark of color added a little flair to their outfit, while also making them look gay by American standards. Anyway, this started with electric blues and deep reds. That I can handle. Then around Halloween, guys started wrapping orange scarves around their collars. While the orange scarf-look may look stunning on a Helmut Lang billboard, it just doesn’t work in real life.
But now!
Now we have men with pink, that’s right, pink scarves. Last night saw two. One Pepto Bismal pink and the other baby pastel pink. Is the doorman sporting pink accessories because he works at place called Pink and is trying to mesh with the club’s title? That doesn’t even make sense since the cocktail waitresses are wearing gold. And what are the two others guys’ excuse?!
The club filled up around one thirty. The music was entirely uninteresting…dare I say bad. The crowd wasn’t impressive. Roberto assured me Wilhelmina had a 150+ person guest list, and that people were just arriving late since this was the ‘after party.’ I decided to take my tired ass home.
I dawned my coat and just as I walked toward the exit, I saw the most beautiful man I’d seen in weeks. I shamelessly made eye contact with him, and I like to think he looked a bit sad that I had my coat on and was heading to the door. As we proceeded down Pink’s labyrinth-like steps, I saw not one, but five more men of the same caliber.
The male models had arrived.
And they weren’t gross, diaper-wearing, baby models like the ones I recently encountered at The Madison. These boys were clean-cut, well groomed, not-inebriated and appeared to have full possession of all their bodily functions. Pink Elephant also actually cards. So they all had to be plus twenty-one. I immediately took my coat off:
“I’m staying to ogle the man-meat!”
So I stayed another twenty minutes and did some schmoozing, although the beautiful boy I’d first seen never resurfaced. When I finally did leave, I saw Alex Karev from ABC's Grey’s Anatomy standing on the staircase below me. My first instinct was just to pass by and say to him: “Alex Karev!” But that seemed absurd. Besides, the guy was shit-faced! He looked like a seventeen-year-old baby model who’d gone shot happy with a bottle of booze. From my limited reading of US Weekly, I’d been under the impression he was married and a nice, family guy. Well, he was walking in ‘S’ shapes while a woman (his wife?) bitched about not being able to find something in her purse.
I slid by them as one of the doorman began announcing, “Clear the way. This is Justin Chambers!”
Sadly, his name didn’t elicit any kind of acknowledgement from the crowd. As I exited, Justin pushed against me before wobbling to the left and announced to everyone:
“I have to take a piss!”
The Pink doorman took him by the shoulders and steered him back inside the club.
Yes, the title says it all. I figured since many of us may be traveling for the upcoming winter holidays, it was time to unveil my dirty secret project: A comprehensive list of all the best nightclubs in every city in the world, expertly compiled by the jetsetters who frequent them.
Some things to keep in mind:
1. The definition of ‘best.’ For the purposes of this list ‘best clubs’ are defined (but not limited to) clubs that a. Radiate with obnoxious exclusivity b. Are most likely challenging to get into without ‘connections’ (* indicates members only clubs) c. Are non-sensically expensive d. Are home to celebrity sightings and e. Host famous DJs
So if you’re looking for a low-key, hassle free bar to enjoy a beer near cost price, this list is not for you.
2. What’s ‘hot’ changes in every city every month (or every week, in the case of New York). This guide, while ‘in’ right now, will eventually be outdated. So take these suggestions with a grain of salt.
WARNING: You might have ridiculous amounts of fun. You might get ripped off. Remember, clubbing is addictive.
So here we go…buckle up and put your party shoes on:
Aix-en-Provence - Le Mistral
Amsterdam - Jimmy Woo - Club 11 - Rain - Zebra Lounge - Mansion
As I mentioned in a previous post, yesterday marked the club Pink Elephant’s third anniversary. And in typical Pink style, the miser owners of the establishment are milking the event for all it’s worth with no not one, but three nights of celebration – Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday (honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t try to stretch it out to a whole week).
I remain flabbergasted by the fact that Pink Elephant has existed for only three years. I feel like I’d heard about it since my childhood (shows I had a messed up childhood). And the club has already taken up foreign residence in several European and soon-to-be South American countries.
This is all extremely disturbing. If one club has wreaked this much havoc on New York nightlife (and on my life personally) in a mere 1,080 days, what will it be capable of in ten years? It has already attempted to become a planet. What’s next? Will it have a Chelsea 27th street clubbing monopoly? Will it shut down Marquee? Will there be Pink Elephant champagne? (They already have their own vodka.) Pink Elephant spas? Resorts? Games at Atlantic City? A Pink clothing line?
Dear God. Make it stop!
Despite the fact that the DJ whose music I want to make love to was spinning on Wednesday night, I showed up only for the Thursday segment of the celebration as “special gifts” were promised to all the tables from the “Pink Elephant family” according to the invitation. Who is the Pink Elephant family anyway? I picture a bunch of Scrooge-like accountants in a back office drinking scotch and using patrons’ credit cards to cut cocaine lines before they snort, cruelly sniffle, and then ring the card up for a seven thousand dollar charge. But hey, who knows? Maybe it’s even worse than that.
Knowing it would be hectic night, I arrived at 12 am sharp. This clearly wasn’t early enough as the door looked like something out of a comedy sketch: people tripping over one another, dodging umbrellas, bodysurfing forward in an attempt to get a word in edgewise with the unsympathetic doormen. There were throngs people outside the door from every angle, and literally no one was getting it. All we kept hearing was:
“Clear the sidewalk. Clear the sidewalk, please. I need my sidewalk clear. No. No. The answer is NO. Clear my sidewalk please.”
It was it’s own mini version of Hell. But soon we realized what had all of Pink’s bouncers’ balls in a knot; Rihanna and her remarkably unattractive posse were working their way into the club with bodyguards etc.
Gross.
When she passed, I really wanted to ask her for an umbrella considering it was slightly drizzling and she managed to produce a number one hit pop tune containing only the word ‘umbrella,’ but my friends advised me against it. Once she got through, the door laxed slightly and we were finally ushered in after I had my ID photographed with a digital camera. Apparently scanning IDs just isn’t enough anymore and now Pink can access my driving record (and I’m sure a bunch of other government records as well.)
Great.
The music was what I call ‘B Minus house,’ i.e. house music spun by someone who actually has no house music experience, just spent several summers being a DJ in Ibiza (NOT the same thing). It tends to be really thumping, unoriginal, and unpleasant unless you’re on ecstasy, in which case dancing to Raffi would feel like a unique pleasure. The place was also crowded to the point that I made it my own personal mission to never leave my elevated spot at the table for fear of being molested, trampled, and burned by flaming cigarettes poking out from the crowd in every direction.
The so-called ‘gifts’ tables supposedly received seemed to be these large Dom Perignon buckets of what look like green larva and Dom Perignon champagne stand holders made of plastic. Unimpressive.
Here's the green larva gift bucket from another angle complete with a photographer trying to snap a pic of Rihanna (not visable) and an woman oddly (inappropriately?) wearing a pantsuit. The only part of the evening I found especially entertaining was also a horrifying example of how Pink Elephant will soon be a ride at adult Disney Land. That's this huge, fuzzy Pepto-Bism0l pink elephant in the DJ booth - who then ran through crowd.
I snapped this picture as one of the impractically enormous, child-size bottles of 5 grand champagne was making its way toward me.
Note that the pink confetti you see on the bottle was drizziling down on all of us for most of the evening. I spent this morning trying to remove the champagne soaked confetti from the inside of my purse. The stuff got everywhere.
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.
