Well, it's been a blogworthy couple of days, featuring both hard rock and high fashion, and a healthy dose of the low-brow as well.
Wednesday was a Motorhead show, which as mentioned in previous blogs, is a major holiday as far as I'm concerned. And lately I have been so sick of fashion and the dark, often misogynist gay politicky underbelly that accompanies it that I really, really, reaaaaallly wanted to immerse myself in a scene where no one gives a flying fuck about what you're wearing and the aural atmosphere is decidedly un-techno/house-inspired.
And it was delightful: ear-destroyingly loud, some mono-syllabic lout grabbed my ass, the beer was shitty, and everyone could headbang because there were no tiny hats on the sides of heads. Fabulous. Heaven. Perfection.
Afterwards there was the usual hurry up and wait to get backstage. I never think to make the appropriate calls beforehand, and believe it or not lost Lemmy's phone number years ago, so I always just wait until someone pulls us back there, which they did (thank you Brigitte!). And this year we managed to sidestep some of the crazier elements that often lurk backstage at a MH show, so that was an added bonus. All was copacetic, the Jack Daniels flowed, Vas made up a new hand signal (the Half-a-Horn), Cid gave Lemmy a beautiful ring she made and I've got his phone number again.
Matt Sorum was in the room for a few minutes; last year he produced a demo for Drew's band Bloody Social, but he had absolutely no recollection of me and when I said I was Drew Thomas' gf. I could see that he had no idea who Drew Thomas was either, even though Drew spent a week practically living in his house. Matt did play competently enough in MH drummer Mikkey Dee's absence, although I thought Matt lacked a little of the trashy fire that Mikkey has. I personally think Mikkey's a bit of a douche, but you can't deny his drumming skills and his hamminess suits the band.
The highlight of the evening was probably when a certifiably psychotic girl from our CSFH past was carried screaming out of the building by security. Every year something happens, she's either found wandering the crowd sobbing or backstage pitching a cokey fit over some imaginary drama. This time we heard her down the hall screaming, "LEMMY! LEMMY! LEEEMMMMY!!" in vocal tones that should only be employed when one is being stabbed. I still don't know what prompted the hysteria but I'm guessing that it was that the band have finally had enough and didn't allow her backstage this particular year. I was afraid to poke my head out into the hall and risk hearing my name called out in such a blood-curdling manner.
I did get to meet a lovely little old man who worked for Hendrix and was the person responsible for getting Lemmy his job as Hendrix's roadie all those years ago. He left the music biz and went into porn, and I was told that he has held the title "The Porn King" for some time. He's retired but he did ask me if I had ever been a dominatrix or would like to give it a try. For the nine millionth time in my life, that answer would be a big negative. But he was cute and funny in a pervy British way and he added a nice flavor to the mix.
We got this photo of the ladies with Lem, which prompted Drew to chuckle and say, "Aw...Look at all the whores with Lemmy! That's nice."
Then the next day (last night) was Fashion's Night Out, which for those of you who might be fashionably challenged, is a new marketing ploy meant to boost Fashion Week retail sales. Many high profile stores stayed open late into the night to participate, and of course in true Patricia Field style, we added cases and cases of free booze to the mix just to really fuck things up for ourselves.
Unfortunately I had a major tattoo allergy attack starting halfway through the Motorhead night, so by yesterday morning my entire face was covered in large scaly, bumpy, red patches. It looked as if someone had taken a sander to my face. And I had no choice but to be at the store to help manage the event--come hell or high water, dressed up for a party, meeting celebrities and yanking stolen goods out of drunkards' purses. I sighed, painstakingly painted on 3 layers of spackle, threw on a satin dress and tried my best not to stand under direct light.
The party was a total zoo, of course, with all kinds of fashion flotsam (Terrorist scarf, check! Tiny hat on the side of the head, check!) mingling with drag queens, transsexuals, super cute girls dressed in their best, and pretty much anyone who owns a camera and a website. My friend John Rizzo was hired for security and he stood next to me whispering, "What about that one, is she a girl? No, really? She's gorgeous! Okay, that one, is that someone famous? Who's that one, Lady Bunny?" I filled him in as best I could on gender choices and celebrity status.
My first really special moment came while chasing down a guy who threw a pamphlet at my head, erroneously thinking he was being funny. I was so angry that I ran too fast, and as I got to him my overpriced shoes slipped out from underneath me and I went down on my ass while clutching his lapels. I got up as best I could under the slippery circumstances, sputtering and bitching at him without pause while some lovely girl I'd never met before crouched down and put my shoe back on for me. It was really great. My ravaged skin under fluorescent lighting, my ass wet from the floor, the guy looking at me as if I should be carried out screaming, "LEEMMMY!"
Pat showed up with a CNN camera crew in tow, then Lizzie Grubman and Janice Dickinson rolled in along with some other celebrities that I don't know by name, and that really upped the boozey mayhem to a fever pitch. It turned into a feeding frenzy and we had to rope off the front door of the store and block the lower level as a VIP room. People told any and all lies trying to get past the ropes, glass cases teetered, at midnight I just threw my hands in the air and poured a large glass of vodka. I gave up trying to stop people from undressing the mannequins, yanking on boas, trying on wigs, throwing pamphlets. One of the designers participating in the trunk show threw up all over the floor, and their entire crew was so drunk they forgot to charge people for the items they were supposed to be selling. Whatever. It's a PF party, this is how we roll.
Pat was tired, she's been working long hours on the set of SATC 2, but she put on her game face and met with the public, which in her case is becoming increasingly difficult. I am constantly shocked at how greedy people get around celebrity. Many think they're being flattering when they're very obviously just trying to snatch a piece of the pie. Here's one convo I was in on:
RANDOM GUY: Hi Pat.
RG: I'm so and so and I work with blah-de-blah.
PAT: Uh huh.
RG: We should get together and have lunch. Maybe we can help each other.
PAT (totally bored and blowing smoke over his shoulder): Uh huh.
ME (trying to fill the uncomfortable silence): Pat doesn't take lunches, she works right through them.
PAT (smiling): Uh huh.
RG (ignoring me): Pat, I met you at blah-de-blah's party ten years ago, and I thought to myself then, "This is a really cool chick! We could totally hang."
PAT (to me): I'm a cool chick.
ME: Yes. Yes, you are, ma'am.
I did get a few less ignominious moments, Janice Dickinson gave me a friendly nose-wrinkle/wink, which thrilled me to no end because I love her. I know she's awful but I can't help myself. And I struck up a promising new friendship with the The Glamorous Monique, who has surged her face into a weird combo of sleepy surprise, has the most enormous boobs you've ever seen and spent a lot of peak party time walking around panty-less with her skirt raised above her waist. Once I got her to lower the curtain and converse for a while she turned out to be entertaining and very sweet. And I learned today that she was also once known as 80's transsexual porn star Sulka. So next time I see her I'll be sure to ask about that and will report back to you all.
And then afterwards John and I limped across the street to Bowery Electric to meet Jesse, Drew, Jamie Burke, and Jamie's girlfriend, Dutch model Mila De Wit. The lighting there is mercifully near-black, the music all rock and roll, and once again no one cared who made my shoes.
I will leave you with this very elegant video of the Glamorous Monique: