Vanity, still the fairest of them all
Forget that nonsense about Graydon Carter's Vanity Fair party being over. Last night's bash was bigger and hotter than ever. And once again, it felt like a galactic collision of celebrity universes from the worlds of politics, books, music, art, photography, fashion, film and TV.
I dutifully arrived at the VF party for my appointed time slot of 11:30 and was told "NO notebook, NO tape recorder and DON'T make us come in there and find you" - before being allowed inside for half an hour to get party "color."
Entering the party felt like being sucked into a vortex of fabulousness and I was swiftly trapped in a salmon spawn of celebrities, all frantically wiggling their way through Morton's, struggling to find a few inches to stand in, sit on or just get outside to the smoking area (cough, cough) and into huge pink-lit tent in the back. Trust me, you rub way more than elbows with stars at a VF party. It's more like doing a provocative public bump-and-grind. And the music is very good, but very loud. You can't hear yourself speak, much less anyone else. So the tape recorder wouldn't have helped. I think celebrities' ears must be more attuned to congratulatory conversations, like dogs that can hear certain decibles that humans can't. All I know is what I saw...