Larry Hnetka Goes HMmmm

My ears are ringing, my head is throbbing, I’m hungry, I’m tired, my feet are sore.

Butchewno, it was the PARTY extraordinary as advertised!

An Andy Warhol Warehouse Party. On the sidewalk in front of the Caprice Club, a gigantic sandwich sign announced the private party. The red carpet was impeccable. A mob of screaming women waved from the red velvet rope area. Autograph books thrust forward expectantly.

A Joan Rivers-like person ran up to me and asked “who I was wearing?” I was blinded by photographer’s flashes and a video camera was shoved into my face. Thank goodness I decided to wear my unique Parisian sunglasses to this do.

Joan Rivers-like waited for my reply. “Dolce & Gabanna beachwear,” I tossed the words over her head.

“And the trousers?” Joan asked. As flippantly as before, “Versace Denim,” I snorted as if to say “as if you didn’t notice the strategic belt label Ms. Joan Rivers-like!” She knew I was lying through my Crest-Strip whitened teeth I’m sure.

Greeting the VIPs were the sponsors reps (Absolut vodka liquor company of course). My jaw dropped. The woman and the man were ripped like Greek statues. I took off my sunglasses and told the woman I really had to avert my eyes. I was eye-level with the roundest, firmest breasts I had ever seen.

Both of these marvels of fitness wore only very, very, very small g-strings. Their entire bodies had been air-brushed to simulate evening wear. The nipples gave it away for me — Mr. notoriously-misses-the-obvious person. I gladly accepted the Absolut vodka cooler from the gentleman. I did not avert my eyes from him.

Inside, Las Vegas Show Girls swooned upon my shoulders. Both of them at least two feet taller than me — and I’m six feet in bare feet, so these babes were tall. Taller in their heels. Taller with the feather plumes cascading from elaborately jewelled headresses. They promptly moved me along to the silent auction area — one of the reasons for the evening to be sure.

Mr. Warhol walked by me. His white wig slightly askew. His eyes glassy bright blue. His gait unsteady. But camera in hand looking for his next inspirational model — his next Joe Dallesandro. Or was he looking for Paul Morrissey? Could he be looking for Sylvia Miles? No, I’m sure he was looking for Holly Woodlawn.

Drag star Jackie Curtis (and he was doing drag in the late ’60s early ’70s) said, “You are not truly a Warhol superstar unless you are dead.” How true is that?

I looked at the empty dance floor. On the two go go stations, two replicas of the Golden Woman from Goldfinger throbbed to the booming beat. Each mirrored the others but moved with a sense of ennui as if too much effort was not apropos. Their teased golden-blonde wigs winged out at the sides. A wink, a lip pout, a sensuous finger pointed towards me and then the golden woman turned slightly and acknowledged the next person her eyes met.

Queen Elizabeth allowed me to kiss her ring and then promptly told me she was off to Australia and no I could not carry her purse no matter how much I begged. I did notice when she opened her purse that she still carried her $20 Cdn. bill — for ID Liz tells the loyal subjects.

The night blared on. Cirque d’Soleil performers hung from the ceiling by slips of drapery and wrapped and contorted themselves above our heads. Holt Renfrew and the major modeling agencies used the dance floor as a runway to show the latest Prada, Gucci and Versace lines.

The models were tiny, waif-like girls. The outfits totally impractical. My friend said, “it looks like someone went crazy with the BeDazzler.” Most of the casual wear had so many jewels and studs and rivets that they looked more like industrial clothing than haute couture.

But I am tired and will continue the saga manyana.

Oh yes, one last thing: Shake, shake, shake it, shake it, shake it like a Polaroid, you know what to do ooo, you know what to do oooo …… Polaroid cameras spit out snaps everywhere.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 15th, 2004 at 9:16:31 PM and is filed under JOURNAL. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.