Dinner capping an exhausting New York Fashion Week didn’t end with the port Friday night. I caught up with several editor pals (all whom I got to know when we slogged for WWD, and who’ve now gone on to some pretty great gigs) for a bloody hangar steak at the Frenchy bistro Belcourt in the East Village. After a nightcap at the corner bar, my plans to get cheek to pillow were wildly diverted as soon as I got back to the apartment and found my dear Bryan Rabin ready to roll out. Despite a delayed flight to New York from L.A., a full log of welcoming texts from friends convinced him that staying in for the night just wouldn’t do. So I slipped out of my sneakers and into a tall pair of new boots (wicked Westwoods!) and we set out.First stop was just a couple of blocks away at the dark and dirty Phoenix, an institution among the boys who like boys who play the Pac Man machine near the door. We moved on pretty quickly to our next stop, thanks in part to Patrick McMullan’s text to get ourselves there right away. We find Patrick, delirious from a cuckoo week, outside of Mr. Black. Paper cutie Drew Elliott was hosting the opening night afterparty for David LaChapelle’s new show at the Tony Shafrazi Gallery, and it was one surprise after another mulling about on the sidewalk and into the brightly lit corridor leading to the scene down below. But before we walk the plank to the inside sea of crazies, Bryan goes nostalgic with the door diva, Connie Girl, once upon a runway favorite of Thierry Mugler's.
Inside the cavernous basement club we find David go-go dancing like a madman on stage. Nearby shimmied Ms. Amanda Lepore. And surrounding them, cavorted and sweat a small army of kids just wanting to be close to the light of the party.
We just about witnessed the light of day, dragging ourselves back to the apartment as the neighborhood bakeries scent the early morning air.