I may be schlepping boxes to and fro this week, but last week I was up to my normal trickery, attending xCLuSiV parties that claim to have something to do with art.
One always wonders (oneders?) to oneself what one should wear to such events. Sometimes, one may even oneder to others. But the pernt is, wear nothing. Or don’t. So you really have two choices.
This party was for the Whitney Houston Art Museum, which is a museum where you can walk in and be like “So these are my gym socks,” and everyone’s all, “That is art for real.”
Other parties the Whitney has hosted before have been, as I’m sure you’ll recall, last year’s great fundraiser to buy the second floor staff Mexican food for lunch the next day (“Taco Party”); 2008’s Countdown to Count Chocula Bash to count down the days until a guy named Ron felt like buying Count Chocula cereal again; and a gala to save the peregrine falcons (“Kiss on the Lips”).
But this party was different. It was called the Whitney Art Party, so it was about art, unlike the aforementioned predecessors. While I’ve been known to go tea-length black satin when things get formal, this wasn’t no Delaware debutante ball.
So basically I found the raddest vintage dress at 1 of a Find, which is like, down the block from where I live. Its gold leaves reminded me of Suno’s spring collection, and its crayon blue reminded me of Gwen Stefani. And it’s some kind of Neiman Marcus late ’80s exclusive, so it still scores points in the WASP department, which is important for my dad, who still says things like, “Are we up for a bit of yachting this afternoon?”
The entire effect, I felt, was sort of like a hypothetical design collab between Katharine Hepburn and Liza Minelli.
I wore some pretty shoes and, of course, my Great Aunt’s vintage gold and ivory clutch and my mawwwm’s necklace and you want to know what? Little old Pizza Rulez ended up on Fashion Indie, like I’m a celebrity’s cat or something.
The best part of this fiesta was not how cool I was, but rather, Kalup Linzy. Linzy hosted a funeral for his female character Taiwan, that started around 11:15 PM, like all good funerals. Backed by a five-piece rock/jazz band, he performed covers of R&B hitz like “Saving All My Love For You” and “Sitting on the Edge of My Couch” (which was the Otis Redding song with three words changed).
There was a lacquered white casket next to him onstage, and at the end of the funeral, he threw open the casket, which was quickly swarmed by arty art chicks, including my hero, and it looked for long few minutes like the scene at the end of “Pulp Fiction” until I managed to wade to the front and see that the casket was filled with a bunch of fancy edible flowers made of pudding.
And then everyone erupted into this weird state of quietude, as we stood there serenely eating pudding together at 12:15 AM.
And then then I met Hennessy Youngman, and then then then I went home.
Ciao4now, Pizza 4ever.