Interview

Exceedingly late, I limo ho’d with Glenn O’Brien to Anna Sui, well after 7:00 P.M. Sui did lace-edged Victorian hippie, using black birds and feathers as headpieces and mad ’60s-inspired florals. This Anna offers up affordable la-la for the Vestals. Day 7 felt like day 7,000, as Tommy Hilfiger hit the same bright orange and muted tan notes as Michael Kors, adding HoldenCaulfield chinos with shredded hems. By 11:00 a.m., at a demurely JL Brian Reyes show, models wore big buns and short dresses with spider-web brooches. One model walked out of her shoes on the runway and looked embarrassed, but at the end of the show, all the models reappeared barefoot and triumphant as the BCs cheered.

More May Society (move cursor over images to read captions)

Thursday, 8:00 p.m., I rejoiced at my last show, where Victorian virtuoso Zac Posen had The 5 Browns—five brothers and sisters at Steinway grand pianos on the catwalk—rip through complicated pieces, such as Mussorgsky’s“Pictures at an Exhibition,” while Zac took it to the Victorian house withbillowing red ruffles, a floral conservatory gown with a foot-tall conical shoulder, and, finally, Paz de la Huerta in an undulating chain-mail trousseau. Brava!

The next morn, I jetted to la-la L.A. on Virgin. AtMontblanc’s UNICEF charity gala that night, Sienna Miller (no Vestal, no how) wore vintage Ungaro (super-JL) while strolling an ersatz-Brooklyn street leading to a DeMille-scale soundstage draped in velvet. At a mirrored table, I sat next to Lily Collins (Phil’s daughter), 20 going on 35, and MillaJovovich, who split before the entrée (rushing hometo cook?), as did Reese Witherspoon (who matched Montblanc’s $50,000 donation and presented a$100,000 check). To be fair, we waited an hour for the filet.

The next day, at the Film Independent’s Spirit Awards, in a tent by the surf in Santa Monica, Mickey Rourke won and thanked the local police for giving him “a bed to sleep . . . I asked them for two pillows and they told me to fuck off.” There is just no editing Rourke. About professional wrestlers, he blurted out, “The steroids and the cocaine and the banging the girl in the ass in the bathroom . . . These guys are on the road a lot—they get lonely.” Oops la-la!

At the On 3gifting tent, Mickeyunexpectedly bussed a beachy BC, shilling Arm & Hammer teeth-whitening products. And at the Indie’s after-party at Shutters, a gingerbread Victorian “getaway” nearby, I ran into director Morgan Spurlock,best known for eatingMcDonald’s exclusively for a month on camera and nearly dying. He recommended the original Tommy’s at Beverly and Rampart.At 7:00 p.m., I threw on a suit and raced for Bungalow One (so JL) at the Chateau Marmont for Julianne Moore’s dinner honoring the former president of Botswana. Debra Messing told me her edgy Stella McCartney boots were murder on the cobblestones out front. Angie Harmon had a little fur on her shoulders—very of the moment. Andex-Botswanan prez Festus G. Mogae, in a white jacket, indicated that his country’s middle class depended on babes like Julie and Sharon Stone (lots of la-la on the couch next to Tom Ford) spending big bucks on gems. We sat at a long white table on the porch, and, with dessert, the ladies, Camilla Belle and Helena Christensen, were given a tiny diamond on a string. J-quality.