Of all the Fashion Week parties, the Prada-store event will always be good. They couldn’t possibly top their last big Fashion Week bash with the Raconteurs, but we figured they might come close. And they did, sort of. We’d been looking forward to hearing Damien Hirst’s formerly crack-addicted “maverick fucking geezer” friend Antony Green and his band the Hours play beneath a mockup of Hirst’s $100 million skull. But pretty much from the second they started, we started to doze off. There were soundboard issues, and the music did not rock. Instead, we counted the celebs who had been able to squeeze their tiny bodies onto the steps opposite the stage (which is right in front of that big curvy thing in the middle of the store). Quite a few, it turned out.
Ashley Olsen was there, and we’re sure that we’d spotted Mary-Kate at some point, but we may just have had double vision from our Hours-induced headache. Genevieve Jones had come back from Thailand the day before and completely lost her voice. Gina Gershon arrived late, as did Jeremy Piven, who made a beeline for Petra Nemcova and then promptly fell backward trying to sit down, and onto another maverick fucking geezer, Steven Tyler. Tyler had been sitting in between steps and knocked up against Julia Restoin-Roitfeld’s knees. Celebrity dominoes!
After people stopped pretending to be paying attention to the band (and they weren’t pretending that hard), they marched upstairs for a dance party D.J.-ed by James Murphy and friends. Michelle Trachtenberg, usurped by Sophia Bush as most ubiquitous front-row starlet, showed up late. Greek shipping magnate and Paris Hilton ex Stavros Niarchos III spoke in Greek to other hot Greeks. Our friend saw Steven Tyler give his tall blonde girlfriend a full (frontal) body rubdown. In gossipy news, we can report that though we saw no canoodling, we’re pretty sure Nemcova and Piven are “hanging out.” She held his hand and dragged him all over the party, and when someone asked her what she was doing next, she turned to Piven and said, “What are we doing next?” And André Balazs’s on-again-off-again romance with Uma Thurman appears to be off again, because we saw the hotelier on the dance floor way late in the evening with a tall, pretty blonde who looked very much like Uma Thurman but was definitely not her. (Hey, when you’ve got a type, you’ve got a type.)
But as usual, the best part of the Prada party was staring at all the other guests. You’ve never seen such a collection of tall, beautiful people in your life. Ivan the Facehunter, the cute and smelly Frenchman who swoops in every Fashion Week to take pictures of glorious outfits, was in heaven, gleefully snapping photos of fabulous nobodies like the mysterious Lenny Kravitz twins, James and Gary, who if we ever see again, we promise to find out what their deal is. And after this party, we’re happy to say that Prada has taught us something new: When the security guards tell you you can’t come back in after you’ve left for food and heard the party got good again, just sneak through the potted plants by the luxury porta-potties. —Jada Yuan