We’re gearing up for the always awesome Prada party tonight, but we have to say that after last night’s hard partying among the fashion set, our Italian friends better throw it down. We got off to a less-than-promising start at the launch of Adidas Originals Denim by Diesel, held in a dank, dirty basement filled with purple light, smoke from a machine — and not one celebrity. And so it was on to the much-buzzed-about party, at the super-exclusive Gramercy Park Hotel’s Rose Bar, for the French fashion label Joie, owned by Max Azria’s older brother Serge. Vladamir Roitfeld — brother to Julia Restoin-Roitfeld and boyfriend to Lily Donaldson — had been recruited to help attract a tall, rich, and dewy-skinned crowd. There was the gloriously scruffy Dylan McDermott sitting in a banquette with birthday boy Wilmer Valderrama and a thousand six-foot-tall beauties. Italian bad boy Lapo Elkan tore it up with other Italian-bad-boy friends. Tiny Theodora Richards, clad only in gold-lamé leggings and a gold sweater, danced by the fire, flapping her sweater up and down over her stomach to show just how (literally) hot she was. Donaldson was there — or was she? She looked a little too ethereal to be sure. Champagne was spilled freely over the chests of every model, and there were many, who walked by. As Julia Restoin-Roitfeld passed us, we commented on how impressed we were with her always effortless chicness. “I’m European,” she replied. “I wake up in heels.”
Finally, it was off to Butter, the unofficial after-party for Charlotte Ronson’s show that afternoon. We’d heard her brother Marc was going to D.J., but no such luck. Instead, we were treated to the sight of the Joie party’s crazy Italians descending upon Nicky Hilton’s booth and dancing so rowdily on top of her that she screamed, “Oh, my God!,” pushed a gigantic table all the way onto the dance floor, and ran away. In the D.J. booth, Nick Cannon made up for Marc Ronson’s absence by showing off some unreal skills, scratching and mixing the Jackson 5 and Boyz 2 Men like a pro. Some drunken male model looked us up and down and decided it was his right to grab our boob. (He received a slap.) And the incongruous pair of Sean Combs and Ellen Pompeo chilled on a banquette. (She’s married! Don’t get any ideas.) We’d resisted the urge to accost her with a tape recorder, but at the end of the night, she approached us. Was our phone working? Could we call her driver? And then shield her from the paparazzi until he arrived? We complied. But we think this entitles us to a good interview later — or at least the chance to grab her boob. —Jada Yuan
Browse a slideshow of the Diesel collection.