What was in the gift bags at the Glamor Mag party? Andy reveals the secret.
First things first - news hit the wires on Wednesday that Willie Nelson had written and released a new cowboy love song called "Cowboys are Frequently, Secretly (Fond of Each Other)" available on itunes.
The story made it on the Drudge Report and everywhere else. I hope this rang a bell to some of you faithful Andy's blog readers because I broke that damn story a month ago right here in "Willie Speaks from the Heart." (See archives) What the wires missed is that Willie wants to make a video for the song at a Dallas gay bar and has interest from several A-list movie stars who want to appear in that video.
There's a broad I read every morning who never fails to point out when she breaks a story that gets reported elsewhere and I'm taking my cues from her. That lady is legendary gossip columnist, eternal defender of all things good and Madonna, Liz Smith.
I saw the eightysomething platinum blond at a dinner Wednesday night at Cafe Grey thrown by Glamour magazine to honor current cover girl Sarah Jessica Parker. Liz Smith is in a Texas-sized league all her own and she beautifully represents the age-old truism that the older you get, the lighter your hair should be. As I walked off the elevator in the Time Warner Pointless Mall, I walked straight into another forever blond, Diane Sawyer, who's another living example of over-60 health and blond-ness.
Inside, I spotted fashion institution and the woman responsible for the clothes on "Sex and the City," Superclassic Patricia Field. She's exactly the kind of person you WANT to be at a party - she's ballsy, unpredictable and a big blur of fun.
She implored us to guess the names of her two new dogs. I incorrectly and stupidly guessed "Carrie" and "Big" and it's a wonder I wasn't booted from the room for lame-ness. I've misplaced he correct answer somewhere in my brain but one of the names means "whore" in Portuguese, I believe.
I later discussed deadlines with New York Times Boldfaced Names writer Campbell Robertson. He said he goes out at least four nights a week to write his column. I watched him hearing everything but writing nothing.
Ready for consumption on each of our chairs sat tempting gifts, each wrapped in some sort of brown suede derivative. I made a deal with my seatmate, SNL producer, ballsy lady and Breck-girl Marci Klein, in which she would inconspicuously open the gift under the table to save any of us from waiting 3 hours for the prizing unveil. She quietly and deliberately peeled the "suede" to reveal what to us was the equivalent of white diamonds.
Underneath the suede derivative gleamed the bright orange that's synonymous worldwide with the luxury emporium Hermes. We screamed. Marci opened the lid slowly. We knew we'd already won, that we'd each be walking out with an orange Hermes box. It could have been empty at that point and I'd be screaming looking to bear hug Bob Barker. I thought for sure that our gift was either a scarf (gift for mom!) or a frame (unisex gift for anyone including me!).
Inside the box was a small plate. A small HERMES plate! Is THIS the gift that Oprah was trying to buy on that fateful day in Paris, I wondered? And for what was this intended? I knew for sure that I could throw any assortment of wedding bands and diamonds amidst the floral pattern. Perhaps this little bit of breakable heaven was meant to be a cigarette ash receptacle - for an up market Euro brand like Vogue.
Seated to my right was Parsons King/RUNWAY den father Tim Gunn at the fete and it tickles me to no end seeing people bowing at his feet simply for being himself. Style Supercouple Simon Doonan and Jonathan Adler about fainted when they received an audience with Sir Tim. I recounted to Sir Tim (that's his new name, see) that the night before I'd ducked into a cafe to relieve my bladder on my way downtown and walked right into none other than RUNWAY designer and (Teen Beat hottie) Daniel V. DV said he slept all weekend and was looking forward to life after the show.
Lastly, someone called Susan emailed me yesterday and wrote, "You're a moron. You know exactly what I mean." I think it, like most mail, has something to do with Santino but I can't be sure. Sorry Susan, but I still don't get why I am meant to be a moron maybe I am too stupid to figure it out?
I want you to know Susan that by the time you read this I am going to be on a plane to the Virgin Islands and I am going to use my 4 hour flight time to have a good, long think about exactly why I am a moron.
Have a great weekend!