It’s also nice to see the regular Page Six gallery entering in person. Mick Jones–the Foreigner guitarist last cited on Page Six as a member of The Clash–has certainly nailed the Batman villain look. But then a concerned publicist comes up and asks me if I’m part of the press. I reply that I am, kind of, but she doesn’t seem to like my answer. Later, another publicist informs me that I can’t stay by the red carpet with a drink in my hand. That doesn’t sound like the spirit of the Page Six that I’ve had spit up on me, but I ditch my glass and keep hanging around.
This finally prompts a security guy to politely explain that I’m either covering or attending the event, and they don’t like how I look covering things. So I’m tossed inside to mingle with these people.
Actually, that turns out to be surprisingly pleasant–despite the Euro-disco version of Foreigner’s "Urgent" that’s playing over the speakers. The guest list is as selective as I’ve been informed, and there’s plenty of room at the open bars. It’s not even difficult to find the guest of honor. Actually, it’s always easy to find Richard Johnson. He’s the only gossip maven who’s so handsome that most models don’t mind being commanded to have sex with him. Someone could’ve found a more flattering photo for the t-shirts that the Marquee staff was wearing, though. I momentarily wonder why they’re all paying tribute to Eric Breindel.
There isn’t any VIP Lounge to hide away the celebs, either. "This whole place is the VIP Lounge," says Doug Dechert, the Men’s Health contributing editor and Page Six contributor who wrangled the mag’s hosting of the event. He’s right, too. I head upstairs to what would be the bold-faced hideaway, and get to mingle with Men’s Health ad sales staff trying to avoid their clients. I spend the evening alternating between looking down at the sparkling blue lights of cellphones, and occasionally wandering among the fabulous folks below. I even get a pretty funny quote from Mick about how it feels to end up as a socialite. I’m just attending the event, though, so I don’t bother to write anything down.
It’s also nice to finally be in the same room as my old boss Donald Trump, who I’d previously only communicated with via FedEx. His presence still isn’t enough to impress some determinedly jaundiced partygoers who–off the record, of course–dismiss the event as a gathering of has-beens. Can’t go offending Ben Stiller, Uma Thurman or Harvey Weinstein, you know.
Anthony Haden-Guest is a proper curio, I suppose, but you have to admire the old warhorse. He’s swaying on a staircase with his eyes closed when I point him towards a place where he can sit down. He gives me a blurry look, turns to where I’m gesturing and assumes I’m directing him toward the upstairs bar. The guy heads straight for a refill, too. He even seems to be getting a second wind. But when Richard’s $3,000 cake is rolled out at midnight, Anthony’s huddled in a booth resembling Excedrin Headache #5.
Even better, Anthony’s on assignment to cover the party for the London Observer. He probably has an intern to tell him what happened.
It’s a fairly stellar night, but I don’t want to neglect the week’s earlier birthday party for Page Sixer Ian Spiegelman. It was held at the D-list Social Club, and the biggest name there was pseudo-socialite Warrington Gillette. He’s the Palm Beach poseur who played the Jason with a burlap bag over his head in Friday the 13th: Part 2. Warrington was also at the recent Fangoria convention, but nobody really noticed.
