If you’ve ever wanted to watch a celebrity, a poseur, a perfectly chiseled human being squirm all one needed to do was turn up to Wednesday’s very ultra private party at the Florida Room for Madame Grace Jones at the Delano Hotel in Miami. With aghast and aplomb this maestro of crowd control and attitude the unfazed Danny Morla was in supreme control. Tending to the uber patrons of this weeks must be seen party and human circus called Art Basel (which to be sure is an exhilarating spectacle of manners, never mind the art….) was one of the most impressive feats of placating and air kissing one could of have wished to come across
They where all there, the geniuses, the shakers, the movie stars, the reporters, the models, their concubines and the very talented ensemble called high society
Dressed in high heels that one can see left most of the darlings grimacing and aghast as they waited for the very much sought after patron of exclusivity –Danny, was simply better than watching any high staked drama movie. With fierce determination the uber doorman set about settling the social desirability factor, wielding it, and by most accounts shredding the egos of most of the patrons who had come.
Nothing could be said to get you past the ropes, whether you spoke flawless French, Spanish (accents that the maestro was vehemently wielding as the euro set descended en masse), no matter how many covers you had graced, talk shoes or biennales you had been in, it all didn’t matter. The house was filled to over capacity, all one could hope for were measured doses of civility, lots of humility and the belief that eventually you too would be tossing your sunshine mane to the steady beat of jiggling bottles of Veuve Clicquot, house beat and what probably had to be the most highly anticipated and exceptionally well received parties at Art Basel.
Whilst yours truly gracefully waited his turn to be granted entry to the vacuums of celebrity circus I took the time to jot down the following observations;
Tall girls and boys both wearing fedoras, sailor boy caps, bold make up and by most measures taut expressions of wonder.
Lots of chaps with perfect tans, crisp shirts and strong German accents.
A cascade of photogenic beauty almost brought to tears by Danny’s perceived sense of meanness.
Coming across the lovely Lisa, masseuse to every celebrity that she could ever think of or simply existed was an exercise in charm and wonder. I learned in no short order, that girls of her elk were very much predisposed to other girls, sometimes boys too, but of course only boys who were open to girls like her being with well simply other girls…
Her chaperon “Champagne,” a somewhat intoxicated chap from Japan kept wondering where the party was, and every once in a while had to be held in place by the lamp post.
Two angular girls wearing red fishnet stocks vehemently fishing for what in their Louis Vuitton hand bags.
“It must be here?”
“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the bathroom?”
“Oh no, and it’s so late where are we going to get some more…?”
Coming across the debonair Patrick, who unlike most of the jostling attendees was retaining his cool I asked what he thought manners were;
Patrick; Attention to detail, nipples, curvature and wetness.
Me: Does that also apply to your work? (Patrick was a sculptor showing here)
Patrick: Not really, they’re two very separate pursuits.
With the long wait finally over I too was one of the lucky ones plucked inside roaming the hedonistic ritual boudoir called high society in full flux.
They were all there, Benecio del Torro, Marilyn Manson (one wonders if he was born with make up ), Tom Brady (not that I could tell save for the gawking girls pointing at him) and the celestial darlings one often tries to dodge at idle traffic lights as they fly past you in their Ferrari look a-likes.
Sitting there amongst buckets of champagne I gladly started helping myself when I noticed one of the tables benefactors extending her foot at me.
Susan: “Do you know how much my feet hurt?”
Me: “Life is often filled with peril.”
Susan then proceeded to list me the most preferable shoes a woman could ever wear.
First she declared it was in order, Manohlo Blahnik, Jimmy Choos, Prada, and a fourth label I haven’t the faintest recollection of.
Susan: “Well guess which brand I’m wearing?”
Me: “Manalo’s.” I replied, after having my third glass.
Susan: No, Prada, and my feet are killing me!
I then came across Anthony, who then assured me that the whole experience reminded him of the survival of the fittest, sexiest, clitoris and wittiest, to which by now I had single handedly finished the whole bottle of Vivue in front of me.
“Yes, “ I finally said “but one must also be cognizant of the boldest too,” by which accounts I had now begun making headway with a new bottle of Vivue.
From there it was straight to the dance floor, where boys with pompadour haircuts wore shirts that said; “Fuck you, pay me.” And girls with agile knees and hips grinded amongst themselves to the ancient relic of S-Express. And this is how the rest of the evening played until the dear chap called Danny came downstairs, lit a Marlboro Light and finally started dancing amongst us.
Photography by Scallywag.
Where are the tears…?