At this stage I became increasingly agitated and explained to the door team USA if I were not afforded entry (I know the temerity of my ego) I would begin to happily snap pictures on my I phone and write a rather cryptic article. This too only elicited another collective yawn and the dizzy smile of a young man wearing a white faux rabbit fur coat who had been explaining that he had just arrived from Paris, that he once shook hands with some world recognized designer and that he too must be let inside because he was best friends with Ms Cesarine. Indeed.
At this stage I was resigned to the idea that I would be humiliated and left to grovel for my life on the street. As you can imagine the tears started to welt in my eyes, splashing the streets of Hollywood, nevertheless I continued taking pictures- wondering why the Goddess Sheba had deserted me and whether I could ever show my face in America ever again.
Finally Ms Cesarine showed up (well she had to- the door bitch immediately alerted her that I was taking pictures). At this juncture I attempted to introduce myself and was once again ignored and passed over as the minions of downtown were afforded their entry.
At this point David, our photographer came out and started speaking something in French to Ms Cesarine, but Ms Cesarine would have nothing to do with me. At that moment the door crew now turned to me and asked me to step aside so I could make room for guests. It seemed they too would have nothing to do with me.
Provocateur provocative? I hardly think so.
Which poses the question of the day- ‘If you were a host and had personally extended an invitation to a fellow editor- would you take the time to attempt to ridicule them and alienate them? But then again, it is fashion week and that can only mean one thing- ‘this week my ego will be bigger than yours.’ Well, let me paraphrase that- this lifetime my ego will be bigger than yours.
Never mind, I will cry with abandon as I dunk my crumpet in my tea.
Thank you for this.
I have worked for this woman as an intern at her so-called fashion magazine and it is absolutely ridiculous. It is a magazine entirely run by unpaid interns and one royal bitch who thinks the world revolves around her. Indira Cesarine needs to be a bit more humble and appreciative of the students/graduates who dedicate their time to her waste of space.
I assure you I had no idea you were outside. In any case enough is enough, I do my best to accommodate and entertain all of my guests, and to be honest go above and beyond any other editor in chief I know. I don’t want to go into details online, but just ask a few people why I’m moving to Europe…
Apology accepted- but Iet’s be frank, you knew I was there and according to David, the photographer you were coming out to collect me a dozen times. But who knows what that reallu means?
As for the tears, they have all dried up, but I am sure if one looks closely they will find a few wet ones still hovering by the sidewalk.
The issue Ms. Cesarine is that your behavior and that of your crew is emblematic of an elitist snot bag mentality typifying the ethic of the nightlife hustlers in club land. I am aware of how things work in this town and am not completely clueless. I recognize that you would not have a party for your magazine and charge people $20 per cocktail. Nevertheless, to leave an invited journalist outside with a proverbial dick in his hand while you were inside whacking off, metaphorically speaking, your more important guests illustrates that perhaps that a class in manners may have been bypassed in your time at Choate Rosemary Hall. No I do not know you on a personal level and willingly respect and acknowledge that you are a talented fashion photographer, in addition to being a rather fine looking feminine creature yourself. Moreover, I also more than willingly acknowledge that your branding as the female Bruce Webber/Herb Ritts is truly rather brilliant angle, as I am sure many of your Abercrombie boys in their underwear may be a little more full in the package with you behind the lens than a chubby guy that resembles Santa Claus. Kudos. I was going to go onto Tube 8 to find my favorite video to relieve myself but I will go instead to XXXX Magazine. Besos mamasita.
I apologize out the problematic door situation at Provocatuer – I assure you if I knew you were outside I would have come out to get you, but no one informed me! David actually mentioned to me today what happened, and all I can say is that I am sorry to hear they wouldn’t let you in! Of course I would love to have had you there. the fact is they didn’t let in a lot of my guests, and I have been hearing all day from a variety of people including Vp’s from LVMH and many other personal friends who were denied entrance. Those girls are completely clueless, but it was also impossible for me to stand outside during the entire event to make sure everyone I personally invited got in. I’m am going to forward your article to the owners and PR’s of the space, as they should know how irritating it is to throw a private event and your guests can’t get in.
In response Christopher London – it was an open bar, not $20.00 a drink, and just because you happened upon my blog that I rarely update as I never have time does not give you the right to throw me in the category of all the rude bitches out there… in any case, I can’t be bothered to respond further to someone who doesn’t even know me, and throws a link up like that as if he has some kind of special information – it does not deserve any more response… do your homework.
The club scene in New York has been completely and utterly busted for so long; it is like an aphrodisiac for necrophilliac’s. Yale grad and prolific commentator Isaiah Wilner cogently wrote about its demise before skipping town. It is so horribly busted that the only way dilettante’s like Indira Cesarine (http://indiracesarine.com/blog/) can get press from a blogger is if the ridicule, embarrass, frustrate and deny access to a percentage of the population that thrives on the insecurity of gaining acceptance by the utterly vacuous so that whatever whoring goes on inside somehow seems relevant, as they stand outside begging “please let me know I am worthy to spend $20 per watered down cocktail and $350 for a $40 bottle of vodka. There is literally nothing of import that happens in Club Land in the City anymore, not that there ever was. The best thing one can do is let these over glorified ass-holes write about their own exploits in a veritable circle jerk fashion where they can cream all over themselves and lick their own finger tips and mutter “how tasty”, perhaps too tasty to share with another. The infamous AL Goldstein of Midnight Blue fame would have said, “Indira Cesarine, F__k You, I have no desire to write about people masturbating and bathing in their own Narcissism.”
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