The show's only saving grace?
Andrew McCarthy
The thing about Andrew McCarthy (despite my undying love for his wet noodle performance in Pretty is Pink) is that he is a big pussy. And from what I gauged, watching the last few minutes, was that Mr. McCarthy was Ms. Bushnell's new Mr. Big.
Big mistake? Maybe. But the entire show just seems to be a melodramatic bore so pinpointing the root of the show's suckdom isn't worth my time.
Before that, I was set to chat with Travis from Gym Class Heroes for my Huff Po blog but jetted after 5 minutes because that party was just too wack for words.
Corny bald man on the coat check line: Whoa, are all you girls from Jersey?
Tacky girls: yeah
I grabbed my coat and left.
Preceding that, I had just made it in time to see Jayson Brunsdon's show at Bryant Park. Cute but kind of patchwork-y. Saw for the third time a fuschia-haired make-up artist.
First time I saw her was at Tracy Reese this past Sunday. Second time I saw her was at Rodnik's show at The Box that Sunday night with BGA.
A rock show within a fashion show with the designers performing rock music and proclaiming that they are "not a rock band".
Whatever.
That night, at The Box's coat check, I recognized another familiar face that I had seen earlier at Curly's Diner. Bruno Wizard.
Bruno: It was 25 years ago that I had a dream where I saw letters in the sky burst in flames. It spelled something. And, that was the chorus of my song.
His breath smelled like dried-up, dead veggie burgers.
Earlier tonight, I stopped for a glass of champagne at the lifebooker event where people were getting their eyebrows tweezed in dark corners, their faces sprayed within inches of a tanning gun under awkward lighting, while papabubble candies were strewned about throughout the Kiss and Fly space.
Security guard: Ma, you leaving already?
Yummicoco: Yeah, but you never know I might come back.
Security guard: Anyone who says that never means what they say.
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