Imaginary Socialite

CamemBear II

In my notebook after a Musee D’Orsay visit…

“L’Ours Blanc = the Armored Bears in His Dark Materials… the set designer must have seen it during research…”

“The Lord of the Rings designers totally ripped off Mackintosh and the Glasgow Furniture School… always knew the arts + crafts movement was underrated.”

“Karl Lagerfeld should show Resort here next year, and all the models would have to maneuver around the sculptures, and their heels could be made of marble.”

Also:

I am the hugest dork.

[JULIE VERHOEVEN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

PS: This is very funny.

To: imaginarysocialite@gmail.com
From: elie@ecoutez.fr

Is it time for a new fab mix? Have you really only done two mixes, and then vanished?

Come on, don’t be the Larisa Oleynik of blog music. Please.

1. Boyz by M.I.A.
2. Umbrella (cover) by Marié Digby.
3. Stumble and Fall by Razorlight.
4. Heaven Tonight by Hole.
5. Under the Gun by The Killers.
6. Packet of Lies by Jim Poulos.
7. The Kids Are All Fucked Up by Cobra Starship.
8. Zero Percent Interest by Jason Mraz.
9. Like Anything, It’s Small by Shelley Short.
10. Latchmere by The Maccabes.
11. Tripped by The Oohlas.
12. Hero / Heroine by Boys Like Girls.
13. This Modern Love by Bloc Party.
14. Pinball Wizard by The Who.
15. Justine Alright by Heavy Trash.
16. Virginia Woolf by Indigo Girls.

[JOSEPH GORDON LEVITT - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Holly Go Brightly: Anything fun tonight?

Am I The IS: I don’t know. I was invited to a Burlesque party, but it’s sort of not my thing and I’m exhausted.

Holly Go Brightly: You should take it easy; the shows start soon.

Am I The IS: Shouldn’t I go for the experience?

Holly Go Brightly: I can’t picture you digging it. You squirm during The L Word!

Am I The IS: Maybe there will be cool guys there? I’m pretty good at international exchanges.

Holly Go Brightly: You’re an expert. But you’re forgetting one thing. If it’s a Burlesque party, none of these guys are going to be looking at you.

Holly Go Brightly: They’re going to be looking at strippers wearing pasties.

Am I The IS: Oooh. Right. You are so right.

Holly Go Brightly: Tu sais?

Am I The IS: Yeah. Um. I’m gonna eat some grapes on my bed now.

[ALYSON HANNIGAN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Rory, 24 (a gauche)
Elisabeth, 26 (a droit)

Because late last night (slash, early this morning), we walked past a sidestreet and I said, “I’m home.”

They said, “Not quite.”

Five feet away, an awning with floral cut-outs, shuttered.

“In the morning,” they disclosed, “It’s a Chloe outlet. Secret, and almost wholesale. The shoes are under $250.”

I dragged myself out of bed this morning, dusted with glitter and exhaustion, and plodded in the rain to the address.

They were right.

[BLAKE LIVELY - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Or: Paris won’t leave me alone until I meet (re-meet?) a guy

.

1. In the cab ride here, my driver asks, where is my boyfriend? “L’inferne,” I answer.

2. This is the painting in my shower. Really.

3. Over IM, Quinn insists that inter-continental crushing is productive, at least for me.

4. My bed here is bigger than my bed at home.

5. Everywhere, anytime, wine.

How do you say “over it” en francais?

[NICK KNIGHT - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

The guidebook says “Most Likely Café to Finish Your Novel” and the sign says it’s ten minutes away.

“Okay,” I give, “I’ll go.”

I am by myself, in jeans, and walking out the door.

This is unlike me, mostly because I hate being alone, in public, in Paris, in pretty much every conceivable way except late at night, when I shut the door and slam the world and if I can’t have three hours of solitude, the world’s edge curls up on my back. The worst feeling.

I am good at maps – a new goodness, like finally being good at cooking, or secrets, or sex. I follow mine to a place that seems too simple, straight steps on stone from my hotel to magic, but it’s right there in blinking neon.

A problem with the café: No seats.

Everyone is at tables together, friends, covens, cliques. There’s one open table, in a crush of couples and comrades, and I’m like, sure, scoot over.

I sit and smoke wafts into my hair – are the people here pretentious, or merely just French? Je ne sais pas, but I’m feeling like La Freak; it’s just me and my notebook and everyone else has their own knit world that I’m not in.

Some girls have drugs and some have sex, but when I feel empty I reach for my Sidekick and start to text.

Dear T Mobile Customer, international rates apply.

“Qu’est que c’est?” Says a voice from behind, and he looks like George Clooney with a rounder face and plainer style (really) and I’m like, “C’est le Sidekick. Telephone. Americain.”

Which I shouldn’t have revealed, because now there’s two of them, speaking English instead of French (non!), and they’re like, “We’re architects” and “Are you American? We are Serbian!” and when they find out I’ve just been in London, one of them – the non Clooney, with a long face and watermarked eyes – he says,

“Do you know Roksanda Ilincic?”

Oui, I saw her show in London.

“She is my ex girlfriend. The one true love of my life. She wanted to move to London, to do fashion, she said our world was too small for her. She said come with me and I said no, and we parted. Now she is married rich. My one true love.”

“There’s no such thing as love,” I answer, testing to see whether the words and the wine can hold weight.

“You do not believe that,” he accuses.

Pas du tout.

“You cannot believe that. You are young. Roksana, she is different. I am going to a bar that is all fashion people, down the road. Would you like to come?”

He grabs his motorcycle helmet and the whole thing is rather tempting, except that when I see the bottom of my glass and the girls at the next table (pretty, messy, H&M), I realize the only reason I was out tonight, alone, was to prove that I could be.

The other guy’s name is Boris, and I say, “Of course it is,” and grin. I send them more wine; the waiter’s name is Jean Claude.

Back on my bed, by myself, and I wonder if love is better than the foie gras I bought au supermarche, and also how many times I’ll run into the Serbs this week.

My guess is three.

[JULIE DELPY - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

THE PLANE

was noisy, and I couldn’t sleep. The guy sitting next to me was a doll and let me steal his blankets and pillows.

THE AIRPORT

is still amazing to me because of the candy it sells, so banal in Britain and so totally exotic and worthy to me. We land too late to buy anything; all the stores are closed.

MY HOTEL

is tiny and smells expensive, exactly as I remember. I adore it, but I sprint from my bedroom to the supermarket down the road, buy yogurt, buy candy (!), buy grapes. My phone rings twice- once it’s a male model I met in NY. “Come to the Gossip concert,” he says, “You can have my backstage pass.” Um. The phone rings again and it’s Diamond. “Hello, can’t talk right now, just… wanted to say hi. Okay, bye.” Um #2. I weigh Beth Ditto against sleep and pick the boring, best choice.

GARETH PUGH

is obviously the best show ever. There is a mink coat sewn to look like dead mice. There is Kylie Minogue. All of Central St. Martens has crashed the Vogue row. Anna Wintour actually laughs. I wonder what Gareth’s parents think of his career, and remember saying once that his dad worked in a factory and he ran away to start art school. “Warhol,” I peg, but I won’t let myself hold the thought.

BLOOMSBURY PARK
is where Diamond Rodgers and I finally meet (re-meet?), and it’s sort of cinematic because we’re hugging and screaming and spinning around, and everybody stares because it’s just after the Christopher Kane show so they’re all still streaming out of the venue. Of course, I love this, and him. A good moment.

LUELLA

is sick because I am in the front row (for real, it’s where my assigned seat is) and almost next to Lily Allen. This is really cool since last year I was in the last row of Luella. I haven’t slept in three days and try to avoid Kelly Osbourne on the way out, but it doesn’t work.

BOOMBOX

is like MisShapes in slow mo, in costumes, in eccentria. The vibe is so positive and the outfits so beautiful. It’s weird though, because I’m used to knowing everyone at parties and here, only Henry Holland and Agyness, and since they are stars - or at least, very starry - they don’t count.

WEARING A RODNIK SCARF IN HOXTON

I stand outside to catch my breath and a beautiful girl starts talking to me. She wears a Marc Jacobs-y hat. She works in fashion PR. She’s really cool and takes my phone number. “That was my girlfriend,” says Diamond the next morning, “and she knows exactly who you are. It’s too bad she didn’t say something.” There are no photos allowed in clubs here, which I think is why blogs might not be big in London.

TOPSHOP

is not as fun as it used to be, and everything feels like it’s gone too thin, or perhaps I’m just older and tired-er and looking to look like a Big Girl. I go to Ted Baker instead and buy a trench coat. I almost bought the Chloe one, but couldn’t stomach the price.

HOUSE OF HOLLAND

is a truly bizarre experience because it’s in an old warehouse with neon graffiti everywhere. Leigh and Jackson are models in the show; Max and Scott Meriam and Geordon and Greg hang by the photo pit to watch them go down the runway. Leigh has threatened my life if I make her laugh on the catwalk, so of course I’m wondering how best to do it. The show is so crowded, I sit on the floor.

NOKI

is my favorite show of the week, a London moment where garbage Geishas overtake the runway. The clothes are actually awful, but the goth conviction of the show is so moving that I’m sold. If I were for real, I’d say my favorites were Marios Schwab and Louise Goldin, but whatever. Imaginary girls get to have odd taste.

VENETIA SCOTT

is Marc Jacobs’ stylist and associate creative director, and she is randomly at a fashion show. I’ve met her before, with Pete Wentz Photo Boy, so I pull up next to her and ask, “Want to talk about the Marc show?” She actually does. For fifteen minutes. If anything else, this has made London worth it.

YESTERDAY

Diamond told me we were going on a boat “to sight see.” We walked down to the Thames and sat on a dock with all of these yachts. Then a tiny inflatable dinghy pulled up. “Get in,” says Diamond. We ride so fast through the water that I can still feel it in my gut. I am so sick and scared that when the ride’s finally over, I burst out laughing. We decide to go to the Tate Modern but we don’t like the exhibit this month.

BETHEL GREEN
His apartment and five bottles of wine. There is a lot I should say to him, but I can’t. Instead we play the entire Maccabees album and jump up and down on his couch. At midnight I pull on my coat and call a cab. “We broke up,” he says. “That would explain your dancing,” I answer.

TOMORROW

Paris.

[SOPHIE FIENNES - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

*I’m horribly disorganized

*I’m still in love with him

*I dress down too much

*I only like tomato juice when I’m flying

*Almost every Desperate Housewives episode is named for a Sondheim lyric, which makes me even sadder that I really don’t like the show.

[YES, RELAX, UPDATES AGAIN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]