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The beautiful, starving locusts of Fashion Week are descending upon us all, sucking the blood and vodka out of the city until nothing's left but a few ratty old tents and some empty bottles of champagne. The madness officially starts tomorrow, but last night Fashion Week Daily — the freebie fashion gossip publication that litters the front rows of practically every show — started things out with a soiree at Tenjune. The invite indicated that music would be provided by the MisShapes, obviously making this the sort of event worthy only of the lowest member on the company totem pole, new GawkSlave Stephanie. After the jump, she admits to destroying her camera because she was acting kinda slutty.





The party started at 8. I arrived at 9, but only because I spent entirely too long making sure that my uncomfortable and expensive stilettos would not get stuck in those unfortunate cobblestone streets separating me from Tenjune. This means I barely caught a glimpse of the gaggling socialites who arrived at 8:45 and promptly left at 9:15 so they could head to Marquee, Bungalow or some other crackhouse.

This being my first party crash, I'll chalk it up to a learning experience. Allow me to share.

Lesson #1: Master the art of air-kissing on both cheeks. If you're not good at it, you will smell things you don't want to smell.

Lesson #2: Never let a drunk person hold your camera.

We know what you're thinking. "Where are the pictures of slightly inebriated media hacks, socialites and models?" Unfortunately, they are lost in oblivion. See Lesson #2.

Lesson #3, to be studied with Lesson #2: Never stand in a corner.

I was pulling a wallflower routine and, in an instant, I was surrounded by two 40-ish guys, neither of whom spoke very good English. In a rugged Italian accent, one repeatedly asked, "You will call me?" and "Want free wine?" I appreciated the back-asswardness of his game, so I maybe allowed myself to be groped for an undisclosed amount of time. Because I always like a record of my partners for my potential STD file, I exclaimed, "Hey, let's take a picture!"

He excitedly responded in foreign tongues and handed my camera to his friend, who is balancing a large glass of vodka and his cell phone in the other. Then it happened in slow motion: My camera falls to the floor. The batteries landed in front of a bouncer's foot. You saw this coming, right?

I panicked. My paramour panicked. The bouncer panicked. The inebriated "photographer" wandered away.

The camera wouldn't turn on. This shocked me, mostly because I couldn't believe I was getting sympathy from a bouncer. My paramour promised to buy me a new one and then recited sappy quotes that you read on the back of romance novels.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized only three pictures were saved. You're better off not seeing them, trust me. Wow, it's so awesome partying with fabulous people.

Lesson #4: Engage in one memorable conversation per hour.

A makeup artist tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Who are you here with?" Huh. Who was this woman? Why did she tap me on the shoulder? Was she an undercover bouncer? I pointed to a random person and scampered away. Later, I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her the same.

Me: "I'm with Gawker."
Silence. Hushed whispering. Nervous looks. None of this is unusual. One minute passes.
Photog: "She thinks you said stalker."
Me: "No, I'm not a stalker."
Makeup Artist: "Say it again."
Me: "Gawker"
Makeup Artist: "Stalker?"
Me: "No, Gawker. It's a gossip web site."
Photog: "Like The Onion?"
Me: "Um...not really."