I HEART NEW YORK

I have just returned from my annual pilgrimage to New York to celebrate the birthday of my longtime journalist pal Pat Sellers, a preternaturally glam native New Yorker with an enviable collection of ball gowns rivalled only by the archives of Oscar de la Renta. I have known Pat since the ‘80s, when I hired her as the New York stringer for the Star’s Star Week TV magazine. Pat not only covered the TV beat for a slew of U.S. magazines including Soap Opera Weekly, she was a regular contributor to Cosmopolitan magazine and a personal favourite of legendary editor Helen Gurley Brown. As a result, she has tons of showbiz friends who often come along for bouts of super shopping punctuated by restorative martini breaks.

This is the obligatory selfie taken in the lobby of Pat’s midtown apartment on the first day of my visit.

My first martini in New York, the land of the free pour. Bartenders here aren’t stingy with their shots and often give you the rest of the shaker. I’ll drink to that.

Table for one, sir? Coal, Pat’s magnificent standard poodle, is having a drink at Bryant Park’s Holiday Market.

Pat, me and Coal al fresco at Bryant Park Holiday Market, just before we gorged on deep-fried pickles, the only things I bought except for a truffle pretzel, which wasn’t nearly as good as it smelled. The Bryant Park market has become way too crafty.

Coal the wonder dog with his master, Pat’s husband Spencer Ross, who is a ringer for Humphrey Bogart circa African Queen. Appearances notwithstanding, Ross is not an actor.  He is a legendary sports announcer. Just Google him. He has been described as “one of the best, if not the best radio play-by-player ever to call a game.”

Department store Christmas windows on pricey Fifth Avenue decked out in magnificent baubles.

From high-end to back end: An arresting display of cheap leggings in the schmatta district.

As disappointing as the Bryant Park Holiday Market was, Pat and I scored big-time at the one at Grand Central Station, which is worth visiting for the architecture alone. Here I am with Mariella de Leeuw, creator of the orange Mongolian fun-fur purse which followed me home. C’mon, Josephine Baker would have worn it as a skirt.

Pat is not only a fashionista, she is a major foodie. Here is a selfie of Pat, me and her caterer pal Freya, on our yearly Chinatown graze, a food-binge where we hit at least half a dozen restaurants/food stalls. Elasticized waistbands are mandatory. My personal fave is the hot-and-spicy won tons at Vanessa’s Dumpling House at 118A Eldridge St.

Chinatown in the rain. It says Little Italy on the sign but Chinatown has encroached on it. The rain was really pissing down and my crappy umbrella was useless. My pants were soaked and Pat’s take-home bacon buns were soggy.

Cool graffiti I encountered on Stanton St. while en route to Koneko cat café. Lots of interesting dive bars along the way as well. Just sayin’ -- for future reference.

This tabby is ready for his close-up inside Koneko cat café at 26 Clinton St., where for a mere $14 you can cuddle rescue cats for an unlimited time. I sorely needed a cat fix after a week away from my four furries. And while traversing Clinton St., the Leonard Cohen Clinton reference from “Famous Blue Raincoat” kept playing on my inner soundtrack.

A festive street scene I encountered while returning from Broadway after seeing The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I heartily recommend. Note the Empire State Building at upper right.

The de rigueur shot of skyscrapers because what says Manhattan more than towering buildings.

It wasn’t all shopping and scarfing food. There was culture too. We took in the awesome Picasso exhibit at MoMA until our backs gave out after two hours of walking on marble floors. This is titled “Pregnant Woman” but could easily be me after too much food and beverage in NYC.

Do not adjust your set -- a pair of MoMA-goers at Picasso exhibit decked out in on-trend clashing patterned coats.

This is by far the coolest couple in New York, two Picasso exhibit fans. They could be extras in a Janis Joplin/Jimmy Hendrix/Sly and the Family Stone retrospective.

Pat is test driving a fabulous faux-fur cape at Accolade on 1410 First Avenue, her go-to clothing boutique. We split a bottle of bubbles, furnished by the affable owner, which goes down well but does nothing for sales resistance.

You could tour this table. Actors Louise Sorel (Days of Our Lives), Linda Thorson (The Avengers), Jessica Walter (Arrested Development), and Pat have smart cocktails at the King Cole Room in the luxe St. Regis Hotel, home of the $25 Bloody Mary.

MAG A SCENE

Ever eager to encourage the preservation of print, I dutifully made my way to the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Wednesday for a fashionable cocktailer in celebration of the winter 2016 edition of S/Magazine which promised “interactive art, live music and en pointe ballerinas.”

They had me at open bar. Two words that strike fear into the heart of every working journalist are “cash bar.”

The fashionistas were in full force. In fact, I entered the party on the designer heels of Suzanne Rogers, a “contributor” to the magazine. As far as I could see, her contribution to the issue was a treatise on how she would be spending her winter holidays (actually a “haute holiday”) in a “picturesque private gated community Lyford Cay.” It’s in the Bahamas, sweetie darlings, but you knew that.

Rogers had a minder in tow -- more like a purse minder -- who was charged with holding her bag. He was perfectly colour-coordinated in a jacket matching her clutch. I wonder if he gets a clothing allowance. And do they go shopping together? Now that’s a column I want to read.

On the subway en route to the Ritz, I encountered this animal-rights activist who reminded me of the freedom fighter in V for Vendetta with a moustache wax.

The imitable Anita Clarke, bloggers, fashion writer and editor, in her way cool vest which conjures up a platinum Wookie.

 I toast the magazine with Leesa Butler, marketer, event planner, blogger and fellow champagne drinker. Hell, I toast anything. I am a champagne slut.

The fringe element in full force. Dolly Parton called. She wants her skirt back.

Models and dancers holding up the back wall. Either that or learning the semaphore.

Here I am making peace with actor turned artist Bridget Griggs and her son Zak, doing his best photo bomb.

What every girl needs is a hands-on wall of jewelry like this.

Adorable couple alert. Not only are they the cutest in the room, they are also color-coordinated.

The party gal with the on-trend vest in the left has no problem having her photo taken. Her friend not so much. But you gotta applaud her reflexes.

It’s not a fashion party without Kirk Pickersgill and Stephen Wong, the über talented designers behind the label Greta Constantine and two of the most generous guys in the biz.

Is she not tutu divine? People just couldn’t stop taking her photo because she looked like a fairy princess, a scaled-down version of the voluminous gown Sarah Jessica Parker wore while waiting for Mikhail Baryshnikov’s character Aleksandr Petrovsky on a Sex and the City episode. She told us she had a date after, and had called ahead to warn him she'd be over-dressed.

I was obsessed with this back-split jacket and how the woman wearing it totally rocked it. Turns out it is a Chanel. I am not worthy.

GIVE MY REGARDS TO OFF BROADWAY

Since I am off to New York for a bit of r and r (retail and recreation), I intended to revisit one of my fave haunts, Off Broadway, owned for the last 50 years by the late, great Lynn Dell, one of the stars of the iconic doc Advanced Style.

Dell died in the summer and there was buzz that the shop would carry on but alas, it has been shuttered, after a blow-out 75-per-cent-off closing sale. Now that would have been worth the plane ticket alone.  RIP Lynn and Off Broadway.

Lynn Dell would preside over her boutique, taking tea and advising her devoted clientele while dressed to reflect the window display, which on that particular day was leopard printed.

I bonded with Lynn Dell and stayed so long, I was mistaken for a staffer. I even sold some jewelry and accessories -- but didn’t take commission. Although I did take tea.

 

DX MARKS THE SPOT

On Saturday night, I got tarted up to attend Kismet, the Design Exchange Intersection (DXI) Gala, a fundraiser for the design museum in honour of legendary and prolific designers George Yabu and Glenn Pushelberg.

But I didn’t get the memo about wearing a costume. Hordes of party hearties were decked out in everything from gold paint to gold glitter channeling one’s inner drag queen. I felt like Hillary Clinton in basic black jumpsuit but thank God I topped it with my new Balmain for H&M blazer which is very Michael Jackson or the love child of Roberto Cavalli and Versace.

I navigated among three levels of pass-around things on sticks and eminently drinkable wine, plus Cirque du Soleil-esque acrobats and live music  but I still felt like the country mouse. Next time I will baste myself in sequins.

In this dynamic duo, the eye makeup on the party gal at right looks like the greasepaint footballers wear to deflect the sun.

Hats off to these women. Celeb milliner Philip Treacy would be proud.

Who are these masked men? I have a naked lampshade that could use that fringe.

Come with me to rock the Kasbah and meet the son of Zorro.

Zane Aburaneh (left), owner of Zane accessories boutiques on Queen West and Cumberland St., and his pals, including cool moon child in middle.

I encountered this masked beauty at the bar and when I asked if I could take her photo, she replied “Of course, my dear,” in a deep baritone voice.

This golden couple is the epitome of gilty pleasure. If I had their bodies, I would walk around totally lacquered up too.

Loved the style of these men in black. Who were they wearing? Issey Miyake.

Two lovelies in midnight lace know how to strike that pose.

The tutu skirt on this woman is amazing and when she obligingly fluffed it up for the shot, it came out of the blue.

BALMAINIA

On Wednesday night, I managed to squeeze into the media preview of the highly-anticipated Balmain x H&M collection at the Bloor Street location, which would be available to the hoi polloi next day.

This marks the 11th collection in a line of prestigious designer collaborations with H&M, the first being in 2004 with Karl Lagerfeld. I’d missed them all except for finding some rejects from the Martin Margiela offerings at H&M’s Fifth Avenue location in New York so I was super pumped.

Balmain is a luxury label way beyond the clothing allowances of the millennial generation so the aim is that this collaboration will introduce the brand to them and make it more attainable. In fact, Balmain creative director Olivier Rousteing used to wait in line himself for hours to score H&M’s designer capsules as a teen so he can relate to this. 

The RSVP stressed that it was invitation only, we would be issued wristbands on a “first come first serve basis”, non-transferable, bring ID and we would be allowed to shop for a designated time period only. Do not pass “Go,” do not collect $200.

I arrived late -- but didn’t get the dregs as I expected though it was a feeding frenzy. It was a cacophony of stylists, a sprinkling of bold face and bloggers like the gold-dust twins, Cailli and Sam Beckerman. We were granted five minutes of shopping and then there was a fierce lineup at the dressing rooms so the more enterprising among us including fun gal Traci Melchor just tried on stuff in the aisles in front of mirrors. We even swapped items among us for different sizing. It was a flashback to the “do-you-want-this-it-doesn’t-work-for-me” retail camaraderie reminiscent of the old days of communal dressing rooms at Loehmann’s designer discount stores.

The highly-coveted wristband issued at the front door of H&M for entry. I could have scalped it if not for the guest list and the door whores.

After going through security and being made to queue up at the bottom of the escalator, I was warmly welcomed at the top with a vodka cocktail by affable actor/waiter Junior Williams. There were also pass-around nibbles but I don’t eat and shop. Don’t need the extra calories when you are trying to stuff yourself into suede pants.

An overview of the security at the lineup to get into the designated shopping area, which was a tighter fit than the clothing.

Here I am in total shopping mode, trying to balance a cocktail and half a dozen hangers. Not a drop of beverage was spilled though there was some shop sweat. It was mighty toasty in the crowded aisle/makeshift dressing room.

The boots, caged shoes and jewelry was pretty much sold out but I managed to snag the last cuff.

I also scored this top, which is very Kardashian. The Kardashians are poster girls for the Balmain brand, which runs “sexy, satin and skin-tight.”  Creative director Olivier Rousteing  apprenticed with Roberto Cavalli and the flamboyance aesthetic rubbed off.

An H&M staffer briefs the poor plebs lined up outside overnight to be first in line next morning to shop the collection. Apparently they’d been lined up for two days at the Eaton Centre location.

An oversized piece of graffiti depicting the eternally disapproving Lucy of Peanuts fame off King St. Note the mattress at her feet. She could lend it to the hapless Balmain fans lined up outside H&M.