GOSS GALLERY…FINALLY

Remember the Goss Gallery opening from last Thursday? The one Alan Peppard stayed up late to write about? I bet you fashionistas and socialites out there were expecting a FrontBurner-worthy version. I think I found one, or rather it found me. The following email from “Katie,” a friend of a friend of my wife, ended up in my Inbox. It’s pretty funny. Enjoy.

So I’m delayed in my Goss Gallery Opening re-cap. I needed a few days to really digest the entire thing properly.

Jim ___, of Jimmy Choo (no relation) and I had pre cocktails at Zaza which was fabulous. The pool was uncovered and the evening was ripe for the ladies of the night that swarm around there in shoes made of lucite. Honestly, people, we do not go to Zaza enough…there is no better people watching in this town. (And I think the statute of limitations has run up on the night we spent there after Prince. No bouncers asked me to leave).

Lynelle graciously dropped us off at the Gallery at 9:30, because we obviously wanted to be fashionably late. Speaking of fashionable, I wore my lucky Las Vegas outfit and Jim donned shredded Dolce and Gabana jeans with a sparkly blue Versace jacket. We should have been illegal. Jim was horrified by my silver shoes which were imitation Choo, and he swears we will never go out together in public again without the proper product placement.

Outside of the gallery, a lot of people were already leaving (the party was billed to last until 12). Something about the tent, crowded, hot. I wasn’t paying attention. Jim introduced me to one of his buddies who quickly said, “Well she’s the hottest spring accessory I’ve seen in years!” And that is exactly what I was. Why I thought that there was any hope of meeting a rich sexy heterosexual art collector at this event, I will never know. Gay men with their tiny blonde fag hag dates as far as the eye could see. Even in the art, for the gallery was crazy overwhelming with all of David LaChappelle’s photographs of tiny blonde fag hags too. There was Pamela, Dolly, Brittney, David Bowie. All larger than life and mastered as far as film can go. You must stop by to get a look before the exhibit leaves in August. So we enjoy the art for about 30 seconds and then get to the real reason we are there: George Michael.

We head to the very Todd Fiscused out tent (lots more lucite) in the back of the gallery and run to the bar as fast as our off brand shoes can carry us. Here’s when I knew the poor Kenny Goss party was going to be in trouble. Katie: “I’ll have a martini, dirty” Bartender: “We’re out of glasses, how about a Heineken in a solo cup?” Are you kidding me? We were horrified at best, but decided to give it a chance. Then all of a sudden I’m sweating, Jim’s sweating, everyone is sweating…yes, the tent AC went the way of all the gay men in the room, OUT.

Well that’s when I really knew the party was over. Everyone went tripping over one another to get back into the A/C gallery. The line to the restroom was all the way downtown, as there is one stall for each. When I finally made it to the ladies, I realized where all that glassware was. Honey, girls love to take a drink into the bathroom and leave it there. It’s almost a competition to see how many wine glasses a marble vanity can hold.

So, we have still not seen George, and we decide to brave the sauna tent again. We see Todd running around like a crazy person pulling the sides of the plastic human microwave back. Kenny Goss himself looks totally hysterical. But ah, there is George. A little more of a double chin than I remembered. I did “accidentally” drop my lip gloss on the floor “behind” him to get a good look. Just as it has always been…the most perfect bottom since Brad Pitt in Troy.

Of course, I’ve never pretended there is any shame in my game, and I asked for a photo; he embraced me and tried to feel me up. I told him I wouldn’t go there, and he gave me his cell phone number. That’s all a lie. We just had a pic and boogied under the tent. Then he disappears. Kenny puts him back in his cage and calls the limo driver to take the cutest spring accessory I’ve seen in years back to the Vendome to run a cold shower for the VIPs. I only wish I could get on that list.

So the party ends with LaChappelle on the dance floor rocking out to Dolly Parton like a sorority girl to Fifty Cent. We had a photo together too, and he said I reminded him of Christina Aguliera from the “Dirty” video era, which we all know is only a compliment. There was a time in my life when I resented the comparison, preferring Brittney as my twin. But Brittney turned on me after I defended that white trash girl for years! I’m no longer president-elect of her fan club. And she calls me every other day to find out exactly how I spell my Kathryn so that she can name her baby after me. It’s sad really.

Night ended with a cold water at the bar next to the gallery (party ended 1.5 hours early) and a ride home from big brother Gray with Wataburger under my pillow. All in all not a complete waste of mascara.

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