Daily Front Row

2009 October 23

One Night At Le Sexy

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Simon Doonan
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(NEW YORK) Last night's FGI Night of Stars was certainly star-studded, but no one would argue that the highlight of the evening was host Simon Doonan's intruduction speech. In the spirit of the night's theme, The Storytellers, Doonan crafted a tale of the night's honorees that had the audience practically in tears. The transcript, in its entirety:

I am not sure what Margaret was smoking when she came up with this theme, but I LIKE IT.

Margaret, you have inspired me to tell a story of my own. 

Caution: It’s not a pretty story. It’s more kind of FRENCH new wave – nouvelle vague kind of thing – if you know what I mean. Very Jean Luc Godard.

HERE GOES:

Once upon a time there was a very good-looking charming bloke named OSCAR DE LA RENTA - OSCAR decided to open his very own strip joint. Not sleazy.  A gentleman’s club - Something chic and discreet in the basement of a charcuterie near the Place de Pigalle. He named it Le Sexy J’adore - which, I think, speaks volumes.

Oscar needed a manager to run Le Sexy J’adore – somebody warm and friendly, but, most importantly, somebody who would keep his paws off Les girls. Enter MICHAEL KORS – back then Michael was just a fresh-faced young American - studying macramé and Sanskrit at the Sorbonne. Happy to take on an evening job. Pourquoi pas!

KENNETH COLE - A big bruiser, a versatile mec was hired by Oscar as bouncer-slash- accountant – slash marketing genius.

A hard-drinking Irish interior decorator named CLODAGH -  was hired by OSCAR to design the interiors of Le Sexy. She threw herself into the job, knocking back vats of absinthe and sewing cushions and poofs until her fingers bled.

What about Les Girls?

A week before the opening of Le Sexy J’adore, a young Italian stenographer wearing only a teal colored lizard trench and lemon yellow thigh-high crocodile boots flung herself through the beaded curtain which adorned the entryway. She was on the run from the cosa nostra and desperate for employment – her name was Frida Giannini. She took on the task of recruiting fan dancers and floozies from far and wide – she found the naughtiest and chic-est gals in the Western Hemisphere - Paula Wallace of SCAD and Catherine Walsh of Coty, you know I’m talking about YOU -  and once she had signed up all her girls FRIDA proceeded to teach them her strange avant-garde Italian burlesque choreography.

Who would make the costumes and the skimpy essentials for Les Girls? Victoire De Castellane, a convent girl with a profound knowledge of pasties, jewels and G-strings - and a rap sheet as long as the Champs Elysees -  was happy to step in. Frances Berwick and Andy Cohen from BRAVO were hired to keep LE GIRLS under control. Den mothers to the highly strung artistes. ANDY would run to the PRISUNIC whenever LES GIRLS needed bunion pads, rubbing alcohol or a slice of Brie.

The opening night of Le Sexy J’adore arrived. Quelle horreur! It was, mes amis, a disaster of horrible proportions. Because nobody came. Personne.

Le tout Paris was not there because le tout Paris was at The Folies Bergeres. A conflicting event! We’ve all been there.  Quelle disappointment! Quel drag! Merde etc!

Poor Oscar  - he was triste and fache all at the same time. 

At about 10.30 somebody finally wandered into Le Sexy J’adore. Un Client. A chill ran through the staff of Le Sexy. They all recognized his mug.  He was of the toughest meanest butchest most psychopathic hoodlums in the whole of Europe. His name, as you have probably guessed, was…… Mr. Stephen Jones.

Mr. Jones felt an instant attraction for Frida. It was LUST at first sight. They canoodled. They caroused. They were just about to split their second bottle of cooking sherry when – Bam! – Frida’s fiancé, a relentless reprobate from Roma named Renzo Rosso rushed onto the Le Sexy stage carrying an assault rifle. He sprayed bullets into Clodagh’s hand-sewn banquettes, giving them an attractive texture.

Frida returned fire using a bullet bra cunningly designed for her by Victoire. Ciao Renzo! A toute A l’heure Signor Diesel!

At the sight of blood, Stephen Jones let out a high pitched screech which detached a massive chandelier sending it crashing to the floor.  Kenneth Cole tazered both ROSSO and JONES. Michael Kors bound and gagged them using brassieres and other foundation garments which, conveniently and strangely , he happened to have in one his pockets at the time.

Oscar surveyed the carnage and gave a philosophical shrug -  “C’est La Vie, cest La Guerre,” he said to himself, “maybe I will try a career in fashion. It cannot possibly be more insane and complique than this!”

THE END.