Pre-fashion week parties are not our scene. Impeccable cheekbones sipping $20 cocktails, sneaking cigarettes between cackles: not our scene. Bottle service: definitely not our scene. But as we helped ourselves to someone else's expensive vodka while we waited for Deborah Harry to grace W.i.P.'s tiny stage, it dawned on us: if stealing top shelf liquor from friendly suits and dancing next to men in 3-foot wigs was in fact a scene, it was a cheerily comfortable one.
Harry, who made it through two songs (neither of them were her own) before beating a hasty retreat, was adored but her presence seemed wholly unnecessary. Her name was on the flyer to bring together the people who had been around for Blondie's heyday and those who would normally have giant "X's" painted on their hands if they weren't so attractive. Nick Zinner of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs played a few oldies and the room swayed. We toasted our unwitting benefactor, who was whispering in the ear of a woman who appeared to be several decades his junior, and laughed as the lights hit our face.
