Shopping with Jane
I kicked off the night by a small meal at the Ligne Roset Cafe, followed by a visit at Chanel with my gal pal Jane because she needed to pick up her bag.
We both want these gorgeous pair of gray leather boots. The fuckers were almost US$2,000 a pair and since I’m going to Paris anyway, we both agreed we’ll just get it there so they’re much, much, cheaper.
Aren’t they gorgeous?
Also went to a shop that sold Chloe and found this gorgeous, gorgeous beige coat and it suited me well. Would you believe – I’m a size 36 in CHLOE!!!!!
I know, I know. Like Paris Hilton, I, apparently, have one pose/facial expression on my photos. It’s the trademark sideways/head tilted on the side etc.
I toyed around with the camera yesterday with me making these faces. Ugh. I look awful.
This is probably the first time you’ll see me wearing eyeglasses.
Yes bitches, I’m going blind. It won’t be long till I fucking need a guide dog (I wonder if my furry pets, i.e. William, can guide me on the yellow brick road to glamour.)
I’m like -1.50 on both eyes. Eyeglasses by Alain Mikli.
I finally got some booze into my system yesterday evening.
After hanging out with Jane, I met up with Simon (one of my few remaining Russkyi friends) and we went to this club called the "Three Monkeys".
The doorman asked Simon how old I was because apparently, in spite of the Lagerfeld Galery stole, the Marc by Marc Jacobs hardcore wool cardigan (that was as rough as a fuckin Brilo pad), they thought I looked under 16.
This is what I love about cold weather… closed pores, good skin, youthful looks.
Simon told him I’m 24, that bitch!
We stayed there for like an hour or two because it was soo damn boring and empty. It was a Thursday night afterall.
After Three Monkeys, we went to Propaganda, this bar/club packed favoured by the dirty commoner crowd (ha ha!) – think baggy jeans, jeans and more jeans, sneakers and t-shirts. A lot of foreigners and tourists also like this club because it’s the antithesis of the Muscovite club scene where cash should be flashed and crass is better than class.
Here’s the catch.
The "art director" (think Ian Schrager and Steve Rubell in Studio 54) REFUSED me entry. Simon can get in with his scruffy clothes whereas I was TOO glamorous for the club with my white-tipped fox stole etc.
Welcome to FACE CONTROL.
All clubs in Russia are armed with "art directors" who selects who can get in at their club. Face Control is what you call such art. Many people get refused entry to clubs because of a lot of reasons:
a) they look too ugly for their club
b) they look too beautiful for their club
c) they’re wearing the wrong clothes
d) there’s too many of you (i.e. a group of 5 arrived but they’ll only let 2 people in)
e) you arrived in the wrong car (this is where the Mercedes, Bentley or Jaguar comes handy)
f) you’re not "IT", you don’t have the attitude
g) you’re rude to other people
h) you look poor
i) you look too rich
etc etc etc etc etc
I still can’t believe I got refused entry to Propaganda! In fact, I’ve been here a couple of times last year.
Screw them though.
According to World’s Best Bars, Propaganda is:
Another Propaganda but we forgive them since this is Moscow and they’re the past masters of the dark art. A laid back clubby bar that attracts middle class Russians and moneyed ex-pats plus local and foreign students into techno and acid jazz.
Note the word MIDDLE CLASS.
After Propaganda, Simon and I went to this other club called "Skazka". Again, face control was in full force; in fact, there were a SHITLOAD of people outside waiting to come in,
I’m like, fuck it. Told Simon not to even bother trying because there’s all these people outside.
Where I’m from, I **NEVER** fuckin queue.
Where I’m from, bouncers kick people out in the VIP area just for me to have a table.
Where I’m from, everything is handed to me in a rose-gold platter encrusted in pave diamonds – think Patek.
You wanna know why?
BECAUSE EVERYBODY IN THE LAND OF THE BROWN, L’EXOTIQUE AND THE NATIVES LOVES ME… AND I LOVE THEM, TOO.
All dressed up and nowhere to go, we decided to go to this place called Galereya.
I asked Jane a couple of days ago that we check out Galereya sometime but she said it’s full of pretentious people. It’s the "poshest" place in Moscow where people go to see and be seen (actors, models, etc) and all people do here is show off their wealth etc whereas she’s a low-key kind of gal (although trust me, Jane is ELITNY.. she’s just not into the flash flash car crass crash kind of thing).
Ignoring Jane’s hint not to go there, Simon and I decided to go and boy we had fun.
The place is beautiful, the food is very, very good, there’s this skinny woman with slick blond hair (not the cheap hooker blond hair) with a chinchila shrug… it’s a nice place.
And believe it or not, I didn’t get refused entry. In fact, the service is soo good there.
According to Conde Nast Traveler, Galereya is:
This is a creation of Arkady Novikov – the king of the Moscow restaurant scene who has made Moscow into a place where eating out is the norm, as in New York. It is fittingly glamorous, pulsing with atmosphere and full of beautiful people. Photographic exhibitions give the restaurant a creative edge; Mercedes and BMWs block the road outside. If your face doesn’t fit – too old, too fat, too lacking in Dolce & Gabbana, you won’t get in here. Galereya is not gourmet but everything, from the tuna tartare to the mashed potato, is divine.
I ended up at the hotel at around 4:30AM and promptly went to sleep.
It was an ok night, last night. Not too shabby despite the Propaganda entry refusal. It’s funny how in the past and when Simon and I go to "elitny" (Russian word for elite) places, it’s HIM who gets refused and it’s me who can get in. But this time, at fuckin ghetto Propaganda, it’s the other way around!!!!
At least I know where I belong.
At fuckin Galereya.
It was only Thursday… just a pre-emptive strike for this coming weekend.
BRING ON THE BLING BLING THE NOVYYE RUSSKIYE WAY!!!!!
More updates later. I gotta pack my bags and move to another hotel.
You know where to contact me, as always. Email email@example.com.