No Palais. Every fucking body had a boat, even Mitch Kanner. Joe Pytka bought a beautiful sailboat. I felt like Errol Flynn in 1938; then Joe called me an asshole, and I came back to earth. McCann Erickson had a ship. The one Aristotle Onassis owned, The Christina, where he and Jackie Kennedy Onassis hid from the paparazzi. It was huge. Jim Ferguson had a six-foot dingy which he docked off the Carlton for all his friends: me. Geordie Anderson told me next year Blue Rock is chartering a submarine to put in the harbor. I suggested to just stick a periscope in the water and forget the fucking boat.
Breasts. Yes. They come in pairs. This year had more naked breasts than ever. Men and women had breasts–some should only be seen by the owner. It was hard to keep a conversation at the beach with all to see. The American women were brave this year, and we thank you. Some American men should not be so brave, and you cost me some sleep.
Villas were back a plenty. Just think: 10-12 people sharing a hot house full of alcohol and strangers crashing every night, and no porn channel. Sounds like Nam! A lot of great villa parties like RSA. The place was packed, maybe 500 people, and that was just their staff and directors. I couldn’t find the villa due to a consumption problem, but I knew it was up there somewhere. Donkey/The Lift had a 2:00 a.m.-8:00 a.m. live DJ which kept the entire Majestic Hotel up with it. Stillking had a villa party as well as few Italian production companies. DDB had the usual bash at the beach. It was hot and sweaty which is good because men sweat and women glow. Yeah! Leo Burnett had a party, but I wasn’t invited. I don’t think. So did Traktor, but you can’t be all places all times, and I was too busy chasing the leopard ladies down La Croisette.
Gutters, ah yes! I arrived there at about 2:30am to see my 2,000 closest friends. I must have looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot because they got me a table and a waiter. I never knew they had tables and waiters. There I sat surrounded by 2,000 drunks–make that 2,001. Now I know what the Battle of the Bulge felt like or maybe the mosh pit at a Guns ‘n Roses concert. Somehow I got home. The four-block walk home took three hours. The survival instinct is amazing. I woke up like a shot and checked under the bed, the closet, the tub and terrace to make sure I was alive and alone. I was alone not alive. I felt like Runway Two at JFK–every three minutes a jumbo jet landed on me. Some French guy had a little fit and hit one of our fellow Americans with a bottle. Calm down schmuck. I’m glad you didn’t get the Olympics.
Oh yes, the show: Nobody goes unless you win Gold.
TOP TEN
Best Dressed: Rupert Samuel
Worst Dressed: Pablo Cruz
Best Hair: Michelle Curran from Amber Music
Life Guard Awards: Jon Kamen for saving Ken Yagoda
Most Wardrobe Changes: Howie Schwartz’s girlfriend Diane
Most Likely to Come Back: Ron Berger (to torture me)
MVP: The Weather
Rookies of the Year: Jordan Scott and Susan Credle