And so it came to pass last night, at the Metropolitan Club in NYC, that a group of about 300 people convened to pay tribute to legendary and lovable interior designer Mario Buatta. All had paid $750 a ticket for the gala dinner, during which New York Times journalist and famed balladeer Christopher Mason wrote and sang a song to the tune of "America the Beautiful" and mega-rich investor Wilbur Ross wrote and recited a poem entitled "An Ode to Mario." The tables, conceived by teams from the New York School of Interior Design, "were quite elaborate and fun with roaches, rats, frogs and tons of 'Marioisms,'" an industry insider tell Curbed. Sounds like a lovely evening, filled with warm conversation and the company of friends, right? Well, we got our hands on an post-event email that a certain dapper interior designer sent to a large number of attendees by mistakingly hitting "reply-all." He's got a totally different perspective about how the evening went.
I wouldn't use the word "awe". I was at a 60" diameter table with 10 people for over 2 hours. It got a little raw smelling if you know what I mean. And not in a good way. Not some hot man on man video, but more like the laundry bin at the Biggest Loser.
By dessert the women across from me, who was thin, was bumped so many times by the person next to her, she was covered with chocolate sauce, very Salvador Dali. I thought someone put acid in my fillet and I was hallucinating. I haven't felt like that since my baby sitter had me lick a smiley face during the Johnson administration.
And Wilbur Ross! Really? Aren't you trying to help the school and the industry? He mentioned how expensive Mario was over and over. Chintz is cheap Wilbur, suck it up. Your on 57th [Street], east of 6th [Avenue]. It isn't 740 [Park Avenue] or 834 [Fifth Avenue], please.
Have someone who likes to spend talk. Nancy Reagan is still alive, look how much she spent on that big head. And she can say over and over in her book that she and Ronny didn't know any homosexuals, but it took a gay village to get that together. What about that son? Honey, she could spend. All those poorly paid acting years were never forgotten. Once she hit the big time....give me Billy Haines. Oh, he's dead? Then, give me Ted Graber. No pottery barn for Nancy. No restoration hardware. No J. Crew.
Bring back the eighties for more then [sic] one night please.
All the best,