We wore editorial to the Nike opening on Pak Sha Road. Just closed another issue for the week on Friday, don’t sue us for neglecting the dress code. At least I had a baseball cap on. With an intricate knitted exterior and fake icies encrusted on the rim. Ever so subtly, for blingtastic is so passé. Our omnipotent managing editor went in his geek chic look. And our fierce deputy editor had Adidas socks in her bag. For the gym. Her kneecaps are fine now, thanks for caring. Anyway, it was neat, the street was blocked off, like a fair. I wonder how much bureaucracy they had to go through for that. Maybe because they’re Nike, they simply call up a government official and scream, “JUST DO IT!” We had one beer and some fries and were almost going to pass out from fatigue, the heat, and violent allergies to sporty fashion, so we decided to leave early for sashimi after checking out the after party’s secret location. I also had a vehement reaction to a bite of deep-fried corndog, which downloaded a nasty bitch-torrent of memories pertaining to ever-so classy American high school cafeterias. And some fool got candy floss all over my scarf. Or maybe I was indiscriminately bumping into people in my delirium. Speaking of well-connected, Saturday was ALL ABOUT AGNES. The opening of La Loggia on top of IFC. At nine, I ascended the escalator to the threshold of the brand new flagship Agnès B store. They had models taking polaroids of guests. Whatever. Models can’t take pictures. And to make sure we checked out every nook and cranny of the store, we were all given a nine-piece puzzle, with the alluring promise of a flight to Paris or something equally fierce if we found secret pieces around different areas of the store. That was fun, for like four minutes. Uh huh, walking around a well-lit store is not my idea of Nightlife. So when I saw the dim-lit entrance of the Pain Grillé, I was immediately drawn to its shadows. We diligently took a couch backed by a fake library, and my posse fell into the happy hobby of character-assassination as we sucked on the cocktail juices of mini-oysters. Sitcom material like, you know, my celebrity makeup artist friend would roll his eyes at this female who kept walking past us in an outré black hat and little black dress that was NOT tailored to her body type. “Who is that?!?” he solicited. My wicked celebrity model friend replied nonchalantly within a split second as she sipped her rosé, “Oh her. Her name is Atrocious.” Bwahahaha. Our cute but simple friend who really isn’t into these games responded, “Oh really? Is that her name?” Die!! Diee!! God have mercy on our vile souls. Agnès walked by, waving to and thanking all as she prepared to depart with her entourage for the after party. Quelle grâce. I asked her, en français, if she enjoyed the lions, as I saw her bopping enthusiastically to the lion dance. Or maybe to the buff lion dancer boys. Her face scrunched into a sweet smile as she bleated, “Oui.” The after party was at... Watermark, where else? Au Revoir Simone, Agnès’ darling band from NYC played a very French set. Thank Dieu, for it was a hot mess in there. Like, just too hot with too many people. I took a picture with Madame B as she tore up the dance floor. Fabulous soirée.