[Victor Ward]

It’s so diabolically crowded outside Bowery Bar that I have to climb over a staled limo parked crookedly at the curb to even start pushing through the crowd while paparazzi who couldn’t get in try desperately to snap my photo, calling out my name as I follow Liam Neeson, Carol Alt and Spike Lee up to Chad and Anton, who help pull us inside, where the opening riff of Matthew Sweet’s "Sick of Myself" starts booming. The bar is mobbed, white boys with dreadlocks, black girls wearing Nirvana T-shirts, grungy homeboys, gym queens with buzz cuts, mohair, neon, Janice Dickerson, bodyguards and their models from the shows today looking hot but exhausted, fleece and neoprene and pigtails and silicone and Brent Fraser as well as Brendan Fraser and pom-poms and chenille sleeves and falconer gloves and everyone’s smoochy. I wave over at Paul and Vivien, who are drinking Cosmopolitans with Marcus -- who’s wearing an English barrister wig -- and this really cool lesbian, Egg, who’s wearing an imperial margarine crown, and she’s sitting next to two people dressed like two of the Banana Splits, which two I couldn’t possibly tell. It’s a kitch-is-cool kind of night and there are tons of chic admirers.

Fra Glamorama