Don’t you know who I am? An unwavering publicist pointed way off in the distance, where I was to spend the next five hours cooking in the sun. My heart sank as I watched some of the same journalists that I’d just been pitying get whisked right in. They saw me too. Ouch.
I guess that was part of the point of this whole extravaganza—to keep the prince away from fun-loving people like me.
Or Bungalow 8 owner Amy Sacco, for that matter, who later described her dream date with the dashing prince thusly: “I would kidnap him, give him a funny mustache, take him to a Rangers game, then to Patsy’s pizza in Brooklyn and off clubbing after, with Suzanne Bartsch, Kenny Kenny and Eric Conrad, then to La Esquina for breakfast burritos, before the tattoo parlor, then Bungalow 8 for a nightcap.”
Of course, Harry has a far less ambitious social secretary these days. After the match, he would be whisked back to England, long before the start of the official after-party later that night at Pink Elephant. (His absence partially explained the party’s lackluster turnout—the ubiquitous Byrdie Bell and her crew even failed to show up! Another reason: “Pink Elephant is sooo 2005,” as one nonplussed attendee put it.)
Yet, relegated to the so-called “picnic area,” nursing some champagne against my gastroenterologist’s wishes (too gassy), I couldn’t help but envy Prince Harry. Guy’s got all the youth, fame, money he could ever want and unquestionably presides as grand marshal in a stunning parade of ass beyond my wildest dreams.
And look at me, middle aged, swatting bugs, getting sunburned, miserable, and all for naught. I might as well be sitting with the commoners across the field.
Incensed, I stormed over to make my case for inclusion to the VIP gatekeepers, one of whom eventually agreed to let me into the tent, just as soon as the prince arrived.
I turned around and, suddenly, there he was—the prince!—hair messy like he’d just woken up from a long nap, hands in his pockets, schlumpy, walking by with his mates. I overheard one guy ask him if he happened to know Alexandra so-and-so, probably some hot dame. The prince said he did not. What a player!
I tried to follow them inside but was barred yet again at the gate. This time, I was told I could finally join the party just as soon as the prince leaves.
Eventually, I made it inside, where it seemed the prince had left an indelible impression on New York celebs.
“You know what, I’m not much of a royal sort of watcher,” said the designer Marc Jacobs, wearing thick James Brown-style platform shoes. “It’s like, I’m a New Yorker and the royal family has never fascinated me so much. But I just got to meet him and I have to say he was immediately charming, what one would expect a prince to be, really, really cool, nice, friendly, very engaging, and cool. Seems like a good guy.”
What about his missteps?
“I think we all do missteps,” said developer Aby Rosen. “His are reported. Yours and mine are not reported. So that’s the only difference.”
Interview magazine publisher Peter Brant described the prince as a bold, aggressive and fearless polo player like his dad, Prince Charles.
What’s he got that I don’t have?
“He’s a prince,” Mr. Brant said. “You know how they say it’s nice to be king?”
Rapper LL Cool J said that Harry had gravitas, a generous spirit, and didn’t give off any airs. The bad boy stuff was a plus. “None of us are perfect, we all have flaws and I think the average person when they see royals they think of them as perfect and him having some flaws, that only makes him more human and more natural and we respect that,” he said.
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