Turns Out, We're All Star-Effers...

I don't know, I guess I just kinda thought that Miami people were more used to the notion of celebrity than those of us in DC. There's just SO much ostentatious wealth everywhere you look, lots of celebs are down there, the events scene is about 100x that of Washington...

...but then Jessica Simpson's swimwear launched at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. And then my theory proved all kinds of wrong.

Shay Todd show: oh, about 20 photogs, seating was at capacity, which was maybe 350.

JS show: about 200 photogs, standing room only. Just utter madness.

But first, a little digression.

I was staying at my sister's beautiful apartment (she's still on her uber-luxe tour of Italy), so I had free reign in her closet and with her beauty products. Worth the trip in and of itself.

First night: Dolce & Gabbana black lace stretch dress, which I've been coveting forever. Standing in line to get into the tent, saw Brandon Davis' girlfriend breeze through the VIP line, but Mr. Davis: denied. Tried the "don't you know who I am" bit, but not so much. Also seen: club promoter Ingrid Casares with her companion all weekend, stylist Robert Verdi; Andy Summers, though holed up in the VIP room at the Sagamore (a collection of his photos from the Police taken in the 80's is currently on display/on sale there); heard Andy Garcia was there but didn't spot him.

Next day: favorite Tory top, also a long-time covet, during the day; pilfered for night: gold alligator strappy sandals with twisted metal stiletto heel (worn with my Chinese silk RL pants that I wear to damn everything).

First stop: Rik-Rak Salon's Sagamore outpost for an editorial meeting/foot massage. Yeah, tough. But thank goodness for that relaxing start, because the night ahead...

So, the JS Show. First, the suits: surprisingly cute. The show soundtrack opened with American Woman, some Prince thrown in as well--was very fun. The models: better than at any other show; all were skinny with huge boobies. One looked EXACTLY like JS (who was seated in the front row with her mother and Jamie-Lynn Sigler).

Also of note: crazypants Dennis Rodman, there with drag queen extraordinaire Elaine Lancaster. Apparently not happy that he wasn't the center of attention, he got up mid-show, started dancing across the runway, then over to the left of the runway (but still in front of the photogs) and continued dancing. It was just bizarre.

Then came the after party at the Shore Club.

First, a shout-out: to the three J's: Josh and his two cohorts whose names I can't remember but they were J's, managers of the Red Room all. Cool as hell, especially under pressure. That's a job where you could seriously be a complete prick with attitude, and none of them were, not in the least. They were quite fabulous.

My job: get bottle of liquor into the hands of Ms. Simpson when she arrived. Get CEO of said liquor in her velvet-roped area. Find our photog and snap a picture. Easy, right?

As the night ticked on, the Red Room at Sky Bar (at Shore Club) was just getting more and more (and more and more) packed. Then I noticed security sweeps starting to come through. Then the paparazzi started coming in. Then I started inching my way up and...

KABLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMKABLAM went the flashbulbs. Talent hath arrived.

I was about three people back from the ropes, literally getting thrown around like a ping pong ball in my gold stilettos (which, as they were pilfered, didn't fit me perfectly so they hurt like hell and I was pretty wobbly). Seriously thought I was going to get trampled. It was actually frightening. Security tried to calm things down, but that was just not happening.

Made it up to the front, about 5 feet away. Ken Paves was dancing on a chair for the photogs, Jessica was vamping like the expert that she is. It was impressive to see her turn it on just like that.

Then I found myself barking some orders, handing stuff over, we grabbed the photog, SNAPSNAP. Done.

Turned around and JS's publicist was standing there, release order in hand stating that we couldn't use the photo.

Foiled at the velvet rope. Damn. Impressed by her people, though. I mean, it was lightning fast.

Hobbled out of the event, stopping to load up from the Smashbox lady--a woman walking around with a literal tray of Smashbox that was yours for the taking. Awesome. Then over to the outside bar, to order two $20 glasses of champagne (it was free inside, but we just couldn't be bothered--it was just so packed and exhausting), sat outside with our Blackberries, emailing the media our scoops, then through the hotel where two men who looked exactly like the Night at the Roxbury guys tried to pick us up, even when I said, "thanks, but happily married with a baby."

Then out of South Beach, back to the apartment, gingerly placing the somewhat trashed shoes into their plastic case labeled with a Polaroid (and then went straight for the La Mer).

Next installment: spa day at five-star Acqualina.