CYCIETY: LIFE AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL HUMAN HYBRIDS

Like the cloud machine cirrostratus that coalesced above the motherboard last night, cyciety’s foremost fashionistas gathered in the holographic backroom of a New York Chinese restaurant rendered from a polaroid procured from Kate Moss’ personal collection of 1990s catwalk and cocaine ephemera.  

As shade-seeking perennials do, the conversations steered away from the sun to reminisce over short-lived romances between rakish rockstars and models scouted in supermarkets both swept off their feet by love’s light breeze to land on pebble beaches at dusk wearing wax jackets with corduroy collars and holding hand-rolled cigarettes. 

At 1AM the party migrated to a SoHo loft, where trapeze artists delivered jeroboams two by two and John Galliano, dressed as Henry VIII, serenaded the collective with a version of “Wichita Lineman” played on a 16th century lute stolen from Salvador Dali when he wasn’t looking. 

After being watermelon-ed for over a minute by plastic surgeon to the stars Garth Fisher, Nicolas Cage, Leonardo di Caprio and Mickey Rourke launched themselves through the 7th story window to be rebooted by the bar where they ordered two Martinis between three and tipped the bartender with a dinosaur tooth. Shortly thereafter, an interloper was ejected via the firewall.

The party ended after cyborg Bret Easton Ellis spontaneously combusted when Dita von Teese beat him in a game of Bruegel or Bosch. 

And so carriages were ordered and the clouds drifted apart, disappearing into hotel rooms behind heavy doors or absconding via helicopter to the Fire Island home of a celebrity chiropractor, where they will recover today sucking in the Atlantic breeze and listening to Sade.

And thus, 1997 was once again consigned to the history books.