My invitation to the Gucci party arrived in the mail, chiseled on a piece of stately marble with "Gucci" all fancy in gold letters on the front, because that is how the wealthies roll. The wealthies don't use paper. They communicate on marble. On marble inlaid with gold! When you're done with it, throw it in the garbage! Or build a throne room with it (I mean, have your feudal serfs do it, obv) or fuckin' trebuchet the shit out of your enemies with it!

Closer inspection revealed the invitation to be heavy cardboard printed like marble, inlaid with gold-colored ink. But STILL. That is wealthy enough for me, wealthies! I am sold on your fanciness.

"Why the fuck am I invited to this Gucci party?" I wondered. "Something about SIFF," the invitation replied. Ah, interesting. I put on a fancy dress (ill-fitting, from Goodwill) and headed downtown to Seattle's brand-new Gucci store.

Seattle's brand-new Gucci store is not a place I ever intended to go. To me, a $5,000 purse might as well be a $50,000 purse might as well be a $both-my-kidneys purse (you need at least one to live, you know). Inside, it was very elegant. A cute boy in a little suit took my coat and gave me champagne. Or maybe it was prosecco. Everything was made of glass and leather. Another cute boy offered me "food": some sort of microscopic cracker with, like, half a pimiento and a lobster hair on top. I "ate" it. He handed me a cocktail napkin, which was made OF CLOTH. "Oh my god, is this a cloth napkin?" I whispered. "I don't even have cloth napkins at my house." He laughed. I put the napkin in my purse, receiving the old judgy up-and-down from a lady in a fur vest.

I cornered SIFF Cinema's publicist to get to the bottom of things. He told me that Gucci is one of SIFF's major sponsors this year, and then he said something about a foundation that had something to do with Martin Scorsese, and then he said he didn't know how to pronounce "Scorsese" even though he had done it correctly only moments before. I pretended to understand, but my brain was elsewhere.

Specifically, my brain was over there, on the far side of the room, where stood a most wondrous sight. A thin girl, wearing ridiculous stilettos and an expensive hanky, stood motionless on a small platform. A human mannequin. A HUMANNEQUIN. It's not every day that I get to see something as pointlessly indulgent as a humannequin! You just pay her to stand there? She's basically an organic coat hanger with side-boob? Groucho "Dale Chihuly" McEyepatch shuffled past the humannequin. I jumped up and down a little bit and took his picture. "You're not authorized to take pictures," said some lady. Hmph. Cocktail napkin. Purse. Best party ever.