In a decidedly under-dressed clusterfuck in SoHo, Fondazione Prada honored Tom Sachs, the mixed-media artist who has bought the world such brilliant artistic juxtapositions like the Tiffany Value Meal and the Prada Toilette and his "eponymous" new book, aptly entitled, Tom Sachs. We sent Intern Heather and prolific shutterfly Nikola Tamindzic along to observe the ratio of self-important people to actually-important people. (Hint: the ratio was really, really high.) Take a gander at our gallery of alleged "beautiful people," and Nikola chronicles them further over at Ambrel. After the jump, Intern Heather attempts to explain her inadequacies.

I like books as much as the next person. I even, at times, appreciate art and enjoyed the Met as much as one can with a monumental hangover on a Thursday afternoon. But seriously, the point of spending five thousand dollars on a book cloaked in Prada is completely lost on me, as is the importance of socialites and most wealthy people. So when I get an email for a last-minute Party Crash at the Prada store in Soho, my inability to say no combined with my penchant for mocking rich, obnoxious assholes wearing God-knows-what found me at the Prada Epicenter.

After making a series of huge mistakes (failing to wash the conditioner out of my hair; picking the one F Train car that was leaking black junk, and failing to notice said junk until it was on my white jacket; getting married for love, not money, and getting royally screwed in my subsequent divorce), I found myself walking thorough the doors of the pointlessly cavernous space that houses millions of dollars of overpriced clothing, handbags, and accessories, adored by upper-middle class schoolgirls and their mothers alike. I understand the sparseness in the store's design is supposed to complement, not detract from that of the product. But really — REALLY — does a store need a case of stairs that is larger than a set of high school bleachers to sell fucking handbags? Furthermore, those stairs are over a foot-and-a-half wide and a total pain in the ass to walk down. You know how hard it is to get sufficiently drunk and not fall up — or down — those stairs? Pretty goddamned hard, I can tell you that.

After I get my hands on this list of supposed "important guests", we're assigned this gorgeous spotter, Rich, and this kid has us running up and down those goddamned stairs, trying to track down people to photograph. I am freaking out because I have no idea who anyone is and, honestly, I'm not skinny enough to be here. At one point, Nikola and I are separated — I'm downstairs at the bar (natch), he's upstairs. All of a sudden, my friend Mo spots Helena Christensen and taps me on the shoulder saying, "Hey, um, isn't that um, a model or something?" Without responding, I haul my ass (in four-inch heels, might I add) up those fucking stairs as fast as humanly possible to find Nikola, to tell him that Hey! I can contribute SOMETHING TO THIS SHOOT BECAUSE I FOUND HELENA FUCKING CHRISTENSEN!

I find him at the top of the stairs, with Rich, in all of his flash-slutbox-glory. I breathlessly inform him that she's downstairs. They both look at me, rather dismissively, and reply that yeah, they know. They already got her.

Motherfucker.

I was too stressed out about how I looked, how other people thought I looked, to have fun. I should have been wasted, like I was at the party for the last book Malcolm Gladwell wrote an intro for, but those stairs and the wait for the bar saved me (?) from such a condition. And what was this party for, anyhow? Prada? A book about art about Prada? A reason for a bunch of people to throw a bunch of money around for a book about art about Prada to support an artist who makes sculptures of Happy Meals on Tiffany platters? Like I said, all that artistic bullshit is lost on me. But the photos, well, they're pretty. (Like always.)

Tom Sachs Book Launch @ Prada Epicenter [Photos]