How do you define “class”? To me, that word carries a connotation of elegance in taste, style, and manner. There are many ways to show that one has (or does not have) class, but the manner in which one chooses to invite guests to a party can be telling. Take, for example, this invitation to a tea that was given in honor of the now long-departed Queen Mother’s 100th birthday:

Classy, no? One could quibble and question the meaning of a “lounge suit” (is it the English version of a leisure suit, and, if so, why would one be required to wear it to an embassy in the year 2000?), but the invitation is simple, clear, and, although quite formal, stylish.

Now, courtesy of The Smoking Gun, let’s take a look at the following invitation that was sent out by P. Diddy to his prospective guests regarding a party that he was going to be hosting after the MTV Video Music Awards. I use the word “prospective” because he outlines a set of criteria that his friends and acquaintances would need to meet to be considered worthy of admission to the event, which he anticipated would be the “greatest party of all time” (click on the invitation to see a larger and more legible version):

Although I’m sure that the Ambassador to France anticipated an enjoyable fête (perhaps not the “greatest of all time,” but be that as it may), it’s interesting that he didn’t find it necessary to demand that his lady guests wax themselves, that anyone pull their “flyest sh*t” out of the closet (it’s also doubtful that anyone who would be invited to the Queen Mother’s 100th birthday tea would own an article of clothing that could be classified as “fly” in the first place), or that Aunt Irma be left at home.

I would suggest that it’s not helpful to become adversarial with one’s friends and acquaintances before a party has even begun (although a bit of fisticuffs after midnight can be quite entertaining), but Diddy perhaps betrays some feelings of insecurity in making all of these remarkably specific demands of his guests, which is surprising for a person who goes to great lengths to project an image of supreme self-confidence.

So was his party a success? Was it in fact “the greatest of all time”? Take a look at Rush and Molloy’s report from the New York Daily News and decide for yourself:

The fashion Gestapo was working the door at Sean Combs’ and Guy Oseary’s self-proclaimed “Greatest Party of All Time.” After the MTV Video Music Awards Thursday night, we came dangerously close to being banished from that wildly hyped celebration at Cipriani 42nd St. – because of our footwear.

We still don’t know how it happened. We did our best to obey the commandment on the invitations, which ordered us to “pull the flyest sh*t in your closet.” (In May, at the Kentucky Derby, Combs had complimented our Italian linen suit and Turnbull & Asser shirt and tie. So we figured our sh*t was sufficiently fly). But the dominatrix at the door was far more discriminating than her boss. When we reached a checkpoint after a 25-minute wait, our gold-embossed admission card in hand, a young woman looked us up and down. For a moment, Combs’ fashion arbiter seemed perplexed. Then, squinting at our Belgian loafers, she wagged her fickle finger and snapped: “Shoes!” The guard nudged us off the red carpet and into the street. There we joined a group of other former gold-card-holders who all looked well-dressed. A cop told us all to move along.

We wanted to pack it in. Instead, we mentioned that we wrote this column. Suddenly the young woman instructed the guards to let us in! She apologized! We asked, “What was wrong with our shoes?”

“Nothing,” she said. “We just have too many people inside.”

We soon discovered the “Greatest Party of All Time” was much like Combs’ other parties: overcrowded. Emblazoned with the names of his corporate sponsors (Reebok, Infinity, Grey Goose). And bass-heavy to the point where you couldn’t hear the person next to you.

You could hear the host, though, and see him, too. Combs was wearing a patterned tuxedo reminiscent of the loud dinner jackets favored by wacky parking-lot developer Abe Hirschfeld and late restaurant showman Warner LeRoy. Wielding the mike on his lofty deejay altar, the hip-hop evangelist praised the thong-wearing topless women dancing in cages overhead.

Down below was Ja Rule, whose large and incorrectly dressed entourage had to be left outside after a near-rumble. Heath Ledger was making out with Naomi Watts. Sophie Dahl was locking lips with artist Jonathan Kramer. Gubernatorial candidate Carl McCall, who recently said he never tried pot, was surrounded by the pungent aroma of sinsemilla.

Still, Combs beckoned everyone to drink more, dance dirtier, and “don’t disturb the sexy.”

David Desmond

P.S. I have no idea what “Do not disturb the sexy” means either.

P. Diddy takes waxing to a new level