The party spun with man-eaters in fancy frocks, Cinderfellas with exceptional hair and an entire cancan line of ex-waiters who’d managed to make it big. Oh, and did I mention Elizabeth Taylor and all the Desperate Housewives?

It’s Elton John’s annual AIDS benefit blowout, and what a triumphant turnout it is. Queen Elizabeth, a desperate housewife seven times over, and those TV hard-body homebodies offered this gilded, tented party precisely the right serving of Hollywood mixed nuts.

While it’s quite something when the diamond-lovin’ dame wobbles out of her wheelchair to walk the red carpet (talk about Lazarus on a Hot Tin Roof!), the party’s main orbit revolves around Teri Hatcher and the gang. This is mainly because there is no place where the new is more now than the City of Angels. And those hot-and-bothered gals – they land at the bash wafting, virtually, with the eau du parfum answer to the new car smell.

A long way from suburbia? Not really. Watching the Desperate Housewives float through like sisters at a sorority pledge, it occurs to me that this, indeed, is their natural dwelling. Consider it: The show features a perfectly neo-pastel world of picket fences and potpourri, behind which lies a not-so-perfect world of dashed dreams and skeleton-stocked closets. Could it be any more la-la land? Like Wisteria Lane, Hollywood runs on gossip. Like Wisteria Lane, sex here is a dagger and a bargaining chip. Like Wisteria Lane, what you see ain’t gonna be what you get.

In this well-manicured town, image is the very thing, anxiety (even about what table you land at the Ivy) is everywhere and everyone seems to subsist on a culture that’s swallowed its own marketing campaign.

At this party, like every L.A. party but more so because this is one of the biggies, the smiley-face merrymaking is simply an excuse for Olympic-sport networking. It’s not “Hello,” it’s “What do you do?” It’s where the almost-famous are trying to be famous, the used-to-be-famous are trying to be famous again and the friends-of-the-famous are trying to go it alone.

Whether you’re a model-slash-actress, a writer-slash-director or a devil-slash-agent, it’s all the same drill. The party is work. And all the fun is actually just a doily for ambition and gamesmanship.

Just like in the suburbs! Like Hollywood, Desperate Housewives is where the hot tamale (Eva Longoria) was bedding the gardener half her age… Demi-Ashton, Cameron-Justin, take your pick. It’s where the porcelain-perfect specimen (Marcia Cross) is like a Tinseltown Fabergé egg: about to break. Remember Winona Ryder? It’s where the goofy chick (Teri Hatcher) is emblematic of a place where the children are more mature than all the many Peter Pans and Pams. It’s where the non-stop multitasker (Felicity Huffman) is the soccer mom’s answer to Norma Desmond, wistfully recalling the days when she used to be big. It’s where the town slut (Nicolette Sheridan) reminds me of this Golden State Shangri-La that produces all the world’s best town sluts!

And, here, later at the party, Britain’s Scissor Sisters have taken the stage with Elton. Soon enough, the jam begins to “The Bitch Is Back,” and at least one Desperate Housewife – Hatcher – is dancing. The bitch is back all right, and the town loves her. What could be more Hollywood than that? 

ADD YOUR COMMENTS > letters@enroutemag.net

Shinan Govani is the Scene columnist for the National Post and frequently appears on television commenting on celebrities and the social whirl. Write him at sgovani@enroutemag.net.