On Moomba’s last night, only one major model (Karen Elson) picked at a plate of fries. In the oddly shaped, atticky VIP room, there was no Leo in sight, and no Gisele either. There was one Mormon actor (Aaron Eckhart) looking confused, one Ronson manning the D.J. booth (Samantha), and a lounging Shoshanna. There were the balding banker guys, mourning the end of many things, and their girlfriends bedecked in Michael Kors.
The abrupt closure of the ex-hot spot, now filled with nightlife tourists (and this night by a lone tall, skinny girl gyrating in a tight top that spelled out hustler, who did her best to play the wild model), was reportedly because its proprietor, Jeff Gossett, had shifted his attentions to the brand-new Moomba L.A. “It sounds very mysterious,” admitted its publicist, Lizzie Grubman. “But that’s what Moomba was all about.” Sigh. “There’s a lot of memories in that place.”
Lots of canoodling memories. It apparently generated more (banal) gossip items than money. Filled with couches and chaisey things, it was dark and intime, a big, boldfaced pre-slumber party. So unlike the Park’s giant, indoor-outdoor notice-me hipness. No canoodling there; a little bit of love – celebrity love – is gone now. On Moomba’s last night, girls in tank tops played Connect Four, intently. And no one was manning the velvet rope.