Conversation became less lucid as the partygoers surrendered
to the beat of the loud music coming from the stereo. They danced the latest
steps—the Twist, the Monkey, the Mashed Potato—and ones they made up on the
spot. Things got a little out of hand when Patty twirled into an antique spool
cabinet and sent an Ed Kienholz sculpture crashing to the floor. Taylor knew it
was a good party when the guests had gotten so high they started crawling on
the wooden floor, oblivious to the splinters, spilled drinks, and puddles of
melted cheese spilling from the platters. Cecil Beaton heard through the
grapevine that the evening turned into “a fantastic orgy with people making
love on the revolving horses and being photographed for an advanced movie,” but
that may have been a bit of an exaggeration. At some point, however, the police
did come because the party had become too noisy for even the rowdy crowd at the
Santa Monica Pier. In California, in the cool night air, you even felt healthy
when you puked.
