The seventh day. The looky-loos are bored, the tourists are at their day jobs, and the only ones left in the room are the professionals. It ain’t a crowd of working stiffs, but you can tell most of these folks would rather be sipping champagne somewhere else.
The shine is off the apple here at Fashion Week, but that’s a good thing. Every bitch in the room wore her best outfit last night at Oscar de la Renta, and today it’s all comfortable shoes and ponytails. It’s like the entire event exhaled and let out its gut a little bit. Even the smiles on the PR girls seem more honest.
I’m headed to the Nanette Lepore show in a moment, but for now I’m content to sit and watch the Michael Kors crowd put on a million dollars worth of sunglasses and shuffle towards the exit in search of brunch.
It ain’t over yet, though. After this, I’m off to the Jeremy Scott show where I expect to see some hipster high-fashion fuckery.
Sunday. The city is made entirely of velvet ropes and police barricades. There are gatekeepers everywhere, publicists and NYPD, an army of clipboards and radios in a uniform.
In the streets, they’re doing spot checks of every box truck along 9th Avenue looking for terrorists. In the tents, they’re doing spot checks of every backstage pass looking for crashers.
It’s a time and place that relentlessly demands you justify your existence. It is both frivolous and serious, and there is enough free floating narcissism and paranoia in the air to choke out all the oxygen.
That’s okay, though. It kinda gets you high.
I arrive in a layer of fog. The city is steaming rain and the streets are making their own gravy. Everyone is wilted, which is fine by me, as I just crawled off a transcontinental red-eye flight.
The hotel room is a lovely little louboutin shoe box, and glory upon glories, there is a fluffy white robe neatly folded on the bed. The man on the Weather Channel says the rain will end soon, but I have my doubts. Fashion Week is notorious for this kind of thing.
I am in desperate need of a lobster roll and a nap. I can’t decide which to deal with first, so I pick up my computer and start writing.
Shit’s about to get fabulous up in here.
I am enthralled by this photograph. For some reason, I can’t help imagine that shortly after it was taken, this woman was decapitated by Patrick Bateman in such a manner that the hat never left her head.
Princess Beatrice is such a pimp. I mean, look at that hat. It looks like Tim Burton stuck a balloon animal on her head, and yet the crazy bitch pulls it off. She fucking owns that shit.
Could someone please send her an engraved invitation to the Kentucky Derby? I would kill to sit next to her. Screw the horses. I just wanna drink mint juleps and go crown for crown with this crazy-ass royal.
I really like this shot. You can just tell she’s dripping with charisma.
You see a girl like that, and her magic hurts your soul. You know damn well you’re a thoroughbred, but still — she’s a fucking unicorn.
Effortless style. Accessorized perfection. She’s somehow greater than the sum of all those flawless parts, and no doubt she probably shits glitter with a French accent.
You take note of each piece. You take note of each brand. You do the math and stand in front of that dressing room mirror in your mind’s eye only to realize that her outfit wouldn’t make you a unicorn. It’d make you a horse with a designer stick on her head.
My usual move is to bum a smoke from her. That way, I get a closer look at her bag and a little eye contact that tells me whether I can ask her where she shops.