Edited by Lester Brathwaite on
New York Fashion Week officially starts on Thursday but after Wednesday night’s preemptive debauchery I am ready for it all to be over.
Not only was tonight a tremendous waste of time and money but it was also the biggest load of crap I’ve experienced since…well, last Fashion Week. Perhaps there was something in the air or a full moon or maybe New York just forgot to take its “Don’t Be a D-Bag Pill,” but attempting to go out on the town proved ultimately fruitless.
At not one but three parties scheduled for tonight, my fellow editors Mac, Amanda and I were met with tiny dives “at capacity,” doormen who were bigger assholes than usual — which is quite a feat in and of itself — and long, sloppy, ill-managed lines, which in the dwindling days of summer is all well and good. Or at least tolerable. But not in freezing weather with snow drifting down upon our heads.
What, pray tell, is the point of attending these parties when all we’re met with is attitude, crowds, and even more attitude? A free drink or two — or in my case, twelve? The chance to spot a C- and if you’re lucky B-list celebrity? The cache of saying you were “there” at whatever hotspot is currently on fire? If so, be my guest to stand in line for an hour over the course of the upcoming week from hell — just make sure you have a flask tucked into your garter belt.
I, however, would rather just get drunk in the office with my FashionIndie kin and avoid the general clusterfuck steadily descending all over this fair (?) city. I’ll take the shows and presentations because that’s what Fashion Week is all about and leave the parties, name-dropping and general bitchery that comes along with it to those with far more patience than I. There’s already too much to do and too much to worry about to add another line and another list to the equation.