Bon au revoir mes petits chéris

Mar 3

Written By Aviva

Sadly, the time came that I had to leave New York. I met Ramona for lunch. She had started planning her Jay-Z themed birthday party. Beyonce drag queen perhaps? Unrelated, when in the hell does Pies-n-Thighs reopen? Anyone know? Gimme the goss.

Stage Diner: best cabbage rolls and potato pierogies in the city

Went to visit Tasha at the Diesel showroom where she was prepping their show, and that awfulawfulawful campaign was everywhere. I hate it when admen get together and try to think like the next generation. It feels... gross. I just read something about how the Reality Bites generation is losing their culturally validity. If it's true, the new Diesel campaign is certainly a testament. It reeks of MTV brass and top-down marketing. I think I might actually have to write about that but for now let's get to the end of Fashion Week.

My last night I went to the Marc Jacobs show. It was 8 minutes long and started right on time. So organized! Fashion Week has gotten so mainstream and out of control that it's become unmanageable for a lot of designers. They waste so much time with front of house bullshit like seating arrangements and guest lists, the shows start late and key editors leave to get to their next appts (shows). So MJ being the leader that he is, banned all celebrities from his shows. Ironic given that he started the celebrity/fashion show craze in the first place. Remember when the paparazzi had a zack attack when Lil Kim sat front row, played the afterparty at Cipriani's, and went to jail the next day? Oh I was there, queen:

my future teenager will thank me for saving it

Lauren

Nadine and Vic

A tiny princess! She was sitting right next to me with her dad on the other side. Couldn't have been more than 7. Fashion blogger? Tavi 2.0?

the back of Robert Duffy's head. Riveting!

He built a Dogville inspired set that began with a holding pen full of delicate, ladylike, Mary Poppins-inspired models, whom he sent down the runway in dark grey wools, 1960's British-looking, clear plastic trenches, and lots of lush detailing. It sounds matronly, but the mid-calf, a-line skirts paired with ribbed mens socks and patent leather shoes in mustards and greys were seemingly feminine. Somewhere Over The Rainbow streamed in the dark as models traipsed across the double-winding runway, which gave the show a whimsical tone. I feel waspy even describing it. It was VERY waspy, this collection.

Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington were 5 seats down from me. All of Vogue was there, seated to their right. I saw Carine Roitfield, Julia Restoin Roitfeld and Bee Shaffer up close and pers.

Can you see Anna's bitch glasses? It's called POKERFACE. She dictates how billions of dollars will move through the global economy over the following six months. That's a lot of pressure, people. Bitch can't be wincing out in the open as a deconstructed trollop sack of a dress shamewalks down the runway. Do you know how much garbage that woman's eyes must endure? All the sad garments trying to pass as Prêt-à-Porter? This is serious business. She needs her shades to cover the harsh realities of the presentations until she returns to the safety of Conde Naste's HQ, where she can quietly run her red pencil through every collection she won't be promoting that season. LEAVE ANNA ALONE!!! (screeching)

Like a ballet, a fashion show tells a story without words. It's just a theatrical production that illustrates the designer's inspiration. Like a 7-10 minute play if you think about it. Sets, accessories, direction, stage managers, sound, lighting, costumes, makeup, hair, stylists and PAs scrambling around. Someday I will produce a ballet about my life entitled There Will Be Beer.

clapclapclapclapclapclap

I love a fashion show as much as the next guy, but the rest of Fashion Week, with a few exceptional dinners or private parties, is the pits. New York turns into one big, collective eye roll. My Twitter feed turns into one big namedrop. The gays turn mean and the bars are crowded with exhausted models giving sideways looks, which they are entitled to because they just got poked and prodded for hours, before having to perform for the scariest people in the world while the entire internet was waiting for one of them to stumble. And then there are the cunty fashion girls who wish you were never born because you're there too. And there's lots of cocaine. And Olivier Zahm. And Gabi from AsFour. And cocaine.

It began to snow which made me feel too cozy to go to the after party (it was at the Boom Boom Room). I just wanted to see my besties on my last night so we kept it mellow and went to Roberta's for a late dinner. Roberta's is the best place ever. It's pretty much the only place to eat in Bushwick. Bushwick: where Williamsburg goes to masturbate.

There was a bonfire in the back patio. Behind that was a rad little office/cabin where they were taping a radio show. Impromptu interview ensued, which immediately devolved into us talking about each others' boobs. Awful. Not sure when it airs but I'll let you know if I ever hear about it again, which I won't.

Eskimo kiss

Greg owns Deth Killers. His tattoos say "throw it up for the kids" which means you have a civic duty as a member of a bike gang to pop a wheelie for the kids whenever they ask. My new favorite slogan.