The Reluctant Whore

New York Fashion Week begins today which means that all the fashionista hype will be blaring in full force and honestly, if there’s a kind of hype that is unbearable it’s fashion hype. It’s almost unnecessary to even say the words “Fashion” and “hype” together they go together so well. The New York Post has published a piece about a list of poetry (each poem goes with a letter of the alphabet) written by the Fashion Director of Vanity Fair, Michael Roberts that is as jam packed with insecure, breathy, desperate cackle inducing inside jokes as a Mariah Carey wedding dress is packed with ignored back fat.

For example:

P for photographer: "Why am I so fabulous? What makes me truly great? What would life be without me? It's hard to contemplate . . . No billboards straddling city streets with body parts gigantic/Nor me with glass in premiere class crisscrossing the Atlantic."

I think it’s a good idea to take time out to imagine the crowd listening to this type of thing. It would be one of of darting eyes, of no-attention span afflicted cackling nervous fashionistas standing around laughing hysterically at everything Roberts says because he’s important. I’m living for it. It's almost as nauseating as that yuppie gallery owner wedding I went to at the Museum of Sex a few years ago. I wrote about it for the Village Voice and the bitch bride wanted to blackmail me so I wouldn't say that the honeymoon consisted of visiting family in Wichita. Not only did I say it, I left other details out just to fuck her.

I first noticed that the onslaught had begun here in New York when I walked up Fifth Avenue this morning to take delivery of a secret envelope that had been placed in a street pot plant for me (true story…not related to this post) and saw the ubiquitous scattering of performatively distracted models making their way either to Bryant Park or from it. They all wear the same thing: a pork pie hat, a really loose fitting tank top with deep sleeves, tight jeans and pointed shoes. I mean, do they get a memo or something? Please dress like a disconnected, tanned and therefore half assed goth from 1991 before you turn up. Thanks, The Management.

I’m sort of unsure why this is bothering me seeing as I covered it this time last year and was actually sort of inspired by the whole thing. I think probably because I spent time de-briefing with people who could see through the complete horror. I bought two scarves actually. I wore them. Scarves were accents to my essentially lacking interest in fashion. One thing I will say is that the male models are just as thin this year as they were last year so good on them for sticking to their goals. [source]