This is Miss DeCarlo’s assistant…I snuck out of here and didn’t dare come back until she left again. A girlfriend of mine over at Bryant Park said she saw this big blonde screaming in French at a huge black dude who was cowering behind Rachel Zoe. That is so my boss. Jesus wept! So, like I made sure I was outta here. She left me a ton of stuff sent from her Iphone, so I guess it’s going to be one of those nights. What a weirdo.
Genuine apologies for the interruption. My delicate nerves are unraveled, raw, indeed, flayed! Andre Leon Talley shall never darken my silk napkins again.
But to business. Before I was so rudely interrupted (and betrayed!) by Andre’s alliance with that Los Angeles trend-hound, I was about to tell you of Fashion Week on Saturday. The first show I attended was Abaete, designed by Laura Poretsky. One was so hoping to be diverted from one’s private pain by wonderful fashion. Instead, a parade of fashion oddities strutted before me. I know that vintage is in, but this made me think of men’s swimwear circa 1910. All the model needed was a large mustache to sing in a barbershop quartet.
And I am sorry, but this was simply what the young folk like to call “a hot mess,” as was much of the show.
It was simply a MONSOON outside all day, and my poor dear darling Bucky detests the rain! It is a known characteristic of miniature pinschers, along with licking their private parts when one has company.
My little dog was trembling so violently that he urinated on my Oscar de la Renta dress, so it was back to my luxurious apartment on Central Park West to change clothes and let the poor little dear stay home (after giving him a pinch of valium in his dog food). I chose a Bill Blass pants ensemble designed by Peter Som for the 2008 Pre-Fall Collection, opting for fashionable comfort over getting my legs drenched.
At least not by the rain, this time.
My return, unfortunately, coincided with the Alexander Wang show. Back down to 21st Street...I should have confined myself to the tents! Wang had declared that he was going to give us "color", and this was his version of color.
Ah, yes, tres jolie, particularly with the "Pinhead" horror movie hat on.
Your faithful correspondent should have known better than to return to Bryant Park in time for the Rock & Republic show. Why, oh, why, would they let one of those horrendously emaciated anorexic models pretend she had even a chance in Hell of looking curvaceous?
One flashes back to a childhood memory of watching Fred Astaire with dear, darling Mama at the Museum of Modern Art. I might have been an adolescent by that time, but Mama was still forcing me to pretend I was eleven years old (explained elsewhere). The thought occured to moi that having sex with Mr. Astaire might result in some very bad cuts from his razor sharp elbows and knees. Thank goodness I did not yet know about hipbones!
Until next time,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog