Okay, we take back what we said about the Daily News's Fashion Dish blog: "Perfect for gossipy tidbits that everyone else is reading about on other sites." This post makes it clear that Jo Piazza and Laura Schreffler aren't simply phoning it in. They're Twittring it in. And them girls are cat-ty.
• Did Cathy Horyn like Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B show? No, apparently she did not. Says Horyn: "Among the words I wrote in my notebook, until my pen came to a stop, were 'blob,' 'very last season,' 'bad secretary,' 'astonishingly bad,' and 'Ditzville." Well, damn!
• American Next Top Model winner Caridee is, paradoxically, neither modeling nor a winner.
• Samantha Ronson (celebrity DJ and Lindsay Lohan's sometimes-girlfriend) reminds us why sister Charlotte is the fashionable one.
• Man sues bodega. 'Nuff said.
Another night, another party and another chance to remind ourselves that we're not nearly as fashionable and glamorous as we like to think we are. Yes, Fashion Week is upon us, which means shapeless pillowcase dresses are the new black and naturally slender is once again the new morbidly obese.
And yesterday, we spent the better part of our evening ogling the reality stars of yesteryear at the Bravo/Entertainment Weekly party for Tim Gunn at the Soho Grand and marveling at the fact that somebody had the lack of foresight to serve miniature Reuben sandwiches at a snotty skinny-person party.
As always the event was, well, eventful.
There's a lot to read out there, even when you're reading about mini-skirts. Here's our listicle guide to where to look for your niche interests.
The Sartorialist
For hipsters looking great in $600 dresses that look like they came from Good Will.
Too Fat For Fashion
Hello! This is New York. Either get an eating disorder or get out.
The Budget Fashionista
Whatever goes for fat people goes double for poor ones.
CONTINUED »
At the Van Cleef & Arpels show last night, we learned a lot of things about New York society.
First off, living in "changing" neighborhood and working in our pajamas, it’s easy to forget that there is a whole portion of New York who spends more on maintaining a wrinkle free neck than we make. Secondly, that without a press pass, we’d never have the fashion sense or wealth to get invited to these things.
The “red carpet”—which was really more of a magenta—was littered with D-list stars. Julie Newmar arrived in a cab. Her companion was wearing a Paul Smith suit with pink strips that would have made Andy Dick blush. Sarah Michelle Gellar looked kind of old, but smiled as if her mortgage depended on it. Jared Kushner was as boyishly handsome in real life as he is in ink dot drawings.
The better stars arrived later. Ashley Olsen was escorted upstairs before photographers could shout Ashley at her a million times; Eve did not make it into the show, but was happy to report that her DUI ankle bracelet was safe for the shower, but not for the tub. Due a fire code violation, other stars didn’t even make it in.
CONTINUED »
Why Conde Nast's Style.com homepage has looked pretty much the same over the past few days when we're supposedly in the middle of their biggest semi-annual event.
Ever wondered what it was like to attend a fancy-schmancy book party thrown in honor of Sudanese supermodel, Alek Wek? Well, yesterday we decided to crash Wek's downtown bash at Socialista to find out what happens when 300 or so fashion snobs stop being polite…and start getting real ridiculously drunk on Mojitos.
And we weren't the least bit disappointed. While we explored the cramped two-floor event space and downed champagne in a sincere—and selfless!—effort at fitting in, we spied on various washed-up reality stars and ran into our old friend Patrick Huguenin from the NYDN (whom, we're told, "screeched with joy" at Diane von Furstenberg's arrival) as well as the lovely Jennifer Barton (a newbie associate editor for Fashion Week Daily) who shamed/intimidated us with her tres chic accessories such as a "working tape recorder," "ballpoint pen" and "standard reporter's notebook."
Fortunately, we were able to flag down just enough mango margaritas to keep from blowing our cover, and even managed to jot down a few astute observations. Our fuzzy, morning-after recollections, after the jump.
Can you survive two days without being able to stick up your hand and scream "TAXI!" in the dirty and overcrowded recesses of midtown? Most likely! Fortunately, however, you won't really have to since the "strike" only seems to have moderately diminished (rather than eliminated) the presence of yellow cabs circling around Manhattan.
That said, even in its early stages, Day 1 of the strike was not without its fair share of casualties, such as sort-of annoying Boston consultant Joshua Olken, who found himself stranded at Kennedy airport waiting in a slightly longer taxi line than usual this morning.
Serena Williams
Love the bow, the bling earrings might be a little much.
CONTINUED »
Forget for a moment that "Fashion Week" and "Food Diaries" are two terms that simply don't belong together.
Because New York insisted in having a few fashion types – such as this guy who we went to high school with – chronicle their caloric intake for the magazine's most ambitious online coverage yet.
Among the bylines: Elle's fashion news director, Anne Slowey, whose diet consisted of vitamins, water, skim lattes, and a few glasses of wine.
Which is plenty of energy to run from one show to another and meet copy deadlines, but perhaps the absence of, say, nutrition, explains her abhorrent stint as a Project Runway guest judge.
With everyone atwitter over the sordid ranking of Marie Claire editor Joanna Coles at Fashion Week – second row, behind Brandon Holley – we did some poking around to see why designers were placing a magazine's top editor in the nosebleeds. And then we came across the above photos.
Who's that? She's Cleo Glyde, Marie Claire's new "style director," as of Jan. 22, coming this way from Vogue Australia.
The photo on the left was shot on April 30, 2003. The photo on the right was shot on June 1, 2005.
Moral of the story? Any magazine that puts a woman who wears the same horrid cocktail napkin multiple times in public over the course of several years in its employ should be pleased as Kool-Aid to even have a seat at Fashion Week.
Update: A Hearst mouthpiece writes in to insist "Joanna Coles sat in the front row for every show she attended," including Vera Wang. Maybe she was just leaning back in her front row chair when she was spotted in the second row.
Well, it's the very last day of Fashion Week, which is probably just as well since we're already over it.
Of course, that hasn't stopped the celebs (and Vogue staffers) from coming out to pay their final repects to the designers who keep them eternally chic in free-but-otherwise-unaffordable clothes.
We hear French Vogue's EIC Carine Roitfeld just left Eva Scrivo salon on Hudson and Horatio, wearing 4 inch black stilletos and an outrageous stiff and shiny black coat straight out of a dominatrix video. And she seemed, surprisingly, pleasant.
Plus, Nicole Richie and Joel Madden hit Zach Posen yesterday, along with Rachel Bilson, Rihanna and the Anna "Punk'd" Wintour while Theodora Richards merely swept in for the afterparty, (definitely our kind of woman!) Meanwhile, Aisha Taylor, Amber Tamblyn and Michelle Williams flocked to Badgley Mischka, and Molly Shannon and Tim Gunn braved the cold to sit front row at Cynthia Rowley.
Sadly, we haven't seen our girl Aubrey in days, but we have spied the phony Romanian socialites first-hand, and upon second reflection (and, um, that item in today's Page Six), we realized that we actually went to high school with the female "Romanian."
Which makes us feel almost famous by association, and we're riding high until we have an unwelcome blast from the past.
There we were, just minding our business, drinking our complimentary free pink energy drink when we ran into our Bryant Park nemesis: the chubby, muffin-faced gent who stole our coveted front-row seat at Fashion Week last Fall. We'd seen him sporadically throughout the week, (carrying a brightly colored man-purse and cutting to the front of the Standing Room Only line), and now he's stolen our seat AGAIN, this time at the M.A.C. lounge when we left for thirty seconds to grab a refreshing bottle of mineral water.
And as we try to cool our nerves (and our heels) by relaxing with a free beverage at the W. lounge, we heard a rumor that the Olsens had already closed up shop, kicking out all the second-tier fashionistas for their own private tete-a-tete.
Which was, coincidentally, the precise moment we realized that we're ready for this whole crazy week to finally come to an end.
And so, we bid a cheerful adieu to the Tents, and a fond farewell to the unemployed socialites, the D-List celebs, and the far from glamorous port-o-potties, but we pause to take one last lingering look at the Salon.
Because although we're mainly relieved that it's all over, we know it's only a matter of time before we're pining away for the days we rubbed elbows with reality show outcasts and shared a manicurist—and a moment in time—with the lovely Ms. Jay.
It's already Day 7 of Fashion Week, and we're starting to wonder exactly why we're still here. Because as much as we've enjoyed admiring the view here from the second row,** we're starting to get just a little bit tired of all the familiar, washed-up reality stars holding court in the V.I.P. section.
Example: Aubrey from Danity Kane holding court at Bryant Park.
You know Aubrey O'Day, right? The cute one from Diddy's second (or was it third?) attempt at Making The Band. Except now that we've seen her close up at Twinkle, we've realized she's not even that cute in person. In fact, she's actually kind of uncute. And, based on these pics from her birthday party, she's even in danger of becoming the next Tara Reid.
But anyway, there she was right in front of us, and since we don't care all that much about clothes, we had nothing to do but marvel about how this person whom we've barely even heard of (but who is still exponentially more well-known than we are) is actually looking rather wretched.
And then we wondered whether we were having some sort of accidental epiphany.
'Could it be?' we wondered, 'that this is what happens when you get up close and personal with a slightly-famous, arguably recognizable celeb? Can we extrapolate, and assume that all those women we always thought were so beautiful and glamorous are really just a testament to the innovations of makeup and special effects? Is it possible that everything we thought was beautiful is really just some sort of culturally projected manifestation, created by the demands of a celebrity-starved public and a myriad of self-serving media—nope, wait a sec, there goes one of the models and she's undeniably gorgeous.'
**Sigh.**
And in the fragile aftermath of our temporary existential crisis, we were caught up in the shitshow that was Heatherette, (is that Aubrey again? WTF?) mesmerized by the pretty—though unwearable—clothes, and fascinated by the ever-expanding crowds of people who wouldn't even make it inside the tents to witness two flamboyantly gay men retell the story of The Wizard of Oz using only washed-up socialites, lesbian divorcees and crotchless pants.
Of course, it wasn't until the next day that we'd all discover Paris Hilton had done one too many tequila shots the night before to even make it down the runway.
But, while everyone else threw a fit over being denied entrance to the show, we had our second epiphany of the week. And suddenly, everything we'd seen/heard so far all made sense.
Fashion Week isn't about the clothes, the celebrities or even the complimentary gift bags. It's about using juvenile exclusionary tactics to remind everyone that we are not living in a classless society.
And as we sit back in our fourth row seats and look wistfully at those high-society folks occupying rows one, two and three, we're ashamed of ourselves for buying into this whole elitist sham by envying those at the very top.
So, we turn around and look back at the rows behind us, and at all those people who weren't assigned seats all, and we perk up at the minor injustices of the world—and take comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere, is coveting our seat.
Which, undoubtedly, is exactly what was going through Aubrey's mind when she saw us gaping at her throughout the week.
**Okaaaay. Fine. The fourth row.
Another day, another whirlwind of glamorous celebrities, hand-sewn couture gowns and fabulous insider crowds, who have nary a hair out of place notwithstanding the sub-zero temperatures.
At the Chaiken show, we were particularly in awe of those malnutritioned souls in the front row, clad only in thin, not-at-all-warm cotton t-shirts, black miniskirts and lacy thigh highs. 'They look fantastic!' we thought to ourselves, as we shivered in our gigantic, hideous, brown shearling coat that somewhat resembles a gigantic, hideous, brown llama.
And that's from the few shows we were privileged enough to snag an invite to sneak inside. Indeed, we've been reading up on all this bloggers are being treated like royalty crap, and have decided it's time to set the record straight.
Here's one of those SAT inspired analogies to help dispel any rumors about our status at the Bryant Park Tents:
VOGUE EDITORS AT FASHION WEEK : Brangelina :: Jossip editors at Fashion Week: Kathy Griffin.**
However, we don't mind being relegated to Siberia. In fact, we rather take it as a compliment. After all, we're not exactly alone in our exclusionary status. In addition to boycotting Jossip this year, Carolina Herrera also took a firm stand against The New York Times. And we can hardly feel disappointment at being excluded among such fine company.
Yesterday, though, we thought we'd finally hit the big time. An invitation to attend the Daily Suite, and receive a private massage at the oh-so-exclusive Cygalle Healing Spa at the Night Hotel! We were promised celebrities galore, and went in expecting to hobnob with the likes of Carmen Electra, the Donald and the dumb one from The Hills.
Sadly, however, the massage was over in minutes, our "gift bag" was mainly comprised of a free supply of diet pills and the closest thing we saw to a red-blooded celeb was Miss J. (the he/she from America's Next Top Model) getting his/her nails manicured.
However, there's something weirdly satisfying in being this-close to Nigel Barker, seated behind that weird bearded guy who talked to himself on Project Runway and standing in line next to a girl whose roommate's cousin is "acquaintances" with Beth Ostrosky.
And as Day 5 of Fashion Week gradually comes to an end, we realize we have a newfound respect for that red-headed terror, Kathy Griffin, and find ourselves wondering if life truly does get better than this.
**NOTE: We also would have accepted "social pariahs," "uninvited' "L.I.P. (Least Important Persons)" and "Carrot Top."
If there's a gay blog we're reading, it's Queerty. Namely because we make money with each visit. But sometimes another fagala notices something first-hand, and we'd be remiss if we didn't relay it. Especially when it has to do with gays and media. So here's Fagats, at the Buckler fashion show:
We were seated in the front row, directly across from Aaron Hicklin, the new editor of Out Magazine. At the end of the show, when all the models walked out together, we watched him closely. As each man walked by, instead of looking at the clothes, Aaron's eyes skipped directly from face to package. As the parade of hotties went by, it continued. Face-package. Face-package. Face-package.
Otherwise known as just another day at the office.
Editorial Director
