On the Sunday of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Fall 2010, I stood in line like Anna Wintour, yet unlike her, I kept standing in line and my line was for the standing room, so I was just standing to stand. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

It was for Hervé Léger, whose collection always remains the same, regardless of season, because

  • there’s no wrong season for tight body-hugging mini dresses and
  • hopefully, whoever you wear this for (even if for yourself), has heat in their car, otherwise you missed the point of wearing or, are
  • totally fun and off your rocker to care what the season or weather is. Mostly, I imagine the intended wearer to be under 20, (or wants to look so), and likely, to use a variation of baby talk in what passes for conversation.


Check out that jacket, it’s kissing itself.

Instead of being ushered into the show, we were shut out, we made our way over to the deliciously stocked bar. We treated ourselves to a Kir Royal and people watching while the DVF show was just rolling out its fall predictions, or are they more like predicaments? (Outside the tongues of the wind as icy as Wintour’s gaze, inside as warm as the glow of Roger Federer, sweating with the energy of escape, you will never leave me with your skin intact, ma boy.)

lynn yaeger

Lynn Yaeger knows everything, it’s all in the image

Within the tents, I heard hushed chatter of a chocolate fountain, brought to us to rejuvenate our youth by Ch**rd. At the sides of the fountain lay pretzels, marshmallows and strawberries, and those are all delicious dipped in dripping, warm chocolate. Outside of the tents are hot dog vendors and JWOWW. You would be a disgusting person if you dipped a hot dog into a chocolate fountain.

the dressed up humans

It’d be much better if I shot this in color, there is a lot of Ski bum pink in this photo.

We then mingled at Bryant Park Grill, nibbling scallops and sipping wine with some of the truly beautiful who dress up for this Dress Navidad day in their finest plumage. Patricia Field was close by, eating her dinner under the shadow of a grey wool witchy hat.

56870026Woman with hat

Next, we quickly hurtled toward Milk Studios in our yellow jalopy provided by the mayor himself. Milk is where all the cool is–(geographical patterns should not escape you)–in the 1950′s all the hip galleries were right uptown around 57th Street, and some still are, but look at how they’ve fallen. No longer do the children go there to learn of new and hot, and so too the tents’ next move to Lincoln Center will signal an ever rapid change in the landscape for New York’s Fashion Week. Soon, I will have more time to stand for standing at the aging darling show but this time Uptown. For now, however, I entered the lofty space of Milk with a certainly more eye-catching crowd. Not as dramatic, and more lacking in oddity; an updated set of fashion aficionados.

Our destination was the Billy Reid presentation; oh, Billy, how I love thee and your theatrical yet relaxing atmosphere: the bourbon tastefully presented, (not a sign of plastic cups here), circled around the foot of a southern pastoral, leaf-strewn stage awaiting its louche, high cheek-boned knights. The collection of the southern preppy gent blew right past the competition, meaning Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger and most of Calvin Klein, without question. It is in Kentucky that the derby is held, in Connecticut only the amateurs trot on their horses, rarely willing to take a chance. Reid blends his threads with antebellum charm and Saville Row-style, mixing a rancorous mint julep-fueled party and egalitarian Alabamian hospitality to create an all-welcome look.


Billy Reid Boys


More Billy Reid Boys, that stage is indoors by the way

My next stop was to catch a breath and take a seat inside an asinine Meatpacking District lounge that was thankfully devoid of the masses.  It was Valentine’s Day, the day of the living (lovers), so the usual pick up clientele was off somewhere eating chocolates out of a heart-shaped box or being bitten by vampires.

The final hurrah of the evening was a subdued afterparty at B East for Peter Jensen.  Most people were there to make out. It was dark, the music was Brit-rock to indie-pop, stuff meant to awkwardly jump and jam your elbows to. Someone passed me a Valentine’s card that read: “you’re just all that, aren’t you?” with a picture of a bear with a bird’s beak. I took that to be just as good of a sign to leave as that of an eagle eating a snake was to the ancient Aztecs. –Zabatay