(I want to preface this by saying that originally I was just going to send this as an e-mail to JohnJoseph, but I figure I can kill two birds with one stone, leaving out some of the spurious details for the blog readers. Hello Future Employers)

In keeping with my last post, the erotics of traversing levels of meaning, I'll admit it: fashion week is interesting to me. Now, I can't buy designer clothes, but Fashion Week in NYC is kind of a big spectacle and being a Leo with a personality disorder, I always feel left out. I want to participate but have no real reason for being at these runway shows, parties, etc. Last spring during Fashion Week, I resented the fact that there was this big world going on and I wasn't invited. I went to my acupuncturist to quit smoking (which didn't work) and took diet pills all week. Through some miracle of circumstance, my friend Mordecai suggested we go to "Agyness Deyn's birthday party", and because he's glamorous and well-connected we got in and Brad took the photo to my right while I was there. I felt like I was participating.

Last night, I worked at a party at for folks in the Fashion Week milieu at a swanky downtown hotel. I had never before really encountered paparazzi before, but there were definitely cameras, on a roof top of the building across the street, taking photos of everyone going into the building. I can't get into details of why I was there, because I'm still waiting to get paid, but suffice it to say that it was very upscale. I'm not really sure what I was there for, but I was given a list of important names (ones, even, that I recognized), then promptly told to forget the list. The hotel manager was furious that the guests would have to suffer the indignity of waiting while someone checked a list. So, then: everyone up to the roof deck!

This is the type of crowd that doesn't say "I like what you're wearing" or even "Where did you get that?". Again, this world is: "
Who are you wearing?" I showed up in my work clothes (H&M and Gap). Big important party fashion man, the run running the show, the one who invited me to work last night after seeing my face, invited me up to his hotel room and got me a key card so I would have access to it. We smoked cigarettes and drank gin while waiting for the party to start. He had me wear the following outfit and memorize where things came from so that I could tell our guests who I was wearing. This is what I wore:
  • Maison Martin Margiela bracelet
  • Louis Vuitton belt
  • Dior Homme jeans
  • Paul Smith socks
  • Vintage shirt from La Rosa
  • Payless shoes, circa 2004 (model's own)
Everybody kept talking about how wonderful it was, the show. They had all come from the Zac Posen fashion show, I guess, but it took me a while to gather this since no one mentioned it by name. I like alliteration. That's why I like conceptual and minimalist art. I like being able to say a thing without saying it. Or saying a number of things by saying one thing. Passive-agressive, kinda. So i greeted people and got stared at for a few hours, sneaking drinks in the hotel lobby, before the general consensus was that even those of us "working" could go upstairs.

Maybe it's because I only ever "work" in the fashion industry as a model (or I should say near-model, faux-model), but the reality is that "work" in fashion is comprised of only three things:
  • Smoking cigarettes that people give you
  • Drinking free booze
  • Wearing clothes that don't belong to you
Pretending, in other words. As you can imagine, "work" was exhausting so I was excited to be let off the hook. On the roof top I saw exactly none of the celebrities I had been promised, but I wouldn't have recognized them anyhow. I'm sure there were a ton of very important people there but I don't know about European designers or fashion magazine editors so I was a bit lost. I kept getting served these weird, wonderful vodka mojitos. I arrived at the penthouse part of the party with the other people I was working with, but promptly ditched them to flirt with a cute boy. If there's one thing anyone should know about me, it's that I sometimes (but rarely) feel bold. In my designer clothes jewelry cologne face product cigarettes booze I felt bold.

Bold enough, in fact, to chat up this cute party guest all night. (You understand that by "bold" I now mean drunk). Bold enough to spend the rest of the evening tearing this guy away from his boss (who brought him to the party) and make out with him all over the party. In front of numerous photographers, and at least one video journalist who wanted to get a quote from him when we had taken a break from sucking face. I don't know if my coworkers were particularly amused by me necking all night, but to be fair I'm not, really, a model.

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