We all know New York Fashion Week revolves around who wore what to the hottest shows and trashiest after-parties, so you better come prepared.
Four years ago, a photo ran in a national paper. The photograph—which I had no problem with at all—was taken outside Lincoln Center and featured myself and an ex-boyfriend, with whom I had several problems, eating hot dogs between collections. The caption ran: “Michael the III is wearing a black jumpsuit.” That they could have ignored the shoes, my 29 pieces of jewelry, the Carrie Bradshaw-inspired headpiece and my Samantha Jones demeanor was shocking. It was this slight perhaps, that has instilled in me the desire to so diligently document my outfits ever since. Hoping you will forgive me, I now present everything I wore in 24 hours at New York Fashion Week.
10:06 AM—In Bed Asleep in the city that never sleeps, I wore silk pyjamas pants. They are hand-stitched, require hand-washing and were handed down to me from my eldest brother with the worst taste [across the butt is embroidered, “Where’s the beef?”]. I paired this with an “Ohio School for Homosexual Children, Class of ’99” tee. Footwear was skipped entirely. At home, my bedroom style is decidedly minimal, but as nudity in other people’s sheets freaks me out, I decided against that—even if those ‘people’ are five-star ‘hotels’ called The St. Regis. On top of all that, I was dreaming and in my dream I was wearing skinny jeans and a plaid fedora. Or was it a nightmare?
11:20 AM—Shower-time I wore multiple layers of revitalizing soaps, scrubs, shampoos, and conditioners. This did not last long—10 minutes, or as soon as I felt them tingle.
11:47 AM—Readying Myself I put on a smile and a large Dior hat, wide-legged trousers, an oversized blouse and earrings the size of hula-hoops. Go big or go home, I told myself as I stepped into platform sneakers. Out the door, I removed the hat, knowing that “going big” in the front row can lead to crowds shouting, “Go home!” Balance was restored with a mini beret torn off the head of teddy bear.
11:51 AM—Out and About Big news. The small hat betrayed me, blowing off in the direction of Central Park. It was replaced with a baseball cap proclaiming the wearer’s love for New York. I felt this to be a tad stale, touristy even, but Tim Gunn stopped me on the corner of Canal and Broadway to describe my look as “Post-cultural, neo-geographical burlesque,” which was quickly appropriated as the hashtag to my Instastory. I did not give credit.
1:07 PM—Spring Studios I wore out my phone’s battery taking photos of a show by design duo Lollipop Circus. It was fantastic, though could have done without the 12-minute intro—a performance piece where a garment was meticulously nailed onto the body of a mannequin—was it a Jesus reference? I’m not sure.
1:19 PM—Lunch I donned an arrangement of sesame seeds scattered abstractly onto my lap. Lite cream cheese lightly smattered my lips, and this put me in an avant-grade category for which I had not planned. I converted my white blouse and several others’ tops into tie-dye chemises after mistaking a Shih Tzu’s beautiful blowout for Blake Lively, causing me to toss red wine in the excitement.
2:05 PM—Public Charging Station Fighting for the last outlet, I bumped into my friend Abdul, who recently launched a poorly named app offering on-the-go outfit changes. It’s called “ShopLyft.” I created a profile. In a matter of moments an android stripped me to my briefs in the privacy of a converted school bus and placed onto me a temporary dressing gown, a moo-moo of sorts serving also as a walking billboard, as I waved goodbye to my old outfit embarking on its journey to a New Jersey storage facility.
2:17 PM—Spring Studios I wore baggy, Off-White coveralls (of both brand and color) when I was confronted with one of fashion’s many dark conundrums: what happens when we recreate working class garments at unreasonably high prices? Well, I was mistaken for a custodian. This granted me a bottle of Windex, a mop and a backstage pass that I wore ‘round the neck.
3:31 PM—Backstage With such access, my ensembles became increasingly suited to the shows I attended. At Carolina Herrera, I wore Carolina Herrera. At Badgley Mischka, I wore Badgley Mischka. At Marc Jacobs, I literally wore Marc Jacobs. He’s so sweet.
5:40 PM—Street “Meet” Craving a hot dog, I bumped into my ex. I wore a look of distrust but also my heart on my sleeve. He wore me down (and Balenciaga too) and when we pulled apart, some cream cheese on the lips.
6:08 PM—Suite #700, The St. Regis At this time there was not much to report in the way of clothing, but for a bit of latex which was ribbed, ultra thin, and lubricated.
6:30PM—Equinox SoHo My next event was something between a runway show and a presentation. Whilst guests tasted complimentary protein bars, models cat-walked down treadmills. I wore ‘athleisure,’ which I’ve realized was a mistake, for such a style can only hold power out of context. Conversation here was hard to keep. I had no points to make discussing the benefits of bias-cut, stretch fabrics on deep squatting.
7:15PM—Bushwick At a counter-event, I wore what can be described as a mix of cargo pants and chaps complimented by face glitter and a large, fake septum piercing in which swung a minuscule Tweety Bird.
8ish—A phone conversation with Hua, the well-connected former it-girl turned SNL prop stylist “Wear whatever you’d like, Michael. It’s a pre-launch for an after-party. Uh yes, Iris Van Herpen is WAY too much. Keep it simple. Rhododendron? Like the flower? Why can’t you just say ‘pink’? No Michael, I have no clue what color the walls are. Just go neutral. Wear beige. Alright, alright! Stop shouting! Of course I know you’re not a kitchen tile. Wear whatever, just meet me at Canal Station in 30.”
9:01 PM—Back in SoHo I wore the Rhododendron. The four walls of the space were orange, yellow, green and purple which meant I clashed in every direction. Hua and I fled to the THE GRILL for dinner. It was very tasty, but don’t confuse the capital letters for enthusiasm. That’s just how it’s spelled. I wore a napkin tucked into the collar of my shirt, so as to not desecrate my Prabal Gurung.
11:45-6:58 AM—After-Parties #1-8 Between these hours I have no clue whom I saw, what I did, nor what I wore while doing it except that I had great fun and am without an extra large thong plus the suspenders that held it up. Nevertheless, I’d recommend New York Fashion Week after-parties to all, except those who value their health such as those found at Equinox fashion shows.
6:59 AM—The Lower East Side The taxi carrying me wore a fresh coat of yellow paint and a charming, illuminated hat. Under my eyes I wore bags that were neither Proenza Schouler nor Alexander Wang nor anything else as distinctly New York City as the heritage brand known as Sleep Deprivation.
10:30 AM—On a Balcony Due to an 11:00 AM checkout, I had no choice but to attend brunch at the apartment of a friend-of-a-friend’s agent’s former-assistant’s neighbor. Having used up all my clothing the day before (and my joie-de-vivre a few hours prior), in the way of fashion all I could muster was a cotton robe tied at the waist and Maison Margiela track pants. No shirt. I accessorized with dark sunglasses, an empty cocktail glass that once contained a Bloody Mary, and complete silence.
Thirty seconds later, I threw up in a potted plant and wore out my welcome.