New York fashion shows attract strange people

“Seventy-eight days ago I moved to the Big Rotten Apple, a.k.a., New York City.

I work at Harper’s BAZAAR.

You may wonder how a guy with roots in Andalusia, Alabama wound up at one of the world’s largest fashion magazines (or “books” as we call it in publishing).

Good question.

I don’t know jack about fashion. But I do know how to shake hands and ask “how y’all?” in a friendly Southern way. You’d be surprised how far that can get a person.

As the only male in the midst of 40 women, working at Harper’s BAZAAR has its pros and cons Pros: the obvious. Cons: think estrogen runs amuck.

I gave up The Great State of Alabama thinking of stars, lights, gorgeous models, and gorgeous models.

I wound up with ringing telephones, memos, purchase orders, and a weird receptionist named Velma

But today was the highlight of my 78 days in the city … I went to my first fashion show.

Every season, designers from all over the world meet in Milan, Paris, and New York.

The magazine folks chase these people around taking pictures and creating a suitable hullabaloo to make the place more exciting. And exciting it is.

I went to see the Vivienne Tam show in Bryant Park across from the library.

The invitation read. “12 o clock” so I was there at ten till. First mistake.

I thought a suit and tie would be appropriate. Second mistake.

I asked an usher to help me to my seat. Third mistake.

I let my mouth drop open at the nature coulure on the stage. Fourth mistake.

The show didn’t start until half past noon, but long before then I was spotted by the other fashion designers and reporters being slightly out of my league. I wasn’t wearing a scarf, nor was my hair dyed. My suit wasn’t purple and my lapel didn’t sport *an AIDS” pin. And never once did I utter darling.

It was a blustery afternoon in New York City: the television cameras and photographers were out in full force. There was an overpowering aroma of hairspray and Eau de toilet. I stood “on” line as they say.

Suddenly this dark-haired woman dressed all in bae came no to the line and began chatting with the wait in front of me. Her black sunglasses shot my reflection

But I guess I stared. To be honest. I wasn’t really paying attention to her – she looked fairly normal by New York standards.

But then she took off her glasses.

Her goo-goo-googly eyes looked at me. She said, “hello dahling,” and blew a kiss.

Everyone in the line looked at me.

When the googly-eyed woman left, I looked at this girl with blue hair who was wearing a Chanel suit and asked, “Say, who was that woman?

“Who was that woman? Who was THAT woman?” she shrieked, “you were just blown a kiss by Anna Wintour and you did- n ‘even know who it was? “

Oh of course. Silly me. Anna, my, my, I said. I hadn’t the foggiest what the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue had looked like before that moment.

Apparently, this feigned indifference on my part impressed Ms. Blue Hair, and she asked me where was from

“Andalusia.”

“Where?” she asked.

“You mean you don’t know it?” Alabamians can be snide, too.

“Andalusia. Andalusia?” she asked.

“Yeah, Anda-loo-see-a,”

I said, using the original pronunciation of the province.

Pretty soon she had convinced herself that I was from the Madrid Council on Fashion.

“Vivierme really appeals to a Spanish market,” Blue Hair told me.

I nodded.

“What row are you?” the usher asked.

F-10 I said.

Blue Hair gasped, “What in the world are you doing back there? This man has come all the way from Madrid! I can’t believe you people are so rude ” Blue Hair had thoroughly launched into a diatribe of trash. ton-show-sealing Duquette.

Other people in the line were watching the little drama unfolding over me all me gale.

He doesn’t look like a fashion buff the usher retorted.

This enraged Blue Hair, “Didn’t you just see Anna Wintour give him a kiss you moron? They are best friends!”

Others in the line nodded.

A television camera light flicked on.

Blushing and genuflecting, the usher quickly put a bottle of Evian bottled water in my hand and led me to the second row.

A women wearing black makeup (which made her look like she passed on about two weeks ago) and looking at my shoes.

“Duck boots are so out * she said.

“It was supposed to rain today.* I said.

“Oh I hope not, I’m wearing suede, the death-woman said.

“In spring?” I said, arching my eyebrows for effect.

Mrs. Death looked distressed, but at about that time, the entire room went dark. Ella Fitzgerald and Lena Horn began singing about love The first mode! appeared.

She looked about eight feet tall and 20 pounds. The drag coefficient created by her tremendous torso caused her legs (o get ahead of her body, and her hips to jut out, and generally make it look like she was walking into a strong headwind.

This look was complimented by the Gunmetal Classic Suit & Shine Snort Sleeve Tee” she sported. She reminded me of the U.S.S. Alabama.

Models upon models followed. Many of them were so skinny that they hadn’t undulated drastically, the clothes might have shimmied down their torsos into a run. way puddles of vinyl, silk, and leather.

The event lasted for twenty minutes. And that was it. Flash, in a pouf, they were gone.

Basically, the advice I give Andalusians visiting New York City or some other area of haute couture is to wear shiv black. Everybody had on shiny black.

The ushers had on shiny black.

The designers had on shiny blue.

Even Anna Wintour had on shiny black.

If you can’t afford a Vivienne Tam origulai, think about cutting head and arm holes in a trash bag … and Wear custom Andalusia – it’s Spring.