Last night I went to a party to celebrate the launch of Chloë Sevigny for Opening Ceremony at Webster Hall and after waiting in line for an hour in the rain (despite the fact that I was on the press list) I came to the realization that while I love shopping and clothes and putting together outfits, "fashion" as a scene is comprised primarily of idiot assholes. I guess I always knew that, but it really hit home for me last night as I was shivering from the cold, wiping my runny nose as I glared at the sea of "V.I.P." scenesters—wiping their noses for other reasons—who sailed passed me to the front of the line, bristling with entitlement. And a shocking number of them weren't wearing coats, that's how confident they were in their appraisal of their own importance—they wouldn't even have to stand outside long enough to get cold. And it kills me to know they were right! Anyway, after the jump, vapid convos I overheard, period blood I saw on the bathroom floor, and a surprise spotting of a different kind: Natasha Lyonne!
I know I'm not the first to say this, but I just hate how Fashion Week seems designed to make a lot of people feel bad about themselves—you're not thin enough, rich enough, important enough—in order to stroke the egos of a precious few. Ugh!
So basically, having to wait in line in the rain for an hour made me so salty I'm surprised I didn't melt right there from the moisture. What exacerbated the problem were the girls behind me. One of them kept talking about her pole dancing class over and over and over, as though it were the most novel and hilarious thing that nobody had ever heard of before she had the guts and spunk to go and sign herself up. I so badly wanted to be like, "Bitch, that shit was on season two of Celebrity Fit Club! When overweight has-beens beat you to the punch on something that was already long played out, you should just keep it to yourself."
But instead I just clenched my fists and scowled. Here are some quotes of theirs I furiously typed into my phone:
"What? What does 'accosted' mean?"
"I took the 'How Shallow Are You' test on Facebook. I got a 95%."
"He's not cute and I'm not into him, but he has all this money. Like a lot of money. And a cool apartment. So whatever."
"I don't know what 'neuter' means. What is that? 'Neuter'?"
Once inside, I checked my coat and went to the bathroom. I saw this on the floor:
A wadded up mound of TP with a giant, still wet, period stain. I wondered if that fell out by accident or if someone was just as pissed as I was about the door policy and pulled a Donita Sparks by throwing their makeshift pad on the ground. I like that second idea best.
I went up to the bar and waited roughly 15 or 20 minutes for the bartender to even look at me. Then when I heard her charge the person next to me $6 for a domestic beer, I realized that it was, in fact, not an open bar, even though the invite mentioned a vodka sponsor. I was like, fuck this, and went up to the balcony to check out the crowd from above. That's when my friend Alex spotted Natasha Lyonne. I tried to take a picture, but my camera is like a 3 megapixel piece of crap, so this is the best I could do.
She didn't look her best, but she also didn't look her crackiest, so that was an improvement from the last time I saw her, when she was wearing filthy clothes five sizes too big, picking at sores on her face while fighting with a bodega owner about how she didn't want to have to pay for her Marlboro Reds.
Other celebs I saw were Karen O, Richie Rich, Three as Four, Sophia Lamar, Ben Cho, Leo Fitzpatrick, and I'm pretty sure I saw Margherita Missoni. The Slits took the stage at like 12:30 or something. I realized, looking around, that instead of a "party" this was merely a free concert. The one thing I actually really liked was seeing Chloë down in front of the stage, singing along and jumping up in down. It was cool to know she was having a really great time in the crowd with the peons, instead of sitting in the V.I.P. area with the idiot assholes.