I don't consider myself to be fashionable at all. A tee and jeans are alright by me. Yet when your French friend invites you to Vivienne Tam's Fall show at Bryant Park, you go--you do your hair, you put together a badass outfit, you wear those 4-inch death heels, you glam up, and you storm the scene like you know the difference between tulle and chiffon.
The Fashion Week tents enveloped Bryant Park which looked like an austere airplane hangar from the outside. Inside was another story. As we stepped up the stairs, I looked back and saw a bunch of people crowded around; seemingly expectant and hopeful that entry would be granted. Nothing is ever worth waiting for hours, my friends, I said to myself as the pulsating music and cicada-like buzz of conversation drew me into the tent.
The scene was straight out of Sex & the City (a referential guide to NY for most of my young adult life): freakishly tall models, the paparazzi, and the fashion cognoscenti expertly dressed in whatever the eff they felt like wearing because HELL(!) this is fashion, baby. I enjoyed the visual array; like MOMA come to life.
What I didn't enjoy was the poor event production. Instead of separating high traffic areas, somehow the gratis booze bar and Check-In were right next to each other. The result? A mish-mash of glam'd up individuals becoming more and more intoxicated and thus more and more perturbed that security wasn't aware that "I'm on the list!" Thanks to my heels, I was able to see the reception table and so I herded my petite friend through the crowd, pushing our way through and saying in an affected tone, "Isn't this just madness! My goodness!" We skated through, signed in, received a piece of paper with a "ST" written in big black markers, and then got herded into another voluminous line.
After confirming that "ST" stood for "Standing," I knew I had to find a seat. My 2-hr death shoes were FIERCE but deadly. I sat next to the fountain revamped with floral drippings and expertly placed spotlights. We people-watched for a good 45 minutes before the show tent opened to let patrons in. Those lucky folks who got to sit went in first and then the rest of us shuffled our well-heeled feet, clutching our "ST," and flooding all other available pockets of space inside the show tent.
Vivienne's show was a flowy, flirty, floral array of clothing--err, um--art pieces that I could actually see myself wanting to wear. Hair and make-up consisted of long, "natural" hair and easy make-up that brought the focus to the eyes. To be honest, I was more interested in the faithful fashion following that made up the audience. I look around and thought that all those seeking egg-donors should've posted up outside because smushed in this tent was one helluva aesthetic demographic....but back to the fashion.
Actually no. What I thought was pretty clever was the incorporation of Tam's edition of the HP Mini (pictured) as the perfect accessory: a clutch. My inner nerd mentally applauded this unique incorporation of electronics and, as if the fashion hadn't already done so, I became a VTF: Vivienne Tam Fan.
If given a chance to sit, I would certainly go to another fashion show. All the waiting and foreplay of the pre-show made me weary and just as the actual fashion show started it was instantly over like a most beautiful quickie. It was a great experience and I'm very glad to have seen the scene of Fashion Week.
After enduring the glares that come with being overdressed on the subway, I got home and changed into a tee and a pair of jeans.
The perfect fashion statement, baby.
Part of me doesn't want to talk about Bia because I know this place is going to get packed once people actually recognize the obscure down-below entrance to this delightful restaurant/beer garden.
For a long time, all I knew about Yemen Cafe was that its workers enjoyed catcalling while on their cigarette breaks. Day after day, I'd walk to my apartment (a hop-skip from this culinary curiosity) and peer into the large glass window. Patrons always appeared well-fed, steeped in conversation, and mostly male. "Come! It is warm inside. We can warm you up," a bus-boy once yelled at me. I turned my head and mentally reassured myself that I preferred the cold when all I really wanted was whatever mound of deliciousness sat in those shiny metal bowls.
Like a beautiful rug that ties the room together, Lebowski Fest 2009 forged a bond between fans from all walks of life. I got a message on my machine telling me that they were showing the picture on the big screen at Terminal 5 so I got on the subway because those damn kids took my car for a joyride then soiled it before they left it who-knows-where. I hear they have some promising leads. Anyway, I got to Terminal 5 but they wouldn't let me in. The tough guy at the door took one look at my poncho-slipper combo--a fine look if I may say so--and told me that I was out of my element! He even asked me to pay 25 bones or clams or whatever you call them. He couldn't be serious! So I looked him in the eye and said, "I'm the Dude, man!" It seemed to work because we didn't split anymore hairs on the issue. Then I walked into Terminal 5 and I realized that I was late because the places was darker than a steer's tookus on a moonless prairie night and I could barely see anything except for picture on the big screen and two giant bars glowing like amber oases. I got myself a beverage and took a seat in the second tier of the VIP floor. I'll tell ya, Terminal 5 is huge, man! There's no way I'd pay the rent on time for this place--it must be big enough for at least 1,000 rugs. I will say this though: the big screen was pretty righteous and it was a chill experience overall except when some folks would say all the lines before the picture could say 'em or laugh before anyone else. I guess that's the way the whole darn human comedy keeps perpetuating itself.
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