This is about as flattering as Philadelphia commissioning a statue of Rocky Balboa being knocked out by a no-name lightweight amateur. Oh, Paris.
Livin’ the dream.
If you ever wondered what Jay and Jack from The Knottery actually look like, they’re really just a couple of dorks. But seriously, big up to The Knottery—really good people chasing their dreams and having fun while doing it.
What did we learn from NYFW? Three-quarter length farmer’s tans are the way to go for ss ‘13, NATCH.
If New York City is the overachieving, successful second son, well then that must make London the disappointing first born with a drinking problem.
New York Fashion Week is just ‘round the corner—you know how I know that? Because certain people who shall remain nameless (shout out to anyone who really doesn’t have a name) just won’t shut the fuck up about it. You know, the same lames who have prepared seven different outfits weeks in advance who, once the festivities actually begin, turn around say “ughch, I HATE fashion week. I can’t wait for it to be over!” In any event, enough with the formalities, let’s get down with it.
- No dickriding. Seriously. Leave the astroglide at home and stop whoring yourself around in an attempt to get an invite to some afterparty that’s probably going to be wack as balls anyways.
- Act like you’ve been there before. I’m not saying to walk the line, Soup Nazi style. What I am saying is to arrive on time, give dap to the few people you know in the audience, stay out of the pit’s focus and refrain from acting like you saw one of the Beatles debarking from a private jet after the show. It’s a fashion show, not the Superbowl half-time show for crying out loud.
- Avoid PR types. They are probably working and want absolutely nothing to do with you, but their preternatural desire to yack it up will render them incapable of resisting a conversation with you. And then they’ll end up blacking out or falling into some sort of socializing K-hole only to wake up three days later, naked, holding a fish fillet outside McDonalds in Chinatown. You don’t want to get someone fired, do you?
- Don’t try to pick up babes at DVF. It happens every year. If you have no interest in handbags and wrap dresses, stay the fuck out of the women’s shows. Hitting on some WIWT blogger broad smushed between a bunch of 20 year-old interns from Parsons in the back of the standing room is as good an idea as using a bag of Hot Cheetos as a viable form of contraception (hint: it doesn’t work).
- Leave the photographers alone. If they want to shoot you, they will shoot you. Do you really think prancing around outside, staring longingly past Milk Studios at the Hudson will give you any more of a chance at being photographed? These dudes are at work, and you should respect that. Tommy Ton doesn’t just show up to your office, sit in front of your cubicle and smoke cigarettes now, does he?
- Avoid ethnic cuisine. You’re going to be networking all week—do you really think it would be a good idea to fill your bowels with huevos rancheros, garlic knots or yellow curry, knowing full well that the lid can fly off at any moment? Your esophagus cannot discern whether you are talking to Michael Bastian or Lawrence Schlossman (bonus tip: you can always let one rip in front of Lawrence), but you can take the safe route and stick to salads and relatively odor-less proteins for the week.
- No live-tweeting. You have something like 547 followers on Twitter, half of whom are your friends from high school and college. What makes you think that they want to see to-the-minute updates of your baseless opinion regarding how prevalent creeper soles will still be in 2013?
- Fashion’s Night Out is for cameos. Hit multiple parties with efficiency. Don’t be the guy who arrives at Stella McCartney at 7 and sticks around until 11 because you don’t want to miss Alexa Chung’s pre-recorded DJ set. (See also Commandment 2 above.)
- Pack a phone charger. Shit’s as imperative as cigarettes in jail. If you’re going to be Instatweeting and Tumblrbooking your little heart out, just think of the havoc you are going to unleash on your smartphone’s battery life.
- Bring an extra pack of cigarettes. Because I’m not running a charity and refuse to give away any of my own.
Yours in hate,
“All my clothes are from Fida thrift stores.
The 50s, the 60s and Johnny Depp in the movie Public Enemies inspire me.”
This is called the “I found this blazer while clearing out my dead grandpa’s house and even though it doesn’t fit me I must wear it in his honor” look. And what’s with that wimpy square barely poking out? I mean, even Brooks’ crow Jake was displayed more prominently than that fucking thing, and if the warden found out homeboy would spend the next three weeks lunching on a cockmeat sandwich.
I want to meet the stylist and photographer duo that agreed on making this chump pop a squat for whatever horrible magazine in which this ended up being featured.