The Runway Shows: A Man Weighs In

At an after party last week I heard someone equate the anti-climactic nature of Fashion Week to skiing. Here’s what he said: you wake up real early, stretch, put your long johns on (bonus points if there Rag & Bone F/W 2009), get your ski gear on, eat breakfast, put your boots on, your goggles, your gloves and then lift your way up the mountain only to have skied the entire mountain in under 25 minutes just half an hour later. There is some truth to what the man said and in light of this, I thought it would be of maximum appropriateness to have a man weigh in on last week’s shows.

I chose my friend Sean Chraime, who, by the way, just got engaged. His fiance is an avid Herve Leger enthusiast who fell from heaven, which should explain a lot. Mind you, the man behind the woman has no background fashion knowledge whatsoever and thus receiving emails from him all Friday afternoon that read “the cat hat is Anna Sui, right? I think I mixed the Marchesa and Milly looks up” was thoroughly enjoyable. In his defense, he is supremely funny and wrote a really special poem for me before I went abroad to Paris last Fall. My favorite verse went like this: “oui, oui, Monsieur, please make your move. I’d love to bone you, in The Louvre.” 

And without further ado, I give you his unfiltered Fashion Week musings. Just kidding, they are filtered. I edited the shit out of them.

I may or may not be the author of the Idiot’s Guide to Sartorially Seducing a Customs Agent but throwing an animal carcass on your head is one way of confirming that you checked “yes” to 11B on the entry form. (MR Note: But why wear a hat, when you can wear a cat?) Unless you’ve been invited to an evening gala at Mohegan Sun there are better ways to attract attention, but few to repel men.

When an outfit reminds me of a long tenured elementary school librarian that has notorious arm flab and a faint aroma of tuna and chives…well, you LOSE. (MR Note: No, you lose. And another note: But her pants look like Tetris. Channeling virtual games has to lend itself some man getting credibility.)

I may be going out on an forcefully (MR Note: forcefully because I threatened to teach his fiance how to tie a turban if he didn’t get this done on time) creative limb here but if I was the bastard lovechild of Sigourney Weaver and David Attenborough I would say you look like a furry jellyfish…the photo-negative of one…maybe more of a squid if you consider the amorphous-chic nature of her body and black tentacles peeking out of her jacket (MR Note: we call that which is peeking out of her jacket “a skirt.”)

You know the hot blond southern belle living in your freshman dorm that makes you hate all the mediocrity you had to deal with going to a Yeshiva day school on the east coast from K-12 (MR Note: No. I am the mediocrity you had “to deal with” going to a Yeshiva day school, jackass)….Fast forward to graduation when you finally meet her mom and you’re dumbfounded to learn that she’s unattractive, overweight and wearing THIS OUTFIT. (MR Note: Trendy.)

This reminds me of those oil absorbing face wipes that pretty much always confirm that you’re face is oily as shit…yeah, I cried a few times about it too, my mom told me it makes for healthier skin…But why on EARTH did you decide to build pants out of them and forget to get a wax and wear a goddamn panty liner? (MR Note 1: Panty liners are often reserved for light menstrual days. I think you mean just a plain old panty. Nice reference re: the unkempt lady bits though. MR Note 2: I’ve come to learn you have excessive ellipses disorder.)

That looks like my grandma…and my grandpa…and their kitchenette…with tights…unless you plan on serving me the best eggplant Parmesan this side of the international date line or reminding me I’m the smartest of all the cousins, please take it off…just take it OFF. (MR Note: Don’t listen to him, you look fab-u.)

Allow me to paint a scene for you…cliché high school movie, freaks, geeks, cheerleaders, tramps and of course, the token pale fat girl who’s painfully optimistic and convinces herself she can orchestrate a universally friendly social environment…cut to prom queen announcement, after a painstakingly glamorous campaign everyone’s rooting for the fat girl…she wins. This is the dress I imagine her wearing as she kneels down, fighting back tears. (MR Note: It’s also somewhere straitjacket chic. Where be her arms?) Good luck meeting Mr. Right in this one. (MR Note: Your fiance told me she picked this up on Moda Operandi for your engagement party. Sucka.)

Ya know, I was kinda digging on this snow bunny getup. Jacket’s got a decent puff factor to it, hoods make you look cute sometimes…and hell, it even keeps your vagina in full view…but when you ruin it with an ostomy pouch hanging over either side of your neck it’s kinda hard to stay in the mood. 

I tried tackling this one last….I’ve exhausted my creative commentary juice…frankly, this one’s not that bad…is she wearing those pillows as shoes? (MR Note: Pilgrim hats, not just for pilgrims.)

TOODLES! 

One final MR note: I’m not sure if at this point this disclaimer is even necessary but I will include it nonetheless. In an effort to test my own man repelling tendencies, I sent to Sean one of my top five favorite looks from the respective collections photoed above. As it turns out, I’ve still got it. And by it, I mean a proper lonesome labia. (You can peep the sartorial reasons here.)

Happy Presidents Day! Hooray!