Further Critique of Fashion Week

Good morning, dahlings –

Fashion Week is over, thank God! My head! My feet! My eyes! My very soul has been wrenched, dahlings, wrenched to its core by what is going to be inflicted on the buying public next spring. But more on that later. First, a tad of my gadding about with fashion’s finest.

I met Sun, ‘Japanese Pop Sensation,’ at The Daily Penthouse Suite at the Bryant Park Hotel, and if this is what they consider a sensation, then suddenly I understand the phenomenon of William Hung. Sweet little thing. Bob Morris of the New York Times kept trying to get his hands down Vincent Gallo’s pants, but Vincent was too busy posing and didn’t want his codpiece knocked askew. I won’t go into detail about my chats with various editors, creative directors, and hairdressers, because that’s private dirt. At least until I get annoyed with one of them.

Anna Wintour was at every show, of course, striding about in Mahnolo Blahnicks and lashing at the proles with a riding crop. Sweet, sweet Anna. And of course Mischa Barton, who nearly trampled me trying to get to the photographers. Amazing how fast someone can move when they need publicity that desperately.

I spotted Winona Ryder at the front row of Marc Jacobs’s show, and other than furtively snatching a few pieces of candy from the runway into her handbag, she was quite well-behaved. Also Dita Von Teese, a role model for women everywhere. It’s so sweet how she looks after that handicapped half-blind husband of hers. Apparently Guy Trebay of the New York Times feels that Monsieur Jacobs has come into his own at last, designing clothes for those of his own generation. I’m so happy he’s happy, if you know what I mean, since it’s certainly not Mr. Trebay’s generation. Or mine, for that matter.

Oscar de la Renta’s show was tres’ chic, if exactly what he has been designing since time began. Still, it’s wonderful that the old dear can still work up some enthusiasm for his profession…I think. A particularly enjoyable touch was a nod to his salad days in the 1980s, as all of the models had gigantic blonde hair. Ah, for the days of Aquanet and hot rollers!

My personal favorite was Monique Lhuillier, if only because the models looked like they might have had lunch. Elegant shapes, dahlings, simplicity, simplicity, simplicity, and I don’t mean Simplicity.

Later today, I will dissect some of the Crimes Against Fashion I was witness to. But in the meantime, I need to go bathe my aching tootsies. A week in stilleto heels takes something out of a woman. But it was worth it to tower over everyone else…makes it so much easier to be seen in the group shots, don’t you know.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
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