Nocturnal Confessions: The End Has No End
Around 6am this morning, I hauled myself out of a cab at 6th Ave and West 4th readying myself for the sloppy block-and-a-half stumble to my apartment. As I reached the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, across the street from me, stationed on the Avenue of the Americas like the great beacon of hope, was my taco truck, still serving. (I call it “my taco truck” not because I own it, but because I eat roughly 73% of my meals there, to the great dismay of my digestive system). It’s moments like these that make me both love and hate New York City.
As a guy with a bad heart (I’m on my fourth pacemaker—If there are any cardiologists reading this, know that I’m not above trading sexual favors for free medical advice), I know a thing or two about pushing the envelope. And last night had the feeling of things pushed a little too far. The final night of fashion week is the denouement. I don’t even know if people go out. Now the night before, that’s something to see. No one has slept, everyone’s on their last legs and even the toughest of fashionistas have nearly had too much. Nearly being the key word.
Sometimes the great moments are found in the territories of “nearly had too much.” Sometimes we’re at our best when, even for the split-second it takes to make a decision, we suppress our exhaustion, scream down our insecurities and thrust one final time.
At the Jeremy Scott party, up at Good Units, there was the sensation that fashion folks great and small were looking to embrace the swan song, to clench their teeth and push hard one final time, if for no other reason than to finally rid themselves of the absurdly breached baby that is fashion week.
And there was ice cream.
After some delicious champagne at LVHM’s party for those implacable Parsons kids—more on that later this week—and some surprisingly tasty watermelon tequila drinks at Tokion’s jam with Something Rebellious (a noisy, cluttered affair embodied by the jackass standing outside of Juliet Supper Club, asking people “Did you see my driver? He was right here and he disappeared!”), I met some friends at Scott’s party, though the word “met” implies that there was some kind of organization involved. The lack of cellphone coverage is one of the more appealing elements of Good Units.
It was upstairs where I located most everyone I recognized, and all of them, from the Conde Nasties to the Misshapes, were in full form. Tired of looking for and at other people, they kicked back and relaxed, drank their Belvederes and actually had fun. Phone numbers were exchanged. Makeouts were had. People got yelled at for taking too long in the bathroom.
It felt like a real party, but with that extra sense of intensity that comes with the knowledge that the edge has been ridden too long—and then the sense of desperate relief, the recognition of something familiar as you incise the coming deluge.
These are the moments I love and hate New York. The end of fashion week. My taco truck at 6am.
I think one of the larger issues with the continued conscription of Russia’s underclasses under the paradigm established by the Soviet system is the underfunding of….blah blah blah you are a fucking knockout. James from the Jane—and from Braveheart—acting the sheep’s pluck in this particularly delicious serving of haggis. Princess Sillypants and her Minister of Foreign Affairs. Miss you, Misshapes. Miss you, Beatrice. Teen Vogue, rolling deep. Earlier this week Bryanboy told me he’d lost his credit card. Seems like he found it and went right back to making really smart purchases. I don’t care if you’re celebrating the in your studio apartment, or Andre Balazs’s diamond-encrusted lair of magic, ice cream makes every party better. I would forgive Mel Gibson if he would just go back to Thunderdome and kill this guy. I told these girls “make a sex face.” And they did. Lloyd Blankfein needs to take a long hard look at this photo and see who’s really doing “god’s work.” What are the chances that an audience member could catch Gaga’s discarded underwear with her face? Miss you, fashion week.