Fluttershy - Working In Background

The Enzo Bonafé loafers and mules at The Row were too rad for Tad. Whoever Tad is.

All photos are my narsty screengrabs from Style.com.

but I follow her.

Tags: nyfw

Hunter S. Thompson Goes To New York Fashion Week

New York Fashion Week on the tattered edge of America

We were somewhere outside the High Line, on the edge of Chelsea, when the clothes began to take hold. Out here, where the swingers of the Village used to bob on a platform in a scuzzy East River; where butchers once stuffed fat and raw muscle into filmy sausage casing; where Diane Keaton whistled so-long-Annie-Hall to satisfy her fatal sexual fix out Looking For Mr. Goodbar; where mole people once lunged at pedestrians with hypodermic needles; where you’re now charged $250 for a handle of the number one vodka of 2033; where America turned itself inside out and went through the washing machine with no detergent and a cup of dirty water—out here is where I saw Kaelen and COMEFORBREAKFAST and William Okpo.

I was strung out and not in a cool way on boxy jackets and sweatshirts, on prints and politics. But Kaelen did all this and made it look new. There were these prints, first off, digital and industrial and grungy, that looked like something I’d seen the last time I took eight snappers plus everything in sight and rode a carousel backwards while listening to opera and saw bats.

And I liked it. I liked it in a floating dress, and a baroque-print dress that looked like spilled gasoline. I liked it with the boxy motorcycle vest in cool collected lavender with tufts of fur gossiping quietly on the back:


Mark my words: I’ll buy that vest come August. (Image.)

The whole scene was moody. But then, I was nine hundred sheets to the wind from margaritas on ice I’d consumed right before at Mark McNairy. Margaritas on ice were not being served at Mark McNairy, but I’d managed to procure a few many by jangling a server’s brains, which is the same as twisting a drinking man’s arm.

I headed outside to trudge through rain that came down like thumbtacks, when — a moon-faced kid who looked like a docile wannabe interviewer for Playboy — “Can I take your picture?”

“Sure kid,” I spat, “but only of the shoes.” I realized wasn’t wearing any shoes. Or maybe it was all the bizzlers I took.

“And what’s your line of work?” he asked.

I moved in close: “I’m practically a god of social media, see, and I may have invented Twitter, but I can’t really tell you because it wasn’t exactly legal.”

Then back into that endless wasteland of crushed Coca-Cola cans. I thought about America,  New York, and all the galleries that now sat proud where it all once sat so dirty. Art and fashion aren’t so different, but then, to be an artist is to posit oneself over and over as the tragic hero of one’s own life, and fashion is never about that. And the only thing to do when these racoons squeeze in on you is to load up on screeching chemicals and go to COMEFORBREAKFAST and William Okpo.

I was slow getting in. Two girls in front of me in sharp clothing weren’t on the list and got combative, and a few bats overhead gave me knowing winks. You can turn your back on another person, but never turn your back on a publicist, because they’ll be waiting, with hunting axe waving wildly in your face, the blade at your eye and their clipboard at your gut.

Beetlejuice black and white heels at COMEFORBREAKFAST made me feel dizzy until I remembered all the zappers I was on. There was a cool clean swing coat in black with a leather lapel that was fit for your own funeral. William Okpo was Alice’s Adventures in High School Wonderland, these varsity jacket-clad chicks in pairs with three balls of hair like cheerleader topiaries and a big bold unibrow.

“Embrace the unibrow,” the two designers told an interviewer, and then there was a roar all around, and I was gone.