My Fourth Fashion Week: A Diary

Make sure you read Jon's first, second and third New York Fashion Week diaries so he will feel good about himself.

Did you guys realize this is my fourth—FOURTH!—New York Fashion week? That means for the past two years or so, I've been a straight up regular—an insider, if you will. An #influencer and a trendsetter. Some might even say street style demigod. BEEN TWO FASHION WEEKS SINCE SOMEBODY ASKED ME WHO I WAS *Drake voice*. But, really, everyone just keeps asking me why I keep coming back. Jokes on them, though. I GOT ALL THE PR AGENCY EMAILS. I'M COMING TO EVERY NYFW 'TIL THE END OF TIME. WHO GON' STOP ME? Okay, enough chest-beating. Let's get into it...

Day 1: February 11, 2015, Travel

I've done everything right. I booked my flight and hotel far enough in advance that the total price for a week in NYC is only laughably expensive rather than soul-crushingly exorbitant. Pro tip: If you're trying to stay in a hotel for the low low in New York, book the newest Holiday Inn. Preferably, one that has opened in the last six months or so. The rates are low and the scum of the earth haven't had time to soil the rooms with Craigslist meet up residue and the detritus of family vacations gone wrong.

I was feeling extra confident because flights on a Wednesday out of Detroit never sell out aka I got a reduced upgrade rate to first class. I breezed through the check-in process and got a whiff of the good life—that First Class Passenger Life. All the American Airlines employees were smiling at me and my checked bag was under 40 pounds. Then, I got to security. BUT THEY DIDN'T EVEN CARE THAT YA BOY, YA FASHION WEEK MAN ON THE STREET, WAS A FIRST CLASS PASSENGER. The minute I showed my boarding pass and ID, the TSA agents were like, "Fuck this dude. He's getting the full treatment." Sure, I had on EG longshirt on (aka a religious garment to the TSA) and I may have paired it with my now signature, fairly unkempt beard, but c'mon fam, that doesn't mean I'm tryna get into any shenanigans at the airport smfh.

I walked through the weird body scanner thing and the agent told me to keep my hands in the air. Then, he asked me if he could search my "groinal" area, followed by asking me if I would take my long shirt off and a request to swab MY ENTIRE FOREARM down to check for chemical residue. The fucked up thing about Homeland Security is they frame all their frightening commands as questions when you have ZERO actual choice in the matter. So there I was, getting my nuts grabbed and my arms swabbed all while the barbarians in line behind me smashed my Wings + Horns x Canada Goose fishtail with their shitty ass Uggs and struggle luggage from T.J.Maxx. LIKE, DO YOU SEE THIS COAT? DO NOT BEND THE WIRE IN MY ADJUSTABLE, COYOTE FUR-LINED HOOD, YOU PEASANTS.

While the TSA was finishing up my personal space invasion, a fellow passenger was like, "You know if you shaved and didn't wear that shirt, you probably wouldn't get all this extra attention." To which I merely snarled and made a mental note to go to his gate and use all the electrical outlets so he couldn’t charge his Kindle. Instead, when I got on the plane I remembered I was a king and proceeded to drink all of the free grigio.

Day 3: 11am

Fam, we were at JE's show SO FUCKING EARLY. And it was SO FUCKING COLD. It was literally one degree—an degree, if you will. To make matters worse, James Harris aka Dr. Taco MD was mad late, rendering our early arrival completely useless. Evidently, if you only have one half of the Fashion Bros nothing can get filmed.

I pretended to not be associated with the Fashion Bros filming crew the minute I saw Tommy Ton arrive. I tried to meander stylishly in front of the venue, but it didn't work. James and Lawrence started making fun of me again, so I just went inside and sat second row, waiting for for the show to commence. Soon, the crowd filled in and we all waited. Right before I was about to remark how late the show was starting, a hush fell over the crowd, Lawrence's left ventricle exploded and I looked to my right just as Kanye walked in...and calmly sat second row. I was sitting second row. Kanye was sitting second row. Therefore, Kanye and I are on the same level. That's, like, the transitive property or whatever. I'm bad at math. I felt bad for bad for Nick Wooster who was sitting front row with a few open seats next to him obviously intended for Kanye and his crew. If all had gone according to play, that would’ve been a majoy flex, but instead it just looked like Nick was too important for any human beings to be seated next to him. I snapped a photo of Kanye talking with someone more important than me and then lingered as I watched a bunch of grown men create a semi-circle around god, while he just went about his godly his business. Sorry John, I'm sure the collection was fire, but being in the same room as Kanye erased any and all memories of the show like I was fucking neuralized Men In Black style. But who cares? YEEZUS.

Day 3: 7pm

Feburary 13th was looking like a strong day for me. I had a Kanye anecdote, hadn't been big-timed yet and snuck in a power nap before I headed to N.Hoolywood. N.Hoolywood will always have a special place in my heart because that's where Nick Grant and I solidified our BFF forever status. I always get priority standing at the show, but ALWAYS finesse a seat. Last season, I was front fucking row. But, always, it was not to be for F/W 15. I waited until the lights dimmed and went to sit next to Jake Gallagher, but then this brolic security guard grabbed my lapel like I was a fucking hooligan and loudly proclaimed, "YOU CAN'T SIT WITHOUT A TICKET, SON. I LOVE YOU, BRO, BUT YOU CAN'T SIT THERE. I LOVE YOU, BRO." What in the actual fuck? He loves me? But I can't sit here? Everyone made that tsk tsk sound as I walked, defeated, back behind the seats. On my walk of shame, I saw Daiki—YEAH, THAT DAIKI—was also standing. UGH, I STRAIGHT UP LOOKED LIKE A GUACHE SOCIAL CLIMBER IN FRONT OF MY FUCKING HERO GODDAMNIT. I HATED MYSELF SO MUCH. DAIKI SAW THAT BUSH LEAGUE MANEUVER. I could barely register that this N.Hoolywood collection was a certified banger because of my shame. I consoled myself on the long train ride back to the Holiday Inn by playing "Legend" 52 times in a row.

Day 4: 6pm

Finally, it was time for my best friend Robert Geller's show. In the cab ride over, a confidential informant wondered aloud if Kanye would be in attendance because he had heard Robert Geller and Kanye had been texting each other all week. Guys, my fake best friend is actual best friends with Kanye. Therefore, I'm fake best friends with Kanye. I reserved judgment on this new information because supposedly Kanye was going to be everywhere this week.

We showed up and there was a problem with our seating. Like, our seats didn't exist. The seat numbers stopped at, like, 14, but Lawrence, Skylar and myself we were seats 15, 16 and 17. (Let the record show, I was sitting closer to center stage than my editor-in-chief because, like I said, Robert Geller and I are best friends.) Anyways, the PR staff handled the seating debacle by just telling us to, "Sit wherever and we'll just figure it out." Um, lol, okay, whatever you say boo. So, we posted up remotely near (emphasis on the remotely) where our imaginary seats would've been and settled in.

Then we waited.

And then waited some more.

"Wow, it's not like Robbie G to run late. I wonder what's going on backstage," I mentioned to my new acquaintance Wil Fry. That's when we noticed that, rather conspicuously, the front row section immediately in front of us was empty. With the missing seats situation, there were a lot of people attempting a patented fashion week come up by sitting in the vacant seats. But every time they were rebuffed by headset wearing sentinels. Soon though, Jerry Lorenzo was sitting in front of me. That's about exactly when we realized, "Oh shit, Kanye is coming." We continued to speculate on his arrival time and how cool his squad looked when some some fucking strug lord waltzed up and tried to sit in Kanye's seat. When he was told to find another seat, he grew incensed and sassed, "You're telling me I have to squeeze into the second row? I'll move if Kanye actually comes.” Homi even tried to sit a SECOND time, only to be physically stopped by, like, an army of PR girls. This guy clearly did not understand the rule of eminent domain at fashion shows. If someone more famous than you shows up, you lose your fucking seat. Thems the breaks. No use bitching about it. Game over. Shit's the fucking law. This wildly embarrassing public display of thirst assuaged my own guilt re: my N. Hoolywood performance art debacle the previous night, so it was all gravy from where I was sitting.

Right, so we all laughed at this presumptuousness until I heard Lawrence's frontal cortex explode. I looked to my left and Kanye was walking with his wife to the front row, DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF US. I was literally an arm's length away from Kimye, guys. Like, close enough to touch them, but far enough away to not overhear their conversation, which in retrospect was a fucking brick. I actually paid a ton of attention to Robert's collection because I wanted Kanye to know how seriously I take this fashion shit. And then I sniped the shot of royalty you see above. Just kidding, Lawrence is better at Instagram than me.

Day 5: February 16, 2015

This was my last day in New York. Since the shows were all at night, I figured I'd use the day time to hang out with my girlfriend. We'd sleep in, cop some expensive green juice, offset the healthy juice with buttery French Toast and then, you know, just take in the beauty that is NYC.

Instead, Yahweh decided to shit all over my day. At 4 in the morning, our hotel's fire alarm went off. When I tried to call the front desk, no one answered. Everyone was running down the stairwell, bleary eyed and panicked. I told my girl to dress warm because our hotel might be on fire. Then, I waited 10 minutes to make sure it wasn't a drill aka if it had been an actual fire I would've died, but I needed to decide if I was going to lug 50 pounds worth of alphet down 15 flights to protect my gear from smoke damage.

We hit the lobby and there was water dripping from the ceiling. The floor was submerged and, again, it was 4AM AND 2 DEGREES BELOW ZERO OUTSIDE, so everything was turning into ice. Obviously, I was not amused. Instead of waiting in a lobby that was increasingly becoming Mr. Freeze's lair from unquestionably the best Batman movie, we bounced to eat some early morning bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches. I spent the next 5 hours waiting for the powers that be to transfer us to another hotel. That's what I get for booking my trip at a fucking Holiday Inn. The rest of the afternoon was spent taking my girl to my favorite shops, so she could see what life is really like in NYC: Staring longingly at material items you can never own.

Day 5: 6pm

Freshly secured in a newer, nicer hotel (spoiler alert: still NOT worth it), I beamed myself to Milk Studios for the Ervell show. Someone who worked at Milk totally recognized me and whisked me up to VIP. Yo, you guys, that Milk is lit. They had, like, these weird steak shooters. I think that’s what they were called—it's steak on a spoon with some fancy garnishes. Also, cold-pressed juice for $Free.99. I grabbed, like, seven bottles of the ginseng/apple/whatever big boy Ecto-Coolers and posted up, basking in the warmth that is the VIP lounge. Someone asked to take my photo and then clearly deleted the aforementioned photo when they realized I look constipated in every posed photograph I've ever taken. JOKES ON YOU MILK! I CAN'T EVEN POSE IN A PHOTO The RIGHT WAY. What I am good at is drinking your free juice and coffee. The only downside of all this gratis hydration? I had to pee so fucking badly on the walk over to Pier 59 to catch the Ovadia show.

Later that night, Woolf and I split a pizza and french fries despite his earlier betrayal and a few beers were had. Then, Lawrence smashed two glasses while he was putting on his vintage Bloomies coat and we all made fun of him. I listened to everyone talk about which cabs they were going to take and who was expensing what and then listened to "Legend" seven more times on the train ride back to the hotel. I had promised the Complex fam that I'd see them at the office before I flew out the next day, but sleeping in and having to actually write blog posts kind of threw a monkey wrench into that plan. So, instead, I stuck to my daily routine of emailing Lawrence and Skylar and then disappearing back into the mists of Detroit.

Parting Thoughts

Dear Diary,

This week was strange. All the shows were at night. Tommy wasn't even shooting for GQ. I only got street styled once in what amounts to my life's greatest brick. But it was a good week! I know I didn't take my girl to any fashion shows or anything, but I think it's better she not be able to peek behind the NYFW curtain. It's way more glamorous for her to tell her friends, "Yeah, he attends runway shows and even Kanye was there," as oppose to telling them, "Yeah, he makes a big deal of this twice a year, but all he does is stand next to a wall like a fucking lame at a Fall Out Boy concert. They don't even let him sit down at most of these things." Really, I was protecting her.

Thankfully, everyone stopped asking me about that time I wrote about crying while a Drake song played in the background. But people are still asking me why I'm even at Fashion Week though, which is such a sneak diss because no one asked why all these Instagram models were at the NBA All-Star Game.

*Extremely Drake voice* It's over, yeah it's over/ I'm leavin'/I'm goooonnnne/I can't afford to stay here no mo'/I'm leavin', I'm leavin'/No more Tommy Tonnnnn/Gotta find another reason to be here/I'm leavin', I’m leavin', yeah I'm leavin'/I'm gone/I'm afraid I'm gonna die before I sit front rooooww/I'm leavin', I'm leavin', I'm gone.

FUCK, I really need to stop listening to this Drake tape.

Yours truly,

Jon Moy