My Second Fashion Week: A Diary

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Complex Original

Image via Complex Original

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After my first New York Fashion Week, I'm not gonna lie, I was really feeling myself. When everyone back home asked where I had been I had the illest flex: "Oh, you know, just checking out some shows at Fashion Week. Yeah, that's what I do for a living." I was so amped for my next fashion week, I was seriously waiting for invites for six months straight. But the closer to February we got, the more worried I became. I mean, I literally had like two invites in my inbox a week before go time. While I still blame this glaring oversight by PR companies on Gmail going down, I was beginning to question if I was going to go at all. YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. Like I'm gonna miss the sheer fuckery that is NYFW just because some brands got all snobby in the span of six months. It's almost as if they don't want me slanderizing their events and showing up with decidedly terrible accessories like canes and unkempt beards. But after a quick email to my editors, I decided that the tradition needed to stay alive—had to stay alive. So, I got my hair did, threw everything I own into two bags and tested my influence levels for my second New York Fashion Week. Peep game.

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Friday, February 7, Later That Night, Somewhere Deep In Wall Street

Your boy did not get an invite to the N. Hoolywood show. I have a feeling it's because I photobombed literally every single press photo of their last show and I don’t think that having a guy riding Diazepam waves with a cane is a good look. But I needed to go because that show was integral to my fashion week lore. Thankfully, while loitering at Carson Street, swearing up a storm and drinking their tiny ass water bottles, making actual, paying customers feel uncomfortable, I heard that the owners, Breen and Trunzo, had RSVP'd to the show but weren’t planning on going. So I went to the show as Matt Breen. I was much more confident impersonating Breen because I knew how to spell his last name. Here’s how the conversation went with the PR girl:

Me: "Hi, Matt Breen."

Her: "Matt Green?"

Me: "Nah, B-R-E-E-N"

Her: "Sorry, you’re not on the list, did you RSVP?"

Me: "Uh, yeah, but it said I just got standing."

Her: "Oh, okay, you're all set then."

THOSE ASSHOLES ACTUALLY HADN’T RSVP'D TO SHIT. PESKOWITZ WAS WITHIN EAR SHOT OF THAT CONVERSATION! MY PERSONAL BRAND IS STRAIGHT STRUG.

The show was fucking dope though with the setting being a weird asbestos basement that Mugatu would totes have approved. The theme was some sort of bank robber or espionage shit because the models kept handing off this one black duffel bag. I dunno, I didn’t read the literature because I was too busy sniping a seat second row aka peasant row next to Julien The iHomie. I actually really liked the collection, but my recollection of the actual pieces is blurred by the fact that there was a guy outside getting domed by some chick for, like, 55 minutes straight. On marble steps. In the middle of Wall Street. At night. In the middle of February. Someone took The Wolf of Wall Street way too seriously. But infinite daps to that guy, right?

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Monday, February 10, Ovadia & Sons, 12:30pm

Ovadia & Sons' first runway show was dope. The bombers and Hey Arnold! steez was v much in my lane. Congrats to the bros on a great show. SEE? I CAN BE SINCERE SOMETIMES. Since we had a considerable amount of time between Ovadia and Ervell later that night, we decided we'd hit the office and work real hard since we'd been out on the town, fashioning so hard. Except, Woolf and LAS decided to keep our slumped off lunch tradition going skrong, so we went to this lux grilled chee spot. I ATE A GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH WITH A PIECE OF FRIED CHICKEN STUFFED IN THE MIDDLE. OH, AND A SIDE OF TATER TOTS WITH TRUFFLED MAYO DIPPING SAUCE. I wasn’t even conscious for the four hours I was "working.". I stared at my computer for, like, 2 and a half hours before I realized I actually had to write something. The afternoon did not go over particularly well.

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