Lemondrop

As a New Yorker who has to wade through the throngs of the Professionally Beautiful twice a year, I've of course developed a twisted curiosity about Fashion Week. What goes on at those shows? Just how fabulous -- or, more likely, monstrous -- do you have to be to get in? Do the people who go to these things actually take it seriously?

So when Lemondrop offered me the chance to check one out for myself, I said, "Uh, are you sure?" And they said yes ... on the condition that I accept the following dare: Go to the show in sweatpants.

What happened? My saggy bottom and I were allowed to pass through the looking glass into the realm of the well lit and ferociously tailored, and we were horrified by what we saw. A couple of things immediately stood out.

Click here to read the life lessons Carol learned from the show. (And to see pix of Benicio.)

1. The man purse is alive and well.



2. Everyone important has blonde hair.



3. I really need to go the gym.



But more importantly, I quickly realized that fashion shows are where terrible
people ...



... go to find their terrible-people uniforms. These clothes aren't made in sweatshops, they're made in Hell by the devil himself.

I'm exaggerating slightly.

How My Look Went Over
I would love to tell you that there was a huge scene. I would love to tell you all about how the 12-year-old publicity intern refused to let me into the G-Star NY Raw show because of "improper attire."

I would love to go on to tell you about how I railed at them for refusing to let someone like me in, someone who was so clearly in need of the good sense that could be obtained at a fashion show.

And I would love to tell you about how I screamed -- as armed guards carried me down the steps of the Hammerstein Ballroom -- "IF YOU OWNED A CHURCH, WOULD YOU REFUSE TO LET SINNERS IN, TOO?"

Unfortunately, none of that happened.

They admitted me and so I headed immediately to the red carpet, where I received several disappointed looks and one or two aggravated eye-rolls. However, what I saw most on the faces of anyone who noticed me was a look of puzzlement, as the wearer mentally scanned through the latest issue of Lucky wondering if she'd missed an article about how dirty college sweats are the new something-or-other. I considered that a minor victory.

Embracing My Inner Fashionista
I won't lie, I like to dress up sometimes, and I've been known to shop on occasion. But I suppose I just don't get the whole Fashion Week thing. The last time I found myself at this particular venue was to see Morrissey perform. That time around, I understood why the room was packed with an elated throng of hip people. But the crowd for this fashion show seemed just as enthused, just as ready for something amazing to happen as the concert crowd.

And what was that amazing thing? Fifteen minutes of dead-eyed mannequin people wearing low-crotch jeans and couture straitjackets set to wrist-cutting-worthy piano music.



As the lights came back up, I overheard one young woman say to her androgynous friend, "THAT was the best show ever."

Maybe there was an open bar I missed.

Adding insult to injury was the big-finale appearance of Benicio del Toro on the catwalk, revealing himself as G-Star's new "Raw Icon."



As he awkwardly strolled across the stage he read the lyrics to the song "Candidate" by Joy Division. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Here was one of my favorite actors reading the lyrics of a song by one of my favorite bands, and it was all in the service of selling high-end denim to people who avoid places that don't have velvet ropes.

You know why most people don't eat haggis? Because it's something good stuffed inside something horrible, which makes it both horrible and confounding.

Ultimately, what shocked me most was how convinced everyone was that they
were part of something that mattered. The pompousness of the production values, the hush that fell over the crowd as the lights went down, the concentration on Mischa Barton's face as she pondered the universal truths revealed in a leather accessory ...



... It all seemed to betray something greater, something more important than, you know, jeans. But the night was about exactly nothing other than that. G-Star can consider itself edgy and important because it threw some money at the production of Che, but when all is said and done, it'll be skinny blonde chicks buying and selling the clothes, not Marxist revolutionaries.

Taking It In
The saddest thing of all, I suppose, was how I felt when I left the Hammerstein Ballroom. I felt beaten. Here I was, thinking that I was going to annoy the seams off of all those stuffy fashion people with my slouchy pants and low-rent bag. Meanwhile I was the one who walked away discombobulated and questioning myself.

If I were to become rich and/or famous, would I have some vested interest in Fashion Week? Would I, like Mr. del Toro, strike a deal with the devil in order to get my labor of love funded?

Would I, like Ms. Barton, don a stupid hat and hand bag and show up on the red carpet waxing about how these clothes are wonderful because you can wear them day or night? (Wow, what's next, you can wear them if you're Israeli or Palestinian?)

Would it all be just business, or would I actually care about G-Star or Donna Karan's new lines? Would fashion suddenly matter if much of my job were about being seen?



Something tells me ... no.