Fashion Baptism or Electric Muppet Funeral? Jeremy Scott's Show Took Me From the Cradle to the Grave
I am waiting outside a Tribeca warehouse on what I believe is New York City’s 115th consecutive Hottest Day Of The Year because, for once, the trains got me to my destination early. (Thanks, Cynthia Nixon!) I am about to go to my first fashion show and as the heroine in my own rom-com, I am taking this moment to revel in my last moments of virginity. What awaits me on the other side of this moment? Is it Timothée Chalamet eager to fall in love with me? I hope that it is Timothée Chalamet eager to fall in love with me.
For this, my Fashion Baptism, I am wearing a rainbow jumpsuit, the kind where you have to get completely naked to pee. My preferred genre of clothing are those that are wholly inconvenient, so I’m really expecting to be dazzled by this show. I’m also wearing a pair of black clogs that I got at an Old Navy Outlet in Kentucky, but I’m hoping everyone here is too tall to see them.
Paris Hilton outside the show. Really!
Getting into a fashion show during NYFW is at least five times more difficult than getting onto any airplane. I had to scan a QR code on my phone in order to print out a paper ticket. That paper ticket means I get placed in the central corral then siphoned off into increasingly smaller lines until I am lined up for the three elevators on the right. The left-most elevator is, naturally, for celebrities only, but I notice that it is exactly the same shape and size as our elevators, so I could tell people I went in the celebrity elevator and nobody would able to prove me wrong.
The unofficial dress code of this event seems to be Electric Muppet Funeral. I’m seeing a lot of thigh-high, neon fur boots and severe, pursed lips.
Bebe Rexha outside Jeremy Scott.
I notice that everyone here is dressed to be seen, a concept totally foreign to me as a person who attempts to slink through every day as invisibly as possible so that no stranger will comment on me. But, as I walk extra slowly around the venue, hoping a photographer will see and take a picture of me, I realize I am also wanting to be seen. For once I feel like a person using clothes to express herself, not to hide. I love it here. I wish that Jeremy Scott was a country I could immigrate to and start an industrious family of bright little neon club babies.
The venue is set up like high school bleachers. I’m in the third row and hopefully the popular kids will choose my section to makeout under. The famous and powerful in the front row have leather bags and a food product called “detox bars” at their seats. I make a mental note to harvest all the detox bars left on the floor like at the end of a baseball game.
If around 9:30 pm every dog in Tribeca started howling, it’s because the Jeremy Scott show started and they are the only living beings able to hear the music. Or maybe Scott intended to use the high-pitch, tonal shriek to punish the ears of every audience member who is younger than him. If so, it was very effective.
Jeremy Scott makes clothes that would make any dad stop dead on the sidewalk to point and laugh at anyone wearing it. I, however, am not a dad, so I really loved it. A number of the looks were high-heeled fishing suits that zipped all the way down to your taint.
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They did not look comfortable, practical, or really even that chic, but in the harsh light of fashion week, I was convinced I would be the best looking fisherman on the dock, if only I could afford to be.
These models walk very fast and don’t leave much time for being woke.
I love a motocross look so much I actually say “Wow!” out loud. I’m a little embarrassed to have expressed myself so publicly, but I look around at my neighbors and they all shake their heads in agreement, wow. It turns out that I wasted my wow too soon, because around the corner comes Offset in a neon pink Pikachu sweater. You, like me, might think you would recognize Offset anywhere, but when he walks down a runway in a neon pink Pikachu sweater, you’ll join in the chorus of “Was that Offset?”
One of my favorite looks of the night was the one Jeremy Scott himself wore when he took his victory lap on the catwalk: a plain white tank with “Tell Your Senator No On Kavanaugh 212-902-7129.” Jeremy Scott’s clothes have something to say, even if it is very literally.
The moment he gets backstage, the audience jumps up and sprints out of the venue. I assume it’s to go call their senators.
