Alexander McQueen is Dead

What? You didn't hear?!
CNN could have taken the day off, Fox News could have holed up at some ayurvedic spa in Playa del Carmen, and all fifteen incarnations of MSNBC could have each chosen a Filene's Basement in the Tri-State area and tried on their terrycloth findings in the cell phone reception-free basements, and the world would STILL have been so in the loop about the incontestably tragic death of designer Alexander McQueen, thanks to the indubitably handy, yet annoying-as-a-bad-case-of-colitis news feed of Facebook. Yesterday morning welcomed a shitstorm of epitaphs.
And being that it's the untimely demise of a fellow enfant terrible that we're here to mourn, discuss and ruminate over, I feel he would have wanted me to be frank, so without further ado I present my favorite vigilante newsbits regarding yesterday's loss, replete with inappropriate connotation.

 

save your money, people--it's a recession, and flowers wilt.

i know who wrote this, and if by memories you mean the style.com tidbit you required to answer, and i quote, "who the fuck is alexander mcqueen?" then keep thanking, dear.

you're devastated, huh? well i'm liza minelli and before i had the webbing between my toes excised, i could swim clear across to paramus. the last two hold worlds more truth than the first, and thank you so much for refreshing our memory on the most famous sporters of your idol's offering.

sing it, girl.

at least she ain't shedding crocodile purse tears.

 

no tears! you might stain your mcQ for target silk-blend scarf.

that second dude's comments are right on.

then how ever did you make it to all five of yesterday's shows with such perky mascara?

Fuckin' Facebook

Facebook just annoys the shit out of me, it really does. One of my favorite more recent updates, to be filed under "why fucking bother?"

 

What the Hell Am I Gonna Wear?

 So while arbitrary product placement really isn't my thing, it's quite fortunate I know some great people in the business. Seminal case-in-point, designer Nick Alan. Equal parts hipster and Savile Row, Alan's sartorial avatar is cooly smoking a cigarette outside of Gieves & Hawkes at any given moment.  Slick tailoring with an organic edge that resolutely forbids any potential stuffiness, the collection is as lambent as the designer himself (and quite a looker as well). But seeing as how, lately, my accessories compass has been pointing toward the west side's greasy factories and away from Barney's, it's Alan's pendulum necklace I'm all about. Industrial never actually went away, so let's hope the pendulum necklace--accompanied by the rest of the designer's line, goes in the opposite direction and inhabits a good 1/16 of the Co-op's floor.

NY Trashion Week Begins

Last night the cordial folks at GQ threw their usual fashion week kick-off party at the ghostlike, Gehry-designed IAC building. I have to say, as it was my fourth such attendance, every other 'kick off' party sort of doesn't count, paling in comparison to GQ's annual soiree (Gaga at AmfAR can go right back to the sooty snowdrift from whence she came). An avid hater of "everybody who is somebody was there" I may have to betray my own morals (or what's left of them) when commenting on the impressive attendees; the designers who really count donned their Thursday best to crown the CFDA's newest Best Menswear Designer in America, including Thom Browne, Michael Bastian and the Rag & Bone boys, and this year the royalty, in the form of $50K and a capsule collection for Levi's, went to designer Billy Reid, a true phoenix of fashion, who, after nabbing the CFDA award of Best New Menswear Designer in 2001 was one of fashion's first affronted with the economic downturn resulting from the implacable events of that September. Nonetheless, 2004 saw his own reinvention and yesterday his efforts finally paid off.
Ugh, let it be known that I actually detest New York Fashion Week.  Where Paris' fashion set, both indigene and immigrant alike, make a demure pilgrimage from venue to venue collecting vision after vision, and Milan maybe a bit haughtier, but no less prestigious, the real contenders find themselves in the Pacific Garbage Patch of the insipid, Kell on Earth-watching swarm of illusorily-entitled interns and entry levels once Fern Mallis sounds the bell that signifies the Big Apple's fashion week is to begin (and hopefully this year it won't sound like that La Roux song that wore out its welcome by the fifth show).  New York Fashion Week has become nothing short of Patrick McMullan: The Musical, with a roughly-chosen cast of early twenty-something girls clad in their finest, cookie cutter jersey dresses, who've made a career out of an internship and consider risky business stealing front row seats at Betsey Johnson.  They view the hierarchy set forth by Facebook and Twitter as golden and incontestable as their Bobbi Brown bronzer, and their equally powder-tanned gaggle of gays are just as bad, if not worse, pilfering more than their share of the second and third rows. They move in distinct cliques, almost synchronized, like the bourgeoisie in virtually every staged version of Evita, languorously schlepping from Milk to Bryant Park and back, like their fatuous entitlement to attend these shows has drained them of their very lifeblood, putting unnecessary stress on their coppery Zara strappy sandals they pass off as "vintage" Prada on account of labels worn unreadable by leathery heels, finishing their day with besotted appearances at the multitude of after-parties, into which they must blow or bargain their way, as any respectable guest list never actually contains their exiguous names or their clingy plus ones.
I'm a real cheerleader, aren't I?
Nonetheless, I'll cover my share of shows and parties as I see fit and which you'll, no doubt, see as entertaining.

Day 1

I'm not sure if this is the birth, or the conception, or what, but this morning, at 11:47 a.m. as I lie submerged in LUSH blue water, morosely channeling Zooey Glass, I decided that I should, as an aside to the now five year-old banter I've been dishing for, well, the past five years, I should continue that wonderfully entertaining parade of opinions but perhaps more universally (?).  History, and the many jobs it graciously has thrown my way, has conspired to make my awareness of culture and all things pop about it rather elevated, if you will, and if that leads to a personal snarkfest, then so be it. It's sure as shit better than a snorefest. And I'm funny, goddam it.
Am I advocating a certain lifestyle? Sure. My own, and if you wish to follow, nice work if you can get it. If not, at least keep reading--you're bound to find something worthwhile.
Eew, was that actually an introduction?