I’m not the most articulate person when it comes to describing what’s walking down a runway. I don’t know fashion history, I couldn’t tell you what an “Empire Waist” is, but I could at least recall, with confidence and precision, that, “I’m almost sure the girls were wearing shoes, clothes and make-up.” I told Diane that I would go to Fashion Week here in Los Angeles mostly out of curiosity. I had been to a few shows in past seasons here and let’s just say that the LA FW has come a long way. In fact, it’s because previous seasons overall were SO bad (the clothes and the production alike), that I’m forcing myself to attend with an open mind. For me, the experience of watching a runway show is more of an instinctual one — in other words, “where did the show take me?” — and less about the difference between “wool” and “tulle.” (I know that the former tends to be scratchy and smell like goat, i.e. when found in old Army blankets, whereas ballerinas prefer heaps of the later, generally in pink.)
Day 01.
Louis Verdad’s presentation was pretty hot. After a few of the models had walked the runway, the following theme immediately popped into my mind — rich, young, Beverly Hills assassin.
I imagined these undercover ladykillers slinking down Rodeo Drive, with street names like Icepick An (not Anne, but An), Mamma-conda, and Lady X19. They spoke no less than 16 languages, were skilled at both archery and mixing “permanent sleeping potions,” and concealed wafer-thin daggers in their panty hose. But don’t let the big, soft bouncy hair fool you. I was fully prepared to see these girls pull out some intense firepower and take out the entire front row, including Paris Hilton.
That walking stick was Original Gangster.
The half-time show: this maxi-hot androgyne delivered a silky, sinewy, flawless performance with little more than a metallic hoola-hoop and some stilletto boots. Homeboy was on fire!
“Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight?
I feel, I feel like taking a life….”
“Rippin Kittin” – golden boy and miss kittin
