In an effort to “cover” Fashion Week in a way that makes my true feelings about it known, I thought some kind of social experiment was in order. What would happen if I dressed up in the least “hip” style that exists, that of the bridge and tunnel guidette, and went to a show at Lincoln Center? Would I be ejected on the spot?
To assemble this hott look, I skipped over to my local Rainbow store. For a total of $60, I purchased bangles, sunglasses, a necklace, sparkly platforms, and a slinky little dress that I hoped would make me look like a rolled sausage. (They don’t let you try things on at Rainbow.) I didn’t want to look like a hipster in some kind of ironic costume, so I got one that covered my arm tattoos. My friend Liz applied brownish leg makeup to my face and cleavage area and hairspray to my hair, and I was ready to go.
I noticed with some chagrin that I’d accidentally purchased the dress in my correct size and it actually looked kind of good on me. I guess I’m built more similarly to Snooki than I thought. Also, as it turns out, there’s a reason guidettes wear this shit: it makes your T&A look friggin’ bangin’!
As I made my way up to Lincoln Center, I noticed I was getting hollered at significantly more than usual. My Rainbow dress wasn’t that much more revealing than the stuff I usually wear, but I guess people view guidettes as more sexually available than your average Williamsburg blogger.
When I got to the fashion show, I got my ticket and stood in line. My tactic for this story was to look like a guidette, but act totally normal. People say they hate guidettes because they’re obnoxious, you see, but I suspect it goes a bit deeper than that. The only affectation I adopted was to use the word “friggin'” a lot.
“It’s friggin’ hot in here!” I said to the people in front of me. “We need some friggin’ air conditioning.” They agreed. Looking around, I noticed quite a few people wearing stuff much crazier than me. Next to all the girls in turbans and guys in six-inch platforms, my Rainbow outfit didn’t seem so strange anymore.
I persisted in trying to find someone who’d be mean to me. “Ohmigod are you guys bloggers?” I asked some prim-looking women behind me. “We work for Rachael Ray Magazine,” they responded cheerfully, “And you?” “I write for a thing called The Gloss,” I responded. “Oh, we love The Gloss!” Foiled again.
Once inside the Pamella Roland show, I milled around with everyone else and tried to take pictures of the living mannequins. A guy stuck his camera in my face and snapped a few photos, which confused me. One of the actresses from Boardwalk Empire was there, but it wasn’t Paz de la Huerta, so I didn’t try to trip her. I got yelled at a little by some people, but that was only because I accidentally stepped inside the tape outline around a model’s pedestal which I now realize means “don’t stand here.” In retrospect, I realize Pamella Roland might not have been the best choice, because it’s all fairly normal and wearable stuff. Trying to get into some pretentious avant-garde art party might have better suited my ends.
Feeling like a huge failure at stunt journalism, I limped outside to the plaza (the sparkly shoes were beginning to chew up my feet), where I ran into a street style photographer I know. He snapped a couple of photos of me for fun. I tried to pose in a sexy way, sticking my butt out and making that “duck face” you always see in guidos’ Myspace pictures. Before I knew it, there were like, six other dudes with cameras snapping away at me. Did they think I was someone from The Jersey Shore? Or were they just drawn to my slutty appearance like moths to a bronzed-up, push-up-bra-wearing flame? Whichever one it was, I made love to each one of those lenses as best I knew how.
So, what have we learned from all this? Nobody cares what you look like if you’re on the list; the chick who plays Angela Darmody is pretty nice (I talked to her); and if you act like you’re famous, people will think that you are. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised I didn’t get better reactions from people. I mean, I just walked around Central Park with my tits fully exposed and almost nobody raised an eyebrow. Bless your hearts, you unshakeable New Yorkers. Bless your beleaguered, blinder-ed, little hearts.