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Jack Palethorpe at Fashion Week
Runway models; Jack sneaks up behind Lizzie By our Fashion Editor, Jack Palethorpe
There's something about me and models, like a moth and a flame. Since the flamethrowers were out for Fashion Week in New York, I donned my black shirt, gelled my locks and hit the runway shows and the late-night parties. Man I was excited.
Why don't more men go to fashion shows? You get to sit there while models parade around in next to nothing. My two favorite runway shows were a collection of furs by a Russian designer, with young Russian models in scanty, loose slips, and a collection of clothes by an up-and-coming American designer who seems to specialize in see-through clothing. It's great that they're bringing see-through clothing back.
Occasionally you see a hunky male model on the runway, with washboard abs and all. It can be a bit intimidating until you realize that he's probably dirt poor.
The fashion industry is unique. The poor people look like a million dollars and the industry moguls look like sh*t. You can tell who works the runways and who works on the business side. The business people are uglier than usual.
I managed to wangle a ticket to top model Angela Lindvall's bash at Lotus on the West Side of Manhattan. I met models Karolina Kurkova and Natalia Vodianova; I couldn't get ova it! The club was so full of people that to get from one end of the room to the other, you literally had to rub your entire body against the models as you squeezed by. I had some great sandwiches, until I accidentally found myself between two men. I crisscrossed that room several times to the repeat the experience (without the men), until a bouncer ejected me.
I also got to Fashion Week's wrap-up party at LQ on the East Side, which included fashion industry moguls and IMG models, and was organized by the infamous Lizzie Grubman. Lizzie may be a bad driver, but Grubbers knows how to throw a party. There were waitresses in cut-off white T-shirts and skimpy blue briefs cut high at the back, serving matching blue drinks made of cognac and passion fruit. The drinks were called "hypnotics" or "hypnotiques," I don't know which, given the accent of my Caribbean waitress with the chunky buns. They sure hypnotized me. I definitely want Lizzie to arrange my next party.
I hit on as many models as possible, without immediate success. Many of the models were into other women, which took quite a few out of contention. I saw a Daryl Hannah look-a-like making bedroom eyes as she danced with a very young Jacqueline-Bisset-type, with a male bodyguard standing next to them shooing men away. I tried to approach but he pushed me away. (If 'Daryl' was only a look-a-like, why did she need a bodyguard? WAS I RIGHT UP CLOSE TO DARYL HANNAH? !!!!!!!!!!!!)
I had a pass to the VIP lounge area (eat your heart out, Rob Ridley). There, the fattest guys seemed to attract the most models. I guess the models assume that the worse a guy looks, the more successful he must be. So maybe they mistook me for a fellow model, and were intimidated, or assumed I was dirt poor.