Vice‘s Fashion Week Party
Wednesday, February 8
Better than: Not getting into the secret Skrillex show.
Last night, the line to get into West Village’s middle-of-nowhere dance club Westway wrapped around one block in one direction of the door and down two blocks in the other. The strip club-turned-scenester hangout was hosting Vice‘s Fashion Week party and “doggie fashion show,” you see. And despite the maddening flurries of snow and confusion surrounding the mobbed door, hundreds of hip hopefuls braved the cold and, more importantly, the shame of being seen waiting in line at a party where “knowing someone” is the only way you’re getting in. The media entrance was no less of a clusterfuck either; the line hosted at least seventy fashion writers, party-o-graphing tumblrers, and nightlife bloggers. (Shout out to GuestOfAGuestOfAGuest.com.)
Eventually I got inside, though I’ll begrudgingly admit that having an extremely tall, model-esque companion probably expedited the process. Inside we were met with a fresh burst of fog from a smoke-machine and a room full of outfits that were exponentially more absurd and fantastic than those we had spotted outside. The guy who we had heard exclaim, “You’re wearing so much beaver” to his date outside was himself wearing a glittery gold, skin-tight turtleneck and expressed envy upon seeing my friend’s gold Doc Martens. Hair came in every Kool-Aid flavor, skin from partially shaved heads shining. A fishnet bodysuit walked by with neon platforms and an armor-like bustier, while a definite-model in slacks and cream-colored blazer shimmied to “Rack City” next to her. By now, the room was spinning, and not from the two free drinks I had managed to wrangle from the open bar before they ran out.
Nightlife is a strange thing to watch happening. It’s much better if you participate. So we danced to the DJ’s iTunes-crossfaded mix of music that was almost too-obviously pulled from a million month-late dance blogs. There were a few gems in there, but it was hard to tell if the DJ—or anyone else for that matter—cared for the music. A cumbia song was crossfaded into a M.I.A. which led to a moombahton remix of something or other, but the crowd remained mostly bored and fashion-y and making-out-in-the-corner until the onset of Azaelia Banks. That’s when a group of seeming indie-bros stormed the dance floor to rave/vogue/flail with fervor.
As for the doggie fashion show part of the evening, well, that was one of those things that’s great only in theory. Considering the night’s stars were no taller than a foot, at tallest, the wall of photographers that surrounded the runway pretty much blocked the view for everyone else. “I see more furry jackets than I do dogs,” noted my friend. (The number of fur jackets paired with red lipstick was astounding, really.) From my vantage point, on top of a couch against the wall, I did at least get to enjoy the fashion-forward stylings of the man who was walking the dog—shiny pleather jacket and all. And Fashion Week begins.
Critical bias: My go-to party outfit is Eyeliner / All Black Everything.
– “Do you think any of those sixteen year-olds are gay?” “Yes, definitely.” “Cool, I might try to make out with them.”
– “I fucked one of my coworkers. It was awesome.”
– “Martha Stewart says that the woman should buy dinner on Valentine’s Day.”
– “Ugh, no one here can dance.” “That’s because they’re all virgins.”
Random notebook dump: I hate everything.