I returned to New York to find my apartment raided by rats. They chewed through my mattress and beauty products. They peed in my drawers and dropped gifts in corners. I wasn’t surprised; the rat colony in the staircase by my place fascinated me for months. I’d call out to them each night and when they’d appear I’d coo the way most girls do when they see babies. I left them food and imagined they missed me when I went away. My absence must have affected them so much they felt compelled to find me. I was touched.
I began unpacking and planning how to break my lease when I realized I left my mac in Canada. Being homeless is annoying but being without your laptop, as a writer, is traumatizing. But I felt not a victim; I knew I had this coming. No fun goes unpunished and I’d just spent a most opulent time in Toronto for their very first men’s fashion week. The universe was just trying to balance that out. You’ve got to understand my dream is to live in hotels. Good lighting, full mirrors, cold sheets and spiced nuts are the stuff of dreams for me, so staying at the Fairmont Royal York was like living a fantasy. That’s where TOM* took place, and Bullett was invited to cover it. I’ll try my best to while finding a place to crash and a computer to borrow. (Note: this is a week late.)
We began with fittings. I have experience as a dresser (and stresser) behind the Italian fashion scenes, so I offered a hand to Milanese brand TOTHEM www.thetothem.com. The models were bored and freezing in their briefs between outfits, killing time by taking selfies. There was no hair pulling, fist fighting or kissing, as one would hope. When everyone fit their pieces we were in a room full of Sci-Fi Schoolboys Ditching Class for a Date—a hot look two in two seasons.
After arranging the shows, everyone went to their rooms to fit themselves for the opening party. It was sponsored by Audi and took place in their showroom, which was full of dazzling guests, shiny cars and—wait—are those chicken wings? Who on Gaga’s green earth wants wings a fashion party? The TOM* organizers are clearly new to this, otherwise they’d know guests care more about the state of their clothes and manicures than that of their stomachs. It was a rookie mistake I’ll forgive but never forget.
The first show day, we got acquainted with the VIP lounge in the Concert Hall and the pop up shops backstage. Having everything in the same building made outfit changes too easy. After averaging five a day I understood why celebrities check themselves into the ER for exhaustion.
The emerging designers showed their stuff first. There was lots of transparent and mesh fabric, which is what most new designers use. It’s cheap enough for an amateur budget and makes easy cutting look edgy.
Have I told you about the bathrooms in this joint? They had couches. I took a nap in the loo to sober up before the next show.
TOTHEM slayed on their first runway.
The graphic brand is headed by a couple of party monsters named Andrea and Andrea. As a Croatian Leo and Italian Sagittarius, they work well together. Andrea (Leo) says in the future of fashion is “tablets…I see many tablets, everywhere!”
We have the best dirty martinis of our lives in the hotel’s Library Bar and discuss iconic style. Andrea advises, “platforms that twist your ankle” and “graphics that inspire you to skip lunch” are key. She orders more olives.
The next day, journalists flooded the VIP lounge, I made more outfit changes and Jeff Rustia (founder and Executive Director of TOM*) gave a speech about the TOM’s causes. Not only did he keep the designers from having to pay a runway fee, he even got the whole thing to benefit charities.
After that emotional roller coaster, we all got drunk to forget our feelings.
“Isn’t he a porn star?” Of course there was a celebrity show. I don’t know Canadian celebs, but most of them were hot they all referenced James Bond in their walk. I’d judge them for lack of originality but then again there are so few ways men can act sexy. Other highlights were bananas in pajamas, [I Don’t Want No] scrubs and bugs.
I left the last few shows to dance in my hotel room. I’m not sorry—I looked so fine in that soft lighting I couldn’t resist filming myself. My computer loved the scene so much, she decided to stay behind (#RIP).
Finally, a closing party harder to get into than Walmart on Black Friday. Most men’s fashion week events are just a formality for assistants and editors to take home a model. It was refreshing to see the model getting most attention was the white-haired Paul Mason.
By the end you recognized everyone so that makes it like any other fashion week. Congratulations, TOM*, you did it! I hope you invite us again because I’d like to take a nap in that bathroom, especially since I can’t at home.