I've been away from this blog for a while, weighed down with busy. Unable to write about recent events, or even to think clearly, I've felt pent up lately. There's too much going on, swirling around me, as though I'm on a carousel watching the carnival booths flash by. Cotton candy, funnel cake, multi-colored lollipops. Caramel apples in cellophane wrappers that catch the odd glance of sunlight.
Of course, faithful readers, the reason for this is obvious: New York Fashion Week. (Oh, I know, there's the whole Annie's-lovah-is-dead-what-will-happen-to-her-now? thing, but I'll let her finish that story.) I've been in galleries and tents for days, photographing shows. The tents, the lights, the clothes, the celebrity sightings, it's all too much. I need to make a list. My favorite moments.
- Standing next to a photographer from Vogue, and hearing the latest Conde Nast rumors. (Apparently, Andre Leon Talley is actually a woman. S/he dated Anna Wintour in college.)
- Bungalow 8 on Wednesday night. Lindsay Lohan told me she loved my hair.
- Overhearing Kirsten Dunst say that Marc Jacobs was her favorite show so far. (It was my favorite show too, which just proves that Kiki and I have the same impeccable taste.)
- The crush of people everywhere, sweating and rubbing together, crowding entrances, it feels like a club or a gang bang.
- Meeting Donna Karan. I love her clothes; she loves my hair. We're probably going to be best friends.
- The Zac Posen afterparty at SoHo Grand last night. I kissed three Posen look-alikes, who all told me they loved my hair. They all turned out to be gay. Why is this the story of my phucking life? Why is my fabulous hair wasted on men who could fit into my Habituals?
I've just come home from the Boy George show (where Janice Dickinson - world's first supermodel! - told me she loved my hair). My Blahniks gave me blisters. "Go ahead, baby, lick them. Yeah, that feels gooood." My sweet Calvin, curled around my ankles, a cuff bracelet of fur and saliva, healing tongue working over my wounds. Maybe this is the story of my life, despite the flashbulb glamour and gay endings. This could be it, just me and my dog and my Blisterniks, and that would be okay. I know that won't be it, though, the way I know when a celebrity is in earshot. I'll find the man I want, the kind with safe arms and salt-streaks in his hair. But right now, alone in my loft apartment, I feel strangely satisfied, as if someone just crammed my rosebud and phucked me til it hurt.