Miss Me?

It's been forever since my last post, which is just daft. There's so much to write about and so much stupid sh*t that stylists do to poke fun of!  I promise to get back into posting gear next week, once I've got some personal and professional non-blogworthy stuff sorted.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with this little taste of what I've been up to in the glamorous run-up to Paris fashion week.  Last night I attended a fabulous star-studded party at The Mandarin Oriental, whose guests included  few people that anyone outside of France would know but plenty of heavy-weight A-List people (the French call their celebrities people, bless) like Omar Sy.

5 points if you can spot the Canadian in the corner; 10 if you can come up with a très drôle line to match.

Style File Followers Take Note:
1. Of which to poke fun.  I hear you, pedants.
2. You'd think that People magazine would do well in this market, wouldn't you.
3. Despite the Italian name, Grazia does. That's where this photo is featured (and to whom I should give credit). Check out all of their party coverage here.
4. Have you seen that brilliant French film about a rich quadriplegic who gets a kid from da 'hood to take care of him? The Untouchables? THAT'S Omar Sy!  Who, come to think of it, is known outside of France after all.
5. Do people say da 'hood anymore or have I just dated myself as a child of the 80s in a bid not to say big black guy?
6. I've missed you too.

Stupid Sh*t Stylists Do in New York

New York, New York!  It's a hell of a town.  Especially if you're a model during Fashion Week.  What else could these girls possibly be thinking as they win their wage on the Big Apple's catwalks?   "Mom would be so proud!" or "Gosh, I sure hope my boyfriend's in the audience." or "I wonder if the designer will let me keep this."?

Not a chance.

In their minds' eyes, they're prodding their bookers with pitch forks and cursing that hell of a fashion capital, thanks to the stupid sh*t that stylists do in New York.

The big trend for 2013: Self-Garotting
Creatures of the Wind     SRTW2013

If you were wearing this dress, you'd consider it too.
Creatures of the Wind     SRTW2013

The one in the middle is seconds away from screaming "GET IT OFF ME!" - it's that itchy.
Libertine     SRTW2013

Did someone call for a welder?
Michael Kors     SRTW2013

Meet Lina, our new lab assistant.
Michael Kors     SRTW2013

Mom always said to keep your poise no matter what.  No WAY did she imagine this.
Thom Brown     SRTW2013

No shit, I look pale.  I just pee-ed myself, dumb-ass.
Thom Brown     SRTW2013

Thank gawd they gave me the lampshade ensemble. Thank gawd.
Thom Brown     SRTW2013

Help me out here, fellow Trekkies:  Is this Romulan or Bajoran?
Threeasfour     SRTW2013

Or Star Shrek?
Threeasfour     SRTW2013

Owwww.  This headgear's so tight its flattened my chest.
VPL     SRTW2013

The "I'm a high flying business woman." walk is perfect for this killer Wall Street ensemble.   Perfect.
VPL     SRTW2013

When drug therapy goes wrong.
A Detacher     SRTW2013

When hormone treatment goes wrong.
A Detacher     SRTW2013

When the fuss they made about the blind hair and make-up guy went wrong, these two were sent out in their underwear.
A Detacher     SRTW2013

Not what she expected when the make-up artist said the look would be "dewy".
Alexander Wang     SRTW2013

On the bright side, maybe I could use this to start a portfolio as a male model.
Alexander Wang     SRTW2013

Style File Followers Take Note:
1. I love the New York fashion ethos of wearable, flattering and unfussy style.  I like to think that these exceptions prove that rule.
2. At least I hope so. From what I've seen so far, the New York shows were a bit disappointing...
3. If you look closely at the pee stain on that Thom Brown dress, it appears to be a map of Africa.
4. Check out the purple and orange suede T-straps on the bearded lady.  Do you see how poorly they're made? Can someone please tell me what's good about this outfit? I can't work it out. At all.
5. Yet someone must be funding Creatures of the Wind and A Detacher.  (I needed to breathe into a paper bag when I realised that.)
6. All photos flagrantly 'borrowed' from Style.com.

Fashion's Fright Out

Last night was Fashion's Night Out, a Conde Nast (ie. Vogue) initiated event which takes place in the world's fashion capitals to promote fashion (ie. consumerism) in the run up to the Fashion Week season.

So, being the fashion lover and former fashion journalist and stylist that I am, I set off to rue Saint Honore to see Paris' chic-est boutiques woo their fashionista followers.

That's me and Monsieur with nearly nobody behind us, which must be the miracle shot of the night because
the scene was nothing short of a mob.

Thousands of fashion enthusiasts crowded the street, checking each other out as they ducked in and out of boutiques to nab a glass of free bubbly. "Come in and get tipsy and buy buy buy!" is the unspoken mantra of the evening.

Shops that aren't even open got in on the action.  Chloe's new Paris flagship - currently a building site which causes traffic snarls on the rue that are the bane of the neighbourhood - staged a cheerleading event to rah! rah! rah! its forthcoming ouverture... sometime in 2013.

My apologies for the quality of those shots. You already know that my BlackBerry takes a crap picture, and with a moving troupe of dancers, this was the best I could do.

And this is the only picture I took of the freaks that came out last night in the name of fashion:

The reason I stopped at that one, apart from the wave of nausea, is this:  As I walked through the crowd of over-styled fashion-slaves in their unattractive attire, I saw an equal number of poorly groomed girlies and retro-nerd-boys snapping pictures as if they were paparazzi, while proudly wielded the words "I am a FASHION BLOG-GUER."  It seems that half of Paris, or at least half of the mob on rue Saint Honore last night, has a fashion blog. Dispensing plenty of sartorial wisdom, I'm sure.

At which point I decided that perhaps I didn't want to be on-trend after all.

Style File Followers Take Note:
1. Don't get me wrong. I love fashion. But I love style and good taste more.
2. You could argue that good taste is in the eye of the beholder.  But not the beholder of that Paradise bag.
3. Free champagne tastes pretty good too.  But only if it's well chilled.
4. Of all the top global luxury fashion brands with boutiques on rue Saint Honore, the most crowded last night were Zara, Maje and Sandro.  'Nuff said.

What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas. Kinda.

Before anyone else asks, no, I did not engage in a game of naked billiards with Prince Harry on my recent trip to Vegas.  Nor did I see Celine Dion (as if), Cirque du Soliel (eh) or gamble my life savings away (I already did that on a failed business venture, thank you).

I did, however, do one really tacky, touristy thing of which I'm so deeply ashamed, that I've decided to share it with you in the hope that the truth may set me free.

That's the entrance to CSI: The Experience, in the bowels of the MGM Grand hotel.

(You can see why this weighs so heavily on my conscience, can't you.)

It's not that I'm a huge CSI fan, per se.  I don't even watch much TV, but when I do, if I'm flicking through the channels and I come across a CSI (doesn't matter which one; Miami, Vegas and Wherever are all the same to me) I stop.  And watch.  Like a bug drawn to its well-lit doom, I'm spellbound by the blue glow of those CSI labs and the ever-present flashlight in the red-headed chick's hand.

So when I found out that Vegas' long-running and extremely popular Star Trek exhibit had closed and been replaced by CSI: The Experience, I brushed aside my bitter disappointment and headed off to experience, er, CSI.

As you may have guessed, the object of CSI: The Experience is to put participants through the paces of a real forensic investigation, challenging our observational skills and deductive reasoning to solve a mocked-up crime.  Starting with an elaborately staged crime-scene and led through a series of labs, we were instructed to gather evidence and submit it for scientific scrutiny, through which a list of suspects would be whittled down to a single guilty culprit.

Sounds pretty cool, right?

Well...

As neat as it was to examine trace elements, blood pathology and toxicology reports, the whole potentially brain-teasing process had been disappointingly dumbed down so as not to intimidate the common class of Las Vegas tourist, who I'm guessing has the average IQ of a squid.

Case in point: The people who were 'investigating' the same crime-scene as me (mercifully, we were free to do this separately) seemed to be a family of over-fed and under-achieving Nebraskans (or some other such state where the correlation between inbreeding and Romney-support is patently obvious). While I whizzed through the labs and worked out whodunit in less time than it took to buy my entrance ticket, I observed my cohorts struggling with the touch-screen interfaces used to view evidence, and I saw lips moving - s l o w l y - as multisyllabic information was being read. When I got stuck behind a couple who must have been left-over from a previous group and were still agonising over one of the interactive displays, I could have killed.

Which would have been a real CSI experience.

Style File Followers Take Note:
1. Dontcha just love the way they named it CSI: The Experience, with the built-in dramatic pause?
2. I might be ashamed of my CSI weakness but I remain a proud Trekkie.  Engage!
3. My apologies if I've offended anyone by implying that inbreeding takes place in Nebraska or other states. It's not your fault your parents were cousins.
4. Oh - and those would be the same states that would refuse an abortion in cases of incest.  Gotcha.
5. My apologies if I've offended any squid.
6. And another case in point: Look at what happens when you stop inbreeding. Harry turned out pretty hot.