Amazing. They still put me on these things. Hopeless romantics, I guess.
Had a great seat at Y-3 right behind Zinedine Zidane. Interestingly, he smelled of Hollandaise sauce. The lady next to me smelled it. Some nice stuff at Y-3, but I don't understand why they keep trying to push Capris on the fashionable man. It's a lost cause, like Hollywood trying to shove Joseph Gordon-Levitt down America's collective and gagging throat.
Don't know who these aging beauties are, but they were quite nice backstage at Alexander Wang. Turns out they love a hairless chest. I took them both down to Chinatown.
Digging my leather jacket and her ring. I wish I remembered her name. She was lovely and the latest recipient of the Bionic Seahorse (c).
Found this in the paper. I was supposed to be seated next to Olivier but I was reprimanded by security after an incident in the backstage bathroom. Henceforth, begrudgingly moved to row 3.
Later at Y-3, the producer astutely realized that I had been seated behind Zizu, and after a profuse and canonical apology, rightly repositioned me in the front row, opposite side. No Hollandaise here, just more man-capris.
I'll be back tomorrow with more from Fashion Week, rounding up the favorites, the hits, the misses, the highs, the lows, the dark, the light, the limber, the willing, and carving those notches in our collective bedposts.
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