Being someone who works in the media, I have the opportunity to go to a lot of events for free. Even if you don’t go to them, it’s always great to be put on the guest list. It’s better to be on the VIP list, but then you have to go in order to be seen.
This time around, I’m going to a show at Toronto Fashion Week. Specifically, it’s L’Oréal Fashion Week because they’re the sponsor. Same shit, different pile. Next to the Toronto International Film Festival, it’s the most glamorous time in the city.
The air is ripe with kisses that barely brush the cheeks of another, and the word fabulous
is heard more times than at a Chelsea bar during Pride. Everyone is beautiful, and/or thinks they are. It’s the perfect time for the deluded and delusional.
Just like every other fashion week in the world, the most important thing is who sits where at the actual show. It’s all a competition, after all, and their dominance is demonstrated by who gets a prime seat. Even though I have a seat reserved in the middle of the runway, I decide to stand up. It’s easier to get a better view of the front row, where they’re sitting in relation to each other.
Also, from where I’m located, I get to catch a glimpse where the celebrities are. True, these are Canadian celebs and not anyone from Hollywood’s A-list (or even D-list). But, if you watch television, chances are you know a handful of them. And just like every person you seen on TV or on the big screen, they’re much, much shorter and thinner in real life – fuck the metric system.
The lights go down, the president of the FDCC slurs an almost incomprehensible speech (which will be talked about for weeks), the music blares, and the show begins.
A series of models walk down the runway in similar and almost interchangeable outfits. I’m bored if not for the fact of watching those sitting in the front row. Why I didn’t bring my camera with me, I’ll never know. At least I can watch the face of the most influential fashion buyer in Canada stifle yawn after yawn and try to stay awake even while the music thumps loudly in the background while competing editors glare at one another from across the runway.
The show ends after 12 minutes and everyone applauds. I pick up my bag, and begin to make my way out. I’m asked if I’m coming to the after party, but I decline – I’m tired. I don’t want to pretend I’m feelin’ fine when, in fact, I’m exhausted.
Well, that, and I don’t want Jeanne Beker, the doyenne of Canadian fashion and host of Fashion Television
, ask me what I’m wearing. I’d probably give her a heart attack and kill her because my response would entail describing $20 jeans from Zellers, a dress shirt from the Bay, and a Calvin Klein undershirt worn as a topper.
Then again, I’m wearing black, so I’ll have no problem fitting in at her funeral.Note: Have you checked out Canuck Canuck lately?