In my many years of drinking (and even in my other years of not drinking), I have wound up in a variety of strange places. Sometimes even sober. A calypso party at the French Embassy. Sharing a bathroom with Tom Hanks. Weehawken, New Jersey. And so on. I have come to expect to find myself in unexpected locations because of my adventurous spirit and inability to give all that many fucks. But of all the places I never thought I’d find myself, drunk or not, a Fashion Week event and runway show at Lincoln Center is probably one of the most never-est.

Pilgrim. Unholy land. Etc.

The “how did I get in” and “why the fuck was I there” are stories for another time, possibly when you get to the end of this article. Or never. We’ll see. What is important is what I saw and learned from my brief (and probably singular) foray into the fashion world. And how I will use my skills as a writer and completer of a single anthropology class in college to educate you, in turn. Let’s face it, if you’re one of our readers/friends/stalkers, you’re probably pretty far from the cutting edge of style. You probably look like shit.

Cool hats, though.

But don’t let that get you down, because fashion people are friggin’ weird. The whole place was filled with very unhappy looking women in what I can only surmise were ridiculously expensive clothes. And nearly all of them were either beautiful and thin or big ‘n’ ugly. There was very little middle ground. Though there was a group of elderly women sitting next to me that gave every model a standing ovation as they walked by. Then again when the model walked back by, because that’s what happens on the runway. They were friendly, but wearied me so.

Down in front!

The dudes all fell into two camps: “unhappy to be there/mildly confused because a woman had brought them as a guest” or “wearing skinny pants that weren’t quite capris, but didn’t go all the way down to their shoes.” I guess dude’s ankles are a big fashion statement with the young folks these days? Or something? Look, if anyone out there thinks they can explain to me how that is attractive in any way to anyone, you are a moron and I hate your pants and face and maybe your kidneys.

I mean, what the fuck?

Also there was one fat guy in white shorts, white blazer, white fedora, and a neckbeard. I’ll take the cargo shorts and Bioshock t-shirt I’m currently wearing over that malarkey any day, thanks very much. Although at the time I was wearing my navy blue suit, oft seen on BroCast, with a fresh haircut and shirt stays. That’s right, I wear shirt stays when I dress up. I’m no fashionista (fashionisto?), but I’m not an animal like you other classless boors. So, there I was, looking dapper in the midst of the crowd of afore-described weirdos and resisting the urge to partake of the free wine being offered up because I had no idea how long the thing would be and there were no bathrooms.

I guess all the toilets in here are reserved for models to puke in?

The doors had opened at around 6:15 and were followed by an hour and a half of everyone people getting shlitzed and trying to yell over the pop music blaring/echoing over the poorly adjusted sound system. It was as exciting as it sounds, especially for sober me, aside from when some drunk woman accidentally smashed the complimentary bottle of wine (in addition to all the free glasses of wine, of course) that came in the gift bags everyone got. Then everyone took their seats to listen to two women make speeches which, due to the aforementioned shitty sound system, I didn’t understand a word of. And I was about four feet from the podium.

See?

Then the actual worthwhile part started. The part where the purty ladies walked by. It lasted about ten minutes, tops. Which is nine more than I needed! Hey-yooooo! Oh God I’m so sad. In all seriousness, it was a pretty cool show and not just because of the hotness. It was part of a program that branches the fashion world and the military, bringing attention and support for women and women’s issues in the armed forces. All the models were veterans or actively serving personnel across all the branches, so yay for strong ladies looking hot. Especially for a good cause with a really stupid sounding name.

Somebody should be fired. Or at least mildly scolded.

Then the show was over, so I (fucking finally!) started drinking free booze. An after-party followed and, since it was a fashion party, there was absolutely no food served. But there was free whiskey, so it was a very conflicting experience for me. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it until my dad bought me a chicken sandwich after I picked him up from his colonoscopy this morning (it’s been a wild couple of days!). Then (as in last night, after the after-party) it was back to a fancy hotel with some of my fellow, drunken veterans (including some of the hot ladies) to yell and carouse and get scolded by the concierge. Jerk.

If I want to swear at the top of my booze-soaked lungs I will, goddamnit. Because freedom.

Thus ended my night. And what did I learn from all that? Well,

• Women in fashion are unhappy.
• Dudes in fashion dress like schmucks.
• Bring a snack.
• And a pee bottle (or poo bag, if you think it might get really rough).
• High heels are just a terrible idea in general.

Also, I met one of the designers and she had one of those hairdos where one side is normal length and the other half is completely shaved. What’s with that?

It’s the “dude’s ankle pants” of women’s heads.

So…yep. Fashion Week. That’s all I have. Oh, and for those still wondering about the “how did I get in” and “why the fuck was I there” pieces of this puzzle, I’ll level with you. I attended this mishigas for the oldest reason in the book: getting to bone one of the models.

She’s the pretty one who looks a combination of happy and annoyed. You know, the one in the black dress.

Booyah.