In honor of chic week, the anonymous publicist behind The Flack Files (a delicious column that runs every Tuesday on fashionweekdaily.com) has pulled together a guide to the rare creatures one might encounter during show season. Stay safe, friends.
TO: All you beautiful people at #NYFW
CC: Your assistants
BCC: Your moms
Subject: THINGS TO DISCUSS
Dear Friends,
Welcome one, welcome all. It’s the first day of shows, which means that all the fashion animals are guaranteed to be prancing, pawing, and patrolling. Allow this quick field guide to help you navigate the jungle.
THE “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” GUY: A ubiquitous animal on the scene, he is easily identified by a love of drop-crotch athleisure and Nikes. He travels in small packs, usually comprised of doe-eyed females, and he crashes parties. His entrance tactics include the power phrase “Don’t you know who I am?” accompanied by a venomous eye roll. He may or may not be filming iPhone footage at the party for a reel for his fledgling media company. He’s a big deal.
THE WORLD-WEARY PARTY REPORTER: This poor, fragile critter has to cover 17 events in one night. You will recognize him by his inability to sustain eye contact past five seconds as he has to scan the crowd for interview candidates. He is a shy, trembling creature who is rarely seen in daylight, so please give him a sound bite and let him move on.
THE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE POWER PUBLICIST: You know her from her mass e-mail blast that apologized for the BCC nature of the message (impossible to send personals with a Rolodex as large and powerful as hers, no?), yet simultaneously invited all her unnamed recipients to network over coffees when Fashion Week dies down. Absolutely everything she says, even if complimentary, is rude.
THE ICE QUEEN EDITRIX: She selects only the top invitations and then attends 30 percent of what she accepts. Aside from seeing her killer look on the style pages of The New York Times, you may have spotted her at your Tracy Anderson class (only if you’re a member, though). Front and center, she didn’t miss a step or break a sweat, while you flailed like a frog on a hot plate in the back. Do not make eye contact with this animal, as she will surely turn tail and flee to her next venue.
THE FLAKY HOT DJ: A nocturnal predator who has a universal ensemble of a crop top and thigh-high gladiator sandals, no matter what the weather. She’s been known to let the black car that you sent for her sit for 1.5 hours outside her Bushwick apartment, because she was in the bath and left her cell on vibrate. She makes $3,000 an hour to put together an iTunes playlist that looks suspiciously like the soundtrack to your junior prom, but please, don’t hate.
THE OVEREAGER TALENT MANAGER: You can smell this one coming a mile away, because desperation is cruel like that. He’s really keen to get his C-list clients exposure at your A-list event. “She’s totally happy to tweet about your water sponsor!” he says. “Or what if we dress her entirely in Budweiser bottles?”
THE CONSUMMATE PROFESSIONAL: An extremely rare specimen, this delightful creature shows up on time to the event, waits patiently in line, and gives his or her name politely to those at check-in. He graciously chats up the designers, thanks them for a lovely evening, browses the collections, and then publishes a review the next day without need for excessive follow up. Rumor has it there are five of these left in the world, and they’re reproducing at the rate of the giant panda—extinction sadly anticipated by 2020.
THE TRUE A-LISTER: Let’s be honest, you’ll probably never see this snow leopard. But if you do, you can expect her to come in head-to-toe haute couture, with her own personal wind machine and the meanest handler of all time. She confirmed her attendance three minutes before walking in the door, so I hope you have your photo agencies on speed dial, because she’ll hit your red carpet, mingle for 18 seconds, and then head on to Rihanna’s penthouse for a private party.
THE NARCISSISTIC DESIGNER: A mule who somehow ended up in a herd of zebras, this one just can’t get enough attention. No press is bad press, unless that press is a picture of her in which her upper arm looks slightly chubby, buried on page 17 of Getty. She’s the sole person who ever bore witness to this injustice, and she found it by cyber stalking herself at 3 a.m. Never mind the obscurity of this photo, she’ll bray incessantly about it until you contact the agency and have it removed.
THE B-LIST BLOGGER FLOCK: To date, none of them has ever been spotted alone. Abiding by safety in numbers, they travel in packs of three to five, to take one another’s photos, of course. You’ll recognize them by their matching Rockstud heels (gifted), designer bags (daddy paid for), and token Dreamdry blow-outs (The Stevie, please!). Most recognizable by their deafening cacophony of geese-like chatter that is occasionally broken up by the staccato click of her iPhone camera.
