Neonatal Fashion Blogging

That's me!

Move over, Tavi!  Hold on to your highchair, “Katie”!  There’s a new fashion blogger in town –– and compared to her, you girls are older than Larry King.  This four-month-old as-of-yet-unnamed female fetus is hitting the Big Apple and aiming her keen (if slightly underdeveloped) eye toward the runways at Lincoln Center.

Watch as this blip on the radar screen takes on Spring RTW 2011 collections and the parties in between…


I’m sloshing around my mom’s uterus as the taxi speeds down 7th Avenue toward SoHo.  Even without the stop-and-go traffic, I’d still be reeling from today’s Peter Som show.  The vivid pastel 50’s prints were so Sally Draper and would look fantastic against my near-translucent epidermis, if I do say so myself.  Tonight we’re on our way to see Hamish Bowles, European editor-at-large of Vogue magazine, perform a cabaret show at the Rug Co.  Not surprisingly, his repertoire consists of mostly Noel Coward songs.

Mommy is wearing a diaphanous Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti number.  I’m draped in amniotic fluid.  We’re both looking chic and formless this evening.  To our right I see gamine Meredith Melling Burke perched on a stack of rugs.  Her look is very Rasputin-in-an-opium-den-surrounded-by-Russian-twinks, and she looks, as always, FAB.  Beside her, Diane Kruger, donning a Jason Wu magenta chiffon Grecian wrap and sipping from a glass of Pimm’s.  Looking slightly bewildered in an outfit reminiscent of Joe Pesci’s wardrobe in With Honors is the delightful pumpkin Lynn Yaeger.  Perhaps the absence of her Village Voice paycheck is hitting her harder than she thought it would.  Either that or “bobo” style is coming back!

Hamish is mingling with guests looking ever the dandy in a Tom Ford tux with a big green flower pinned to his jacket.  Mommy grabs a glass of Veuve (good thing I’m barely visible, or she’d be hit with some seriously disapproving looks) and swigs it while fondling $350 needlepoint pillows decorated with sunglasses and Union Jacks.  Terence Koh grabs her butt and tells her she looks like a “ravaged peacock –– a vision in derangement” and then begins to squawk as he skips back toward the bar.  His look is a contrived eccentricity –– a jacket covered with white bulbous protrusions and a black cloth wrapped around half his face.  He looks like the prematurely-delivered offspring of the Human Centipede, and all I want is to orchestrate a photo shoot in which he and a small army of midget Chinese women model Richie Rich clothing in the Syrian desert.  Tavi Gevinson, I will beat you some day!

There is a trio of adorable girls nearby, one of whom wears white rabbit fur and looks like the second coming of Kristy Swanson circa Flowers in the Attic.  Fall 2011, I’m predicting a return of the ashen dead-look complete with decaying flesh.  My new style icon is the Cryptkeeper from Tales from the Crypt. If you’re wondering how I know so much despite the fact that I’m still in utero, one word: reincarnation.  Fuckers.

See, the thing I love about fashion is that while many feel it’s a realm only for the elite, it’s actually something that is accessible to everyone, even unborn worm-like creatures with primitive brain functioning like me.  I can’t count, but I can assert that Vena Cava’s recent collection was matronly at its most divine.  I barely have a body, but I can celebrate the way Doo Ri’s designs fit them.

Hamish has disappeared, which makes me think the show is about to begin, and Mommy is sloshed, which makes me think I may have to repeat kindergarten.  Suddenly a havoc breaks out around the door.  It seems Anna Wintour, the queen of fashion herself, has arrived!  I covet her ubiquitous bob, the way it accentuates her face, which is fetus-like and alien in a way I obvi relate to.  Her plain Jane daughter Bee trails behind her looking about as exciting as as rubber cement.   Following the two and a small entourage of lanky women is Andre Leon Talley wearing the fluffy hide of an indistinguishable animal.  My God, what I wouldn’t give to be swaddled in that garment.

The show begins and Mommy stumbles to a seat.  Time for me to turn off my Twitter and listen to the sweet crooning of Bowles and the accompanying piano.  If I had lips, I’d kiss all my dear readers!  Tomorrow’s post is Alexander Wang from a fetus’ eye view: a critique of the outfits from mid-thigh down.


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