Let it be known that I can barely pass a bathroom without the desire to urinate in the bathtub or sink. My idea of dressing up is wearing "a bitching comic book/video game/cult movie" t-shirt. I own four colors of the same pair of Dickies and two colors of the same pair of track pants.
So I belong at NYC's Fashion Week about as much as I belong at a smart people's convention. But shit happens and I found myself bartending an event for Fashion Week. A friend hooked me up with the gig, the pay would be good, and I hoped to meet a bunch of hot chicks or land myself in a job "testing" supermodels. If all went wrong, I'd be an insider at a Fashion Week event, so at least I could party.
As usual, I was completely wrong.
Fashion Week is the stressful Super Bowl for the fashionista class. It's 168 hours of small talk with strangers, wearing stupid clothes, and trying to be popular. My event was for when persons-of-interest grew tired of the fancy festivities. So the fashion elite came to my event as a type of get-away-from-it-all. They could get their hair, face, teeth, and nails done. Kind of what I imagine a spa is like. After getting the full beauty treatment our cheap-ass clients would get their photo taken in a celebrity-esque setting.
The only thing more boring than watching a movie shoot is probably a fashion shoot. You see a thousand people fawning over a skinny girl in a retard costume. The camera's shutter closes and the "action" stops until they're prepared for another shot. Basically it's like watching your girlfriend watch herself get dressed—just with a bunch of annoying dumbasses standing around.
The people who judge beauty are usually the ugliest slugbrains out there. Just think of the fat fashionista girl in your high school with all her fancy clothes, handbags, and gay manfriends. She grew up to be a fashion writer or editor. These harpies spend most of their effort trying to attract attention—if only they developed a personality instead. Think about how snarky these bitches are to normal people, then consider as a bartender I'm basically a hired servant to them. (Yeah, I used the "B" word—bitches.) Now, where I come from, we have a saying that goes, "You can polish a turd, but you can't make it smell nice." True wisdom.
Working an open bar is a double-edge sword: people don't tip you, but you don't have to deal with math.The same fashionistas that laugh at poor people who eat off the dollar menu throw absolute shit-fits if they don't get a gift bag. No matter what free crap you're giving away, they still want more. I was tempted to make my own gift bags out of Target sacks, used condoms, and t-shirts I don't really like any more. I guarantee you could tell some of these stuck up editors that the Slumdog Millionaire-look was totally 2009, and pretty soon you'd see the youth of America wearing feces-stained shirts and decorative "vintage" contraceptives.
The one time I actually did make conversation with a hot girl it was after I imbibed too much free vodka. I asked this Fraulein (that's German for "hot German chick") if she had ever modeled and she commented, "I'm no much of, ah, how you say, show-er." I replied, "I too am a grower not a show-er." Unfortunately, my shot at ultra-personal crude humor didn't fly, but at least I suckered this beauty into thinking about my penis for a few seconds.
You'd think that after all the time these people spent studying the differences between Prada, Gucci, and John Gotti they could pick up a little bit of new knowledge. Take this conversation I had with the female host from "Fashion News Live" (yes, I'm serious, it's a real thing).
FNL (wearing a puffy fur hat): You like my hat, it's made of fox.
KC: There must be some bald foxes running around now.
FNL: Foxes are bald? I thought they'd be puffy, like my hat.
KC: Well, furriers have to get the fur off the foxes to make hats.
FNL: Oh, so they shave the foxes.
KC (by now I gave up on intelligent conversation): They sort of shave the foxes…
FNL: You know, I don't even know what a fox looks like.
KC: They look like a cross between a giraffe and an elephant, but hairy.
FNL: I thought they were cats.
After our VIPs saw cosmologists, stylists, and photogs, they'd come to me for a complimentary drink.
Now, working an open bar is a double-edge sword. Most people don't tip you, but you also don't have to deal with math. I don't know, call me a capitalist pig, but usually I like making money more than getting stiffed.
A few brands sponsored my paycheck so I found myself not only bartending, but also acting as a public relations specialist. So I needed to pretend I liked not only the person, but also the drink I served. I felt like one of those old ladies that hand out samples at Sam's Club or Costco.
Makeshift bars can be fun. Usually you get to experiment with set-ups, and when things go wrong you get to blame your boss. "I can't clean anything because I don't have towels."Also, there's almost no chance of you getting fired, because how are they going to hire somebody on such short notice for a job that's only going to last two days? But unfortunately, you might need necessary random crap like water, straws, or shot glasses.
Gay men, God bless 'em, but who put them in charge of dressing up women? It's like having vegans cook you a double steak dinner—they don't know what you want to eat, see, and taste!
I'm a straight man and I want to see skanky girls, not fashion statements. Screw all the zippers and sequins and materials. If I ruled the fashion industry women would dress in leather, lace, or silk. Everything would make tits and asses look bigger. Girls would choose between miniskirts and booty shorts. Hooker boots would be a necessity. I'd also specially design helmets for females that not only featured muzzles, but also handlebars—you know, for blowjobs.
I did eventually get paid for Fashion Week, made some new friends, and got some free crap (how many of you have scented candles?—that's right, you can only get them in NYC). I also learned I'd rather slam my dick in a car door than ever go back.
Just like everything in life, when you get closer, you notice that it's all duct taped together. Boobs, shoes, and the floor, all held together by Wal-Mart adhesives.