Because it took us 45 minutes to get to Lincoln Center in rush-hour traffic, we might have been a little late for Tommy Hilfiger. And because we might have been a little late for Tommy Hilfiger, we might have missed the chance to sit in our actual assigned seats. This may be how we ended up loitering in a glass-enclosed balcony, fighting for a spot past the folks in standing room who’d gotten there at a reasonable hour. And that’s how we found ourselves at our lowest Fashion Week point, both emotionally and physically: kneeling on the carpet, peering through people’s legs down at the front row below. Next season Tommy should hand out knee pads.
From our degrading point of view, we did spy clammy, self-satisfied director Brett Ratner sitting with his arm resting casually (by which we mean, douchily) on Russell Simmons’s right shoulder. Ioan Gruffudd — whom we later saw cheerfully signing autographs for some kids — gently stroked the shoulder of his wife, actress Alice Evans, who herself perched next to an unusually well-coiffed Maggie Gyllenhaal. This Fashion Week, we’ve heard many a rumor about people being paid to appear at fashion shows, but Maggie G. just screams Tommy Hilfiger, don’t you think? Right. Totally there for the clothes. Just like the lady in the front row prominently displaying a Hilfiger coat, which event staffers claimed had been handed to her a mere day earlier; the recipient was either Evans or the woman to Gruffudd’s left, whom the peanut gallery hovering over our pathetic crouched bodies thought may have been Dixie Chick Emily Robison. But maybe the giant high heel in front of our faces clouded our celebrity-spotting radar. It did not, however, block us from spying Evans reapplying her lipstick while the models did their final group walk. Apparently, her lips wait for no one.
Mags was earning her cash — er, MAYBE she was — sitting between Julianne Moore and a violently be-hatted Kelly Rowland, just down the row from Helena Christensen. From our view through two girls’ calves and one big purse, the four of them watched the show in interested silence but only grudgingly stood up for Hilfiger’s bow (with, we swear, a “Great, here we go…” eye-roll from Gyllenhaal, in Moore’s direction). Once the show ended and we cracked our sad knees on our way to a fully upright position, we peered down and saw the departing figures of Pharrell Williams; AMC’S Leven Rambin, squeezed in next to Kat DeLuna, whom we still wouldn’t recognize outside of Fashion Week if she hit us with a pie in the face; the irritatingly twee (and, for the first time since we started coming to this show a year ago, supportive of her dad) Ally Hilfiger and her idiotic Ray Ban–style spectacles; an insanely tan and skinny Nicky Hilton, who tried her hardest to run out without giving an interview and ultimately failed; and Richie Rich, who must have loads of free time since Heatherette isn’t showing. Presumably he attends Hilfiger each season for inspiration, since the two lines have so much in common. Like how they both make clothes out of fabric.
In all, it was the most embarrassed we’ve ever been at a fashion show, although we’re sure we’ll eclipse that the day we fly ass-over-teakettle into Anna Wintour’s lap and try to salvage the moment by offering her a Polo mint. Fortunately for our shattered dignity, though, we were not the only people peering through legs to see who was attending the show, not by a long shot. Half of the standing crowd could have been rightly calling their positions “crouching.” At one point, we locked eyes with the women who were prostrate next to us, and we all laughed. “This is humiliating,” we noted. “Yeah, why am I getting on my knees for Hilfiger?” one of the women responded. “I should only kneel for Prada.” Seriously. Can we get that on a T-shirt? —The Fug Girls