I have a secret: Of all the shows I was given to cover, I was most looking forward to the Blonds. And it wasn’t because of the clothes—I was more excited because of the place in pop-culture their clothes occupy. The Blonds fulfill the universe’s need for gem-encrusted bodysuits and mini-dresses for starlets like Beyoncé, Katy Perry, and Rihanna. It’s like Bob Mackie for the US Weekly set smacking of celebrity worship and theater. And frankly, I eat that shit up.

I have very little to say as a critic about the Blonds. Their show was fun, the backstage scene was funner, and I got to make eye contact with Johnny Weir. 

They only downside to the whole thing was that due to the “celebrity” nature of the event I encountered the most aggressive photographers during Fashion Week. I got hit in the head with a lighting apparatus, got shoved by a dude from Playboy, and got yelled at by a very aggressive and very overweight pro in the photo pool. But despite the light battery I received, it was a blast.

Backstage the models were given the full 60s Barbarella treatment, appropriate for the vintage Playboy theme. Most of them seemed to be children of post-USSR nations (communism fell in 1991, I’d venture a guess that most of these gals weren’t born till at least 1993), although there was a little diversity amongst the leggy bunch.

The photographers were more focused on equally embattled and elated Phillipe Blond than backstage beauty. He happily posed and primped while his other half, David, was more retiring, but still part of the overall frenzy. While the photogs swarmed them both I had fun checking out the crowd.

Like this amazing man, who was working hair.

And this gal with her awesome retro church lady get-up.

And this gorgeous specimen of vintage fashion finery. I loved her maybe the most.

Downstairs in the front row all the requisite aging club kids were present, a crew that in reality were probably the only ones at the presentation who would actually wear the clothes.

I got a nice shot of Susanne Bartsch’s ass. Bam Margera was there, something that seemed puzzling until I remembered the event was sponsored by Playboy. Everyone in the crowd was dressed like a maniac, which was refreshing after witnessing the blandest, squarest scene ever at the Wayne presentation an hour prior.

Raja from RuPaul’s Drag Race, is that you?

The presentation started late, mostly because the crowd seemed like they got there late. This fact was extremely unpleasant, as I was stuck with the rancorous group of photographers. I eventually joined in, admonishing the front row to uncross their legs so their glittery Louboutins didn’t ruin our shots. God help me, I never want to be one of those people again.

Then the clothes happened. It was all pretty silly. Phillipe opened and closed the show. Everything was very shiny. Everything was very Playboy.

There was a random, slightly hideous reinterpretation of Jessica Rabbit’s animated wardrobe (I wonder if Amanda Lepore, seated in the front row, was all “been there done that”) and extraordinarily literal version of Raquel Welch’s famous fur get-up from One Million Years B.C. A half-dozen Playboy bunnies closed the show.

Phillipe and David shared a glittery pom-pom adorned smooch and the whole thing was over.

Or so it would seem. The crowd of professional minglers and resurrected backstage scene resulted in even more eye candy, like this lovely fellow in his full velvet dragon catsuit.

I am very pleased to have captured the meeting of a Soviet spy who forgot his pants with the white André Leon Talley.

And how could we let Fashion Week go by without giving these brave warriors of fashion their due?

The next day I felt like I had a rhinestone (or is that Swarovski?) hangover, but then I remembered getting knocked over the head with someone’s light while scrambling for a picture that I didn’t even use. Such is the aftermath of sweet excess.