Call me a sappy bitch, but half the cheerleaders at my high school lost their virginity to Automatic For The People, and I still have all their shit on CD. I’m not gonna miss R.E.M. any more than I miss my innocence, but still, this band was part of my adolescence, and I appreciate that.
The seventh day. The looky-loos are bored, the tourists are at their day jobs, and the only ones left in the room are the professionals. It ain’t a crowd of working stiffs, but you can tell most of these folks would rather be sipping champagne somewhere else.
The shine is off the apple here at Fashion Week, but that’s a good thing. Every bitch in the room wore her best outfit last night at Oscar de la Renta, and today it’s all comfortable shoes and ponytails. It’s like the entire event exhaled and let out its gut a little bit. Even the smiles on the PR girls seem more honest.
I’m headed to the Nanette Lepore show in a moment, but for now I’m content to sit and watch the Michael Kors crowd put on a million dollars worth of sunglasses and shuffle towards the exit in search of brunch.
It ain’t over yet, though. After this, I’m off to the Jeremy Scott show where I expect to see some hipster high-fashion fuckery.
Sunday. The city is made entirely of velvet ropes and police barricades. There are gatekeepers everywhere, publicists and NYPD, an army of clipboards and radios in a uniform.
In the streets, they’re doing spot checks of every box truck along 9th Avenue looking for terrorists. In the tents, they’re doing spot checks of every backstage pass looking for crashers.
It’s a time and place that relentlessly demands you justify your existence. It is both frivolous and serious, and there is enough free floating narcissism and paranoia in the air to choke out all the oxygen.
I arrive in a layer of fog. The city is steaming rain and the streets are making their own gravy. Everyone is wilted, which is fine by me, as I just crawled off a transcontinental red-eye flight.
The hotel room is a lovely little louboutin shoe box, and glory upon glories, there is a fluffy white robe neatly folded on the bed. The man on the Weather Channel says the rain will end soon, but I have my doubts. Fashion Week is notorious for this kind of thing.
I am in desperate need of a lobster roll and a nap. I can’t decide which to deal with first, so I pick up my computer and start writing.
The other day, a couple wrote in to Dear Coke Talk asking me to assist them in writing their wedding vows.
That shit was too charming to pass up, so we traded a few emails, and they turned out to be cool as fuck, squishy in love, and completely serious about having a lunatic stranger from the internet make up the magic words that would turn them into husband and wife. Good times.
I had them fill out a fairly extensive questionnaire, and before you know it, I’d mixed them up some casual, heartfelt, and highly personalized wedding vows.
Here they are. Enjoy!
Wedding Vows for Jacob and Emma
Emma. Sweet Cherry Cone Meerkat. I am in awe of you. I am in awe of us. Our marriage is going to be awesome.
You are brilliant and beautiful, my perfect partner, my best fucking friend. I can’t wait to start spending the rest of our lives together. Being super creative. Challenging each other. Staying hip. Being good people. Being awesome.
You are my number one girl for life. Let’s go show these people how it’s supposed to be.
Jacob. Wonderful Ice Cream Grasshopper. My love for you is not devotion, but I am devoted to you. My love for you is not adoration, but I adore you. My love for you is not passion, but I am passionate about you. My love for you is simply love. All encompassing. Unconditional. Love.
Your hand fits perfectly in mine. So today, take my hand, and let’s go build a wonderful life together.