Greg Gutfeld's Fashion Week Diary, Part I

Fashion is a circus, and like every good circus it needs a clown—a sad clown with a rubber nose and a willingness to utter unspeakable truths. Unfortunately, Andre Leon Talley is under contract at Vogue, so we sought out Greg Gutfeld. At Radar's behest, the high-flying former editor of Stuff, Maxim UK, and Men's Health flew in from London to take a peek at life inside the tents. Fashion Week may never be the same.

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Right now I am wearing sweatpants. Old Navy. Charcoal gray with a drawstring. $22.50. They are loose fitting. They feel warm against my skin, as though I am bathing in breast milk, as I sit indoors writing this piece for Radar.

A slight odor persists.

Why is it important that I tell you what I am wearing? Because those of us who dream of living a fashionable life must always be aware of what we are wearing. It is a bit mystifying to me just why, for years after something huge occurs—be it joyful or tragic—people always ask, "Where were you when you heard the news?"

Where was I? What difference does it make? The more vital question is, "What was I wearing?" To wit:

1. What were you wearing when JFK was killed? I wasn't born yet. But if I had been alive, I would have been wearing something bright—perhaps a double-breasted, short-tailored sports jacket or a suit with narrow lapels, a look influenced by an Italian designer. I might have worn a thin tie. Or perhaps a turtleneck. And my hair would be long, and I'd have a mustache or a beard. Sideburns would be a must. And it goes without saying ... but I will say it anyway: Chelsea boots. I might have even worn flower prints, with a velvet combination.

I would also be wearing a diaper. (I don't have a disorder—it's just a personal choice.)

My father, however, was wearing something completely different. It was not a cool day that November afternoon in Dallas. Still, he wore a heavy coat.

2. What were you wearing when the Challenger exploded over the clear blue sky? I was wearing a small pajama top, no bottoms, and a pair of ankle socks, black. It had been a wild night and I admit freely that I smelled of rosewater and excrement.

Now, how ironic was it that this was the 1980s: a time when men and women alike were "power dressing." Corporate America, during the Gordon Gekko greed epidemic, embraced the simple, authoritative suit, often neutral in color (gray or slate blue). The female of our species was starting to abandon the poorly matched skirt and blouse, and discovering that sweaters were no longer needed in order to climb the corporate ladder—you could catch it on a nail, and unravel in humiliation.

The destruction of the Challenger has come to symbolize that era, and rightly so. After all, the shuttle was nothing more than corporate America's "power suit," designed to "climb that ladder" to the skies. It exploded under the weight of its own lofty ambition. Not unlike the conformist power suits of the 1980s. (Analogies are always in fashion.)

If you need someone to blame for the horrors of that day, then look no further than Mr. Nolan Miller, the costume designer who gave Linda Evans of Dynasty those shoulder pads. Evans, broad-shouldered already, now had an even more impressive silhouette, and every woman across America felt the need to follow "suit"—to make a stylish play on words. This tailored trajectory took us to January 28, 1986, when we as a nation sent a schoolteacher named Christa McAuliffe, dressed in the ultimate power suit (a silver, heavily padded overgarment), to her untimely and somehow unfashionable death.

Of course the fashion magazines responded with sweet odes to the space-traveling teacher, but oddly there wasn't a word about Miller's role in the disaster.

3. What were you wearing on 9/11? Let me clarify: September 11, 2001. Not 2002, or 1998. I am of course talking about five years ago, when Fashion Week was postponed. (For those of you living in Europe, where the month and day are reversed, I also mean 11/9.)

As you know, each year a marginally fashionable person named Richard Blackwell publishes a list of people whom he considers the worst dressed. But he rarely focuses on the circumstances behind the choices people make, and circumstances can seriously alter a wardrobe. For example, during that fateful day of 9/11, I noticed a lot of people dressed poorly. Torn shirts, ripped trousers, shoes caked in ash. I suppose it would have been easy to make a "worst-dressed list" on 9/11, but it wouldn't have done much good. The damage had already been done: Fashion Week was postponed.

As I walked to my office from my comfortable penthouse apartment on Clinton Street, I noticed a woman sitting on the ground, looking a bit dazed, near the Dunkin' Donuts on Eighth Avenue and 40th Street. She was wearing a gray suit, cinched at the waist. It might have been Bill Blass. It was that tacky. Her purse was a chunky monstrosity—probably a knockoff of some kind. I held back a laugh. She was truly a fashion disaster.

I made a mental picture of that moment.

What was I wearing? This: A Ben Sherman light-blue checked shirt, gabardine trousers, Prada slip-ons, and a hijab I'd found somewhere along Eighth Avenue.

4. Most important: What are you wearing now? Five years later, I am here to write about fashion, and more specifically Olympus Fashion Week, sponsored by Olympus Restaurant, located on Red Arrow Highway in Bridgman, MN (269-465-XXXX; it features senior and "health-wise" menus). The festivities began Friday, September 8—the 251th day of this year, chosen specifically to commemorate the year 251 A.D., when the Fifteen Year Plague struck the Roman Empire (a pestilence widely linked to the sudden popularity of the tacky knee-length tunica as opposed to the more sophisticated stola)—with the magical convergence of thousands of global fashionistas, uniting in Bryant Park to reinforce the importance of fashion in our lives while at the same time raising awareness, unintentionally, of Chlamydia trachomatis.

I personally cannot wait to hit the park. I am particularly excited to rub shoulders with Vivienne Westwood, who has four of them and will be appearing at Macy's to celebrate my birthday (September 12). Vivienne is collaborating with Nine West, the highway you take to Marian High School in Framingham, MA (look for the 126 exit, there will be an Arby's on the corner).

I once played volleyball there with Hilary Swank, who has been named the "new face" of Guerlain, that French lady who lost her face in a dog attack last year. Swank will be visiting Saks Fifth Avenue (another store) on September 13 to mark the launch of Insolence, a new fragrance distilled from Chad Lowe's tears. Interestingly, September 13 also marks the uprising at Attica state prison, where nine hostages and 28 prisoners died.

If we are all, in a sense, prisoners to fashion, then I cannot imagine a better jail.

Sadly, I had hoped to attend Yigal Azrouel's Spring 2007 show on September 8, but I have a doctor's appointment, and because it's a court-ordered one, I could not get out of it. I am still going to try to stop by the breakfast hosted by Kate Spade, if only to try her canvas Oaxaca Eley muffins ($495).

Meanwhile, I cannot wait to see all of you at the shows, and I hope you cannot wait to see me. It's all about seeing, really. And being seen. Because what happened five years ago has changed the way we look at the world—and the way the world looks at us—forever. On the street, in the office, in the air, the eyes of the world are upon us. And so, as the landscape around us changes, we need to ask ourselves:

What should we be wearing?

Something versatile, an outfit you can put on to go out, right from work.
Maybe a gas mask, shoes, and bag to match.

Greg Gutfeld edits The Daily Gut, among other dubious Weblogs. He is a frequent commentator on The Huffington Post.

Other Entries:
Part II: Mr. Gutfeld Goes to Fashion Week
Part III: Frock Puppet