The only thing more overexposed than Janet's pierced nipple at the Super Bowl is the media hoopla we've had to endure in the wake of Janet's pierced nipple at the Super Bowl. Fuck the economy. Fuck the fact that the leader of the free world lied to his own people. Fuck the fact that fur is back. Janet's tittie—now, that's what's important. I mean, c'mon people, we've all had one in our mouths at one point or another (except I don't think my mom had a starburst-shaped nipple piercing, but I digress). A Tennessee woman whose identity I shall not reveal (oh, fuck it: her name is Terri Carlin and she lives in Nashville, TN, and if we had her phone number and email we'd post those, too) filed a lawsuit against Janet and her partner in grime, my boyfriend Justin Timberlake, on behalf of all of us, claiming the incident caused us to "suffer outrage, anger, embarrassment and serious injury." Apparently she's never been to a House of Diehl runway show, where there's enough nipple to make you want cookies. And apparently people are so afraid of another possible wardrobe malfunction that officers with automatic rifles have been not-so-scarcely scattered throughout the Olympus Fall Fashion tent at Bryant Park should another nipple poke its proud head out from beneath a silk charmeuse blouse. Well, here's a list of wardrobe misfires and PR mishaps that would do the Jackson clan proud:

WARDROBE MALFUNCTIONS:

Velvet. Whichever way you choose to slice, dice or stitch it, I'm still not a fan.
Plastic surgery, à la Farrah Fawcett.
I advise you not to wear anything that would encourage others to use you for target practice. (See Nom D review below.)

FASHION FUNCTIONS:

Fur is back, in a big way. Don't leave home without it (unless you're a member of PETA, in which case faux is just as hot, if not hotter).
Black is still in. This time though, think texture.
Bows and ribbons make it okay to be feminine and flirty. Just don't be a slut.
Mod is so last season but a touch of it never hurt anyone. Remember that it's all in the cut, not the crazy colors.

PR JUNCTION, WHAT'S YOUR FUNCTION?

Naomi Campbell in the Carlos Miele show and having NC. Connect do PR for the show seems like a conflict of interest to me, but the show was fierce (see below).
The horrendous downpour mixed with doubly insufferable winds almost ended my fashion week before it even began. Hence the whole trench reprise. (Okay, so the PR people weren't responsible for the weather, but someone's gotta take the blame, right?)
Finally, not much can be said about Peter Som's collection. You're probably wondering why. I am too. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, what's the point of receiving an invite and RSVPing to a show, only to find that the "house is closed." According to the grapevine, which remains sour as shit, they overbooked. Bryant Park front-of-house companies need to read "Check-In For Dummies," written by our friends at the Mao Space. They're organized, courteous and lack the un-fabulous pretentiousness that their foul counterparts seem to strive for.

STUDIO CHERESKIN
These ain't just your daddy's undies! On Day One of fashion week (and after 20-plus years in the biz), menswear designer Ron Chereskin chose this season to launch a polished, sporty women's line. It's all very sweet, really, in a Burlington Coat Factory kind of way. Beautiful pieces like a silk paisley caftan dress were cancelled out by a hideous ebony Persian lamb bolero. A great men's titanium shearling coat was negated, and worn, by Charlie Maher, the bachelor Trista Rehn kicked to the curb. Chereskin's show was brought to us in part by the Humane Society of New York. So it was no surprise that the event closed with models coddling adorable puppies down the runway. Even Carson Kressley from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" cocked his head and let out an "awwww."

HONG KONG-LUXE
Hong Kong-Luxe was a Hong Kong-bust, save collections by Dorian Ho, Harrison Wong and MITH. On Friday, the Hong Kong Trade Development Council traipsed nine designers in front of us with the hopes that we would buy HK as the "epicenter for elegance and style." Although it's still open to argument, three-out-of-nine might be a basis for some reevaluation. Dorian Ho put his best efforts forward with a silk chiffon dress complete with a plunging neckline and pearl and rhinestone fringes. This mix-master combined lace, fur, ostrich feather and large corsage touches to his "The Lady is a Tramp" theme. Harrison Wong impressed with his sleek coats and jackets: a belted leather jacket, a wool overcoat with stand collar and a zipped fur jacket with leather trim. Miggy Cheng's MITH kept it natural with a crepe de chine dress with printed front, a cotton viscose quilted bolero and a separate cotton viscose skirt. A gold star should be given to Cheng for her featherweight sweaters made of angora and mohair.

VENEXIANA
What started out with cute kids taking a tour of the catwalk spiraled into a horrifying mix of musique concrète, fingerwaived/crimped hair and multicolored eye shadow. Putting all of this aside, including a few chiffon numbers, the clothes weren't that bad. The savage warrior chic vibe that designer Kati Stern furnished us with was exhilarating to watch. The Italian designer's use of velvets, leathers, suedes and furs was exceptionally fierce, as were the doses of deep antique green, chocolate brown and majestic purple hues.

RAIKA D
Raika D's inspiration is said to have come from "a rainy Saturday afternoon." This Saturday afternoon's forecast called for a sprinkle of The Hiltons (Mom and Dad in the first row, a super-tan Nicky on the runway), a grouchy cloud of Jaime Gleicher and a ray of sunshine in the form of model/actor Ian Somerhalder. (I wonder if he's Nic's latest conquest?) Anywho, this collection seemed more apropos for spring judging by the deluge of lace and rhinestone. Other than a black car coat with rib sweater collar/cuffs and black ribbon tie parachute pants, which would have been much hotter if it weren't for that silly furry heart, there weren't many notable pieces. Inquiring minds want to know: where's Ally Hilfiger? Are The Rich Girls no longer BFF???

Y & KEI
The Korean dream team, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kang, summoned their grandmama's closet, resulting in what can only be described as aged fluid perfection. A muted color palette infused with the occasional ketchup red and shimmery black couldn't have been more scrumptious! My personal faves included a slim leather trouser with knit side panels and a silk satin jacquard dress with chiffon ruffle detail. Y & KEI embody femininity with gusto. And you know what, had that crazy, sexy, curly-cued Phillip Bloch not stolen my seat, I might have had such a phenomenal shoe/boot vantage point. So, I guess I owe you one, Phil!

JEREMY SCOTT
On a rather frigid Saturday evening I ventured off to Crobar, on the corner of Gay and Dirty Water, only to end up in the middle of what felt like MTV's "Camp Jim." Five minutes of logo sweatshirts and a "Gimme a J!" later, it was over. And so is Mr. Scott (well, not really, but at least until he redeems himself).

MAURICE MALONE
Maurice Malone provided us with less street and more casual, sexy chic! A tragically mediocre beginning evolved into a Malone-staples-with-a-twist collection that I've learned to love. His men's suits had a mod air about them and his gray pinstripe double collar suit jacket paired with jeans took you dashing back to the oh-so-distant 20th century. Meanwhile, Malone's women's line was fun-filled with a black burnt-out circle tunic, a black satin carwash paneled mini and a white cotton cuff-link tuxedo shirt-dress with black cummerbund. The front row was lined with Ja Rule and Dean Winters, formerly of HBO's "OZ." Winters, a NY native, showed support with his "I Love New York" tee. Well, Mr. Winters, NY loves you, and I heart Maurice Malone.

NOM D
I have a feeling I should stay far away from New Zealand after what I'm about to report. The name behind Nom D is Margie Robertson, who I'm sure is a lovely person. That said, being the lovely person she is, I'm sure she will eventually forgive me for calling her "Don't Shoot" collection at the Mao Space a cross between goth and grunge. Central to her theme was a lot of black with the occasional shot of white and safety-cone orange, along with a Bambi image frozen in a bullseye. Now, imagine you're a deer. You're prancing along, you get thirsty, you spot a little brook. You put your little deer lips down to the cool clear water and BAM!!!! A fuckin' bullet rips off part of your head. Now I ask you, would you give a fuck what kind of pants the son of a bitch who shot you was wearing? Answer: Heeeeell no.

MICHAEL SOHEIL
I returned to the Mao Space with the hopes that the previous night's gore had been cleaned up. When I spotted fashion guru Nolé Marin, sans Empress Mini, and makeup artist Jay Manuel, I knew that it hadn't. But Iranian Michael Soheil more than made up for it with his elegant designs. Soft pieces like a black-and-white lace dress with patent leather piping, a champagne knit jacquard dress with a pleated bottom and a black cashmere skirt with Swarovski crystals stood side by side with harder pieces like a black lambskin jacket and a brown cashmere tweed coat with a fox collar. Soheil's powerful finale was comprised of a scalloped gold lace skirt and a bias georgette dress with metallic chevron pintucking that were to die for.

CUSTO BARCELONA
The Spaniard behind the Custo Barcelona line is Custodio Dalmau, whose newly renovated collection appeared to concentrate more on texture than color. Breathing life back into Studio 54, without the cocaine-induced crashes, and infamous Bond girls, Dalmau still employed his usual offbeat prints but used black to tone them down. Geometric shapes were jumbled into mismatched leggings with minis, a trench with ruffles and knits with exaggerated hoods. For men, Custo had pants with gold details and tees screened with women in provocative poses. Actor Stephen Dorff showed up with model-girlfriend in tow.

CARMEN MARC VALVO
If you read last season's column, then you know I'm afraid of the dark. Initially, the flashbulbs were focused on an angelic Vanessa Williams and Serena Altschul, who is clearly taking a break from her meth lab exposés. Later the spotlights turned toward the old Hollywood glammed-up models, but—hello?!—how is a girl supposed to take notes with no lighting? (Note to self: Must purchase a penlight to be the envy of all fashion editors next season.) Red-lipped beauties presented the typically unfazed audience with what was Carmen Marc Valvo's 15th anniversary collection. The predominantly black-and-winter-white collection was livened up by splashes of bronze, metallic heather, espresso, ruby, amethyst and camel. A chinchilla stole, sable-trimmed opera gloves and an alligator mosaic clutch bag accessorized a white crepe back satin cocktail dress, an espresso hammered satin bias gown and a white silk satin cocktail suit, respectively and radiantly. Another example of the textured black trend is his black cashmere sweater nicely harmonizing with a black bias cut hammered satin matinee skirt.

CARLOS MIELE
Originally set for 9 p.m. on Tuesday at the promenade tent at Bryant Park, the Carlos Miele extravaganza played a last minute game of trading spaces because of the Louis Vuitton 150th anniversary party. After a pathetic excuse for a check-in (and an unreasonably long wait time), Miele did Eve, Deborah Cox, Maxwell, Pat Field, Janice Combs, Jaime "Why is this girl getting front-row, end-of-catwalk preferential treatment?" Gleicher, Denise Rich and me proud. Apparently the acoustics at the architecturally stunning Gotham Hall, located on the corner of Broadway and 36th Street, were made for flamenco beats, Célia Cruz's trademark "Azucar" shouts, Tito Puente's "Oye Como Va" and Santana's surprisingly-hip-thanks-to-a-remix-version of "Smooth." Naomi Campbell, Karolina Kurkova and Kenyan model Ajuma garnered much applause for their beauty and powerful struts. The real stunners, though, were the Brazilian designer's pieces: a jewel-toned satin dress with pink printed chiffon overlay, a brown and yellow fox fur coat, a long black dress in printed chiffon with lace patchwork and another long dress with sepia printed chiffon, a denim bodice and satin trim. This, my friends, is how you put on a fierce show: Make your guests scale the exterior of the building, break in through a skylight, shimmy down a chandelier, knock out a security guard or two, steal a seat, wait for over an hour, and then make them forget all about it once the show starts.

ZANG TOI
The applause dribbled over to Zang Toi's show on Friday, the final day of fashion week. Patti LaBelle, Miss USA Susie Castillo and Farrah Fawcett, fresh off the plastic surgeon's table, were presented with the results of Mr. Toi's romp through gay Paris. The ex-Charlie's Angel was perched forward in her seat, fumbling with her camera in typical Farrah fashion. (Couldn't she just have requested a lookbook or something?) Turning my eyes to the runway, I marveled at a pink organdy gown with cascading black silk velvet roses and a trail of black tulle topped with a velvet ribbon bow, a black silk couture satin "Ritz" gown with beaded black lace straps and a trail of pleated tulle (which didn't quite fit the model properly) and a charcoal cashmere herringbone blazer with velvet ribbon sash and black mink fringe and its corresponding princess skirt with black pleated organza flounce. For the men, Toi had a marvelous black leather trench with black fox collar and a wool boucle double-breasted suit. By and large, his trip was successful. Oui?

In conclusion, I'm a bit nervous to unleash my Fashion Week diary this season. Not because of the FCC or CBS or Terri Carlin of Nashville, TN, but because of fashion show PR people who can't take criticism. As you may or may not know, last year I received a death threat of sorts. Okay, well, not exactly a death threat, but close enough. I believe his or her exact words were, "The only worthwhile contribution to society you could possibly achieve—there's a seven year old child in need of a heart transplant somewhere, as you don't use yours, I suggest you donate immediately." I've decided that the root of his/her snobbery is based on living off of $20,000 in Manhattan and coming from a small town with the pipe dream that he/she will become Carrie Bradshaw. In all actuality, all he/she turned out to be was heavy in debt from student loans, on hormonal therapy and sitting 4th row at an off-Sixth fashion show. Bitterness is what stems from someone whose writing is straight out of The Anarchist Cookbook or lifetime groupies of the Unabomber. The fact that he/she claimed to be "a real magazine writer, editor and true fashion person" (a.k.a. "I work for House of Diehl and I take my job way too seriously") but didn't have the balls to disclose his/her name is a little transparent, but I do applaud him/her for taking time out from fetching coffee for his/her boss's assistant to craft a touching love letter to yours truly. And I do admire the venomous approach.

Now that I've gotten that off my double D's, I have to say that, all in all, this week went by rather slowly. Something was missing. Oh wait, I know: Paris Hilton's nipple.

Alexa Camp
© slant magazine, 2004.

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