blog

Feature Menu

Avoiding Fashion Week and dreaming of Eminem

Paula Froelich Eminem Yankee StadiumThe man of my dreams—Eminem. (Photo by Kevin Mazur/GETTY IMAGES)

I had this crazy dream like a week ago — two of ‘em actually. The first one was more of a realization. I woke up in the middle of the night and was like, “Damn. I’m gonna be busy next year… So I better get some traveling in!”

The other one, also random — involved Eminem, of all people. I mean, huh? I don’t even listen to or think about him. Must have heard his song somewhere — like the time I was in K-mart and heard a lovely muzak version of Richard Marx’s “Ocean’s Apart.” Had a dream that night that I was at my mom’s dinner table introducing Richard Marx as my fiancé. My mother kept looking at his mullet with a hairy eyeball and my sister leans over and says, “Richard? What’s your last name again?” and as soon as he says “Marx,” I woke up to her mocking laughter in my ears. I didn’t go to K-Mart for a long time after that.

So, anyhoo, I booked a trip to Kenya (again) for October and a journey to Indochina — Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand — for December (because who the hell wants to be in NYC in December???). I haven’t told Karl yet. I can’t face the look on his face or the grudge pees on my floor. I think he assumes he’s going with me.

Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to dodge fashion week crap. I had a dinner in the meatpacking district on Friday during Fashion’s Night Out — which is such a joke. Thousands of people in the streets — and no one was buying any of the full-priced merchandise. It’s like Simon Doonan (creative director of Barney’s) told my friend (and I’m paraphrasing): “What a waste. People came in droves, bought nothing and we had all these clothes with food and drinks all over them. Disaster!” Next year, someone should tell these stores that instead of offering models and demi-celebs to look at, they should offer a discount. Or a gift bag (oh, for the go-go days of the late 90’s, early 2000s, where gift bags were rich and plentiful).

I did, however, brave the John Varvatos party at the old CBGB’s… because Alice Cooper and ZZ Top were playing. Ooooooof! What a rat fuck! Everyone I never wanted to see again was shoved into badly air conditioned spaces, and all I could do was walk around and mourn the old CBGB’s… I actually left after ZZ and before Alice due to massive sweat-induced weight loss… and the fact that everyone was at least 6 feet tall and the stage was only two feet off the ground. My 5’4″ didn’t cut it. Especially as I wasn’t wearing heels (combat boots!)… but I did catch a glimpse of a “punk rock” version of the Pussycat Dolls. Sid Vicious rolled in his grave on that one. I started doing shots of “moonshine” (“No hangover!” said Charlie Walk, who brought this new version of Kentucky’s favorite homemade liquor back to the market) — which, indeed didn’t make me want to kill myself the next morning, but ain’t nothing like my Uncle Jim’s actual Moonshine. Which also doubles as lighter fluid.

Tonight, in honor of my second dream, I am off to see Jay Z and Eminem in concert. Hopefully they can wipe the taste of the Punk Pussycats out of my mouth.