I went to the Pucci fashion show at Watermark last Thursday. It seems that a lot of self-claimed fashion people don’t even know Pucci. When I rave about Pucci’s vivid geometric prints they go, “What? Gucci?” HELLooO?!? Nothing screams I-only-read-Elle-Girl nouveau riche as much as mistaking Pucci for Gucci. Bitch, please. Marilyn Monroe was buried in Pucci.
The fashionista alpha bitch at Lane Crawford declared that sequins are dead. I agree, but I almost wept at the beauty when I saw the cobalt and turquoise sequined mini-dress Kylie wore to Pucci’s 60th anniversary party last year at Palazzo Pucci (yeah, he has a palace). Emilio Pucci knew how to work those swirling psychedelic prints that were de rigueur for the 60s jet set. Laudomia, daughter and current creative director of Pucci, knows how to work it as well.
Oh, she was there too, so security was a bit tense.
While I was thoroughly enjoying the dosas, I felt unpleasant vibes emanating from somewhere behind me. When I turned around, I saw this female face filled with intense disgust and repugnance—as if the establishment was a sewer of depravity, as if all around her were hideously deformed lepers, as if her champagne was urine. I’ve never encountered anything so hardcore hideous in my life before. The girl wasn’t wearing anything fugly. In fact, her teal and aquamarine one piece was totally fab (better than all the Pucci-like prints that older MEN were wearing to the party—ugh!) But with her radiating uber-negativity, she didn’t come off as fierce at all—she was FIDEOUS. I just don’t understand how some people can be filled with such intense hatred as to make themselves completely disagreeable to an environment, polluting a party as classy as a Pucci.
I motioned to my companions: “Can you feel it?” The PR who’s exceptionally comfortable with the sound of his own voice said, “Oh yeah...” while the Libran artist was like, “Whaaat?” The hateful girl was razing down everything in her path, and we suddenly became convenient recipients of her odium, as she caught sight of us scoffing down dosas and crab cakes. Maybe she was jealous of our metabolism, or maybe she found my folding fan pretentious, or maybe she hated my shoes.
I’m sure we could have taken the high road and sent those two betches vibes of love and light, but sorry, we’re not there yet. And you don’t eff with Nightlife or Ferocious PR. So we shot eye-daggers back and ground their faces into the dirt. The two girls did not dare look in our direction ever again. They were a hot mess after we were finished with them.