Racked is no longer publishing. Thank you to everyone who read our work over the years. The archives will remain available here; for new stories, head over to Vox.com, where our staff is covering consumer culture for The Goods by Vox. You can also see what we’re up to by signing up here.
You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for almost two years. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.
Dear Fashion Week Attendees,
As New York Fashion Week draws to a close we wanted to take a minute to reflect on the nutjob crackpots picketing outside the tents.
We imagine you encountered that toothless, unwashed hoard of bible thumping hate-mongers—a.k.a. the Westboro Baptist Church. They spent at least a couple of afternoons picketing in a cordoned off little sty across Lincoln Center's grand plaza.
We're not sure whether they—two dozen or so deep—were protesting the urban/coastal/liberal politics and, like, inherent gayness of Fashion Week and the fashion industry or if the whole mess had more to do with all the miscellaneous ceremonies taking place in memory of September 11, 2001. In which case—were they protesting, like, America? That would be odd considering America signs the disability checks that likely support them and allow them to spend full days yelling at strangers and holding up crude signage (both crudely printed and, well, crude—look at that photo!) But, hey, what do we know?
The thing is, those rants are falling on deaf ears. No-one cared. We didn't even really notice and actually stop to read anything until day three or so. And when we did, it was more in incredulousness. Which was almost immediately followed by a good chuckle. Which, naturally, was almost immediately followed by a good little eye roll and chat with a group of fashionable co-chucklers nearly half the size of the protesters. "What freaks!" "What are they doing here?" "Are they for real?"
All that lead to the inevitable slew of picture taking. We even spotted a number of other tent-attendees posing for shots with the freaks in the background. Grinning as their friends or colleagues snapped quickies with iPhones and BlackBerrys.
Over the course of the whole whatever we encountered one person who seemed affected by it in a real way. Young, stylish, aloof—he walked-with-a-purpose right past; middle finger in steady salute, refusing to even look their way.
Which we guess is sort of admirable. But, like, why even bother? Fact is: These people are always going to think what they think. And they're always going to be the ones who put the rest of their lives on hold to make sure everyone knows about it.
None of us are going to leave New York to go to some podunk nowhere just to hold up signs outside their evangelical shopping center churches or gun club meetings or wherever it is they deprogram their young of homosexuality (we're picturing, like, a camp—which, frankly, could get pretty gay).
We definitely don't have the time. Some of us don't care enough. We let people do what they want; because we appreciate the rights we have to do what we want. And, well, what would we wear?
Speaking of which, this is New York Fashion Week. The least those protesters could've done is wash their disgusting hair. Am I right?
Also, holding a sign that says "GOD H8S FAG MARRIAGE" or "SOLDIERS DIE 4 FAG MARRIAGE" while singing a hate-chant parody of Lady Gaga and Beyonce's "Telephone?" How very hetero.
· Love, Frank [Racked]