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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 over 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 Significant Others of Participants in New York Fashion Week,
Yes, Valentine's Day is next week.
But you know what else is next week, and begins tomorrow? Fashion Week.
We go through this every year: Autumn/Winter Fashion Week almost always bookends Valentine's Day. We—the editors, buyers, bloggers, merchants, photographers, models, designers, licensees—do not make the schedule. We merely follow it. Because we either have to or really want to or actually probably both. We work in fashion, we go to Fashion Week.
It's our twice-yearly convention and reunion. It's research. And, frankly, it's one of our few opportunities to wear a bunch of the stuff we shouldn't have bought to begin with. Rationalizing such things is invaluable.
You may not be trying to hear that, right? "But it's Valentine's Day!" "It's the most romantic day of the year!" "I already have a gift for you!" "All of our friends have Valentine's Day plans!"
Listen: Valentine's Day is dumb. It is not the most romantic day of the year—it's a Hallmark holiday invented to sell crap to idiots in the dead of winter. Speaking of: It's February. We live in New York. These do not add up to "the most romantic day of the year." Sorry.
Further, and full disclosure: I didn't really realize we were doing gifts, I haven't even thought about it (Christmas was like 15 minutes ago). I know I told you back on like the day after Christmas what to buy me for Valentine's Day—but that was only because I had already asked for that for Christmas. It hardly counts.
And those friends with the big, crazy, sexy plans? They're teachers or bankers or do computer things. They're not invited to Marc by Marc Jacobs or Oscar de la Renta or Sophie Theallet—all of whom are showing late on the 14th, amongst others. And, those friends? Rather than fighting for confirmations for the above from some bitchy, juice-fasting publicist—they've been fighting some bitchy, probably-not-juice-fasting hostess for reservations at such and such a candlelit restaurant for weeks.
I—we—have obviously not been doing that.
So, listen: A collective apology from all of us—the harried fashion folk, to all of you—the people we come home to. Who put up with the two weeks each year of insane hours, benign neglect, and piles and piles of discarded clothes and accessories (getting dressed can be hard) on every surface. Who bravely spend their Valentine's Day alone with TV and take out while their other halves are drinking champagne somewhere fabulous (pretend for a moment all the fabulous invariably ends up being some cheese after party with a guest list boasting a few C-list reality TV stars and Michael Musto).
We'll make it up to you. Fashion Week ends on the 16th. We'll need a week or two to recover wherein we likely won't leave our homes once we get to them. So, sometime in early March maybe something?
Or, better yet: Pizza, wine and Cougar Town on the couch? It's on us.
· Love, Frank [Racked]