In the week leading up to New York Fashion Week, we'll be bringing you dishy tell-alls from the behind-the-scenes folks who make fashion week run. Up first? The bouncer.
It was my second fashion week in New York and I was running the door for a questionably legal nightclub in the back of a restaurant in Chinatown. I knew it was going to be a long night. I had been getting texts all day, mostly from people I didn't know, all of them asking if I could get them in.
'Hey, I'm that girl form the loft party let me in tonight and I promise ill return the favor ;)'
'Hey dude, I got your number from a friend, my dad is a big actor, could you get me and my friends in tonight?'
'Hey man I have a super popular blog but I couldn't get on the list tonight, if you let me in tonight I'll write about you'
'yoo, let me in tonight and I'll bring you to a crazy after party...I heard they hired escorts!'
It was winter and I was about to have to stand outside for five hours arguing with wildly entitled bloggers, interns, and socialites about why they weren't getting into the party celebrating the It-designer of the season.
I showed up at my club around 10 p.m. Doors were set to open at 11 p.m., but there was already a line of people forming outside. When I walked in, the club that was supposed to be totally set up was still in restaurant mode. This was set to be our biggest party of fashion week, doors were supposed to open in half an hour, and I was staring at a restaurant. People were frantically running around setting up lights and moving out tables, but there was nothing we could do about the totally random people who were still eating dim sum and had no idea what was happening. (They really didn't know that, the night before, I had watched two girls that really needed attention, strip on those banquette seats while someone sprayed them with champagne.) After a few screaming matches with the restaurant manager, I decided to turn off all the lights until the people who were eating got the hint and left.
We were a half an hour behind schedule. When I walked outside to have a smoke, the small line I had been greeted with had turned into a shapeless mob of people. I was immediately handed a list from the designer's team (who hated me). The PR girl who was 'trying' to help at the door looked like she had been crying; my security guards were yelling for everyone to back up and form a line; I got a text saying that the designer, himself, was on his way and wanted to know his personal friends weren't able to get in.
With the club set up enough, we began letting people in. The night hadn't even really begun, but all semblance of order had already been lost. There were people screaming my name in every direction; random people were leaning over the ropes and physically grabbing at my jacket to get my attention. Every person gave me a reason as to why the needed to be inside, and with every person not let in came the usual insults. I would tell people it was just a party—nothing to get worked up about. They, in turn, would tell me that I was a 'disgusting person' and that they 'would get me fired.' A lot of gay slurs were thrown (and I'm not even gay). They would swear they'd jump me after work. Someone took a swing at me. A girl spit at me. I never knew the fashion crowd could get so vicious.
About two hours into the party and the line was still building. It was clear that my security would be totally unable to control the crowd. No one would listen to them (or me) and we needed some order. The capacity of the venue was about 100 (at best) and we had at least 200 people inside. And the PR girl completely vanished. (Could you blame her?). In a mixture of rage and exhaustion, I snapped. I climbed on top of a fire hydrant and started yelling. The crowd went quiet for a moment until one person started booing, which sparked a chain reaction of people screaming. People started throwing whatever they had in their pockets at me and I was forced inside by security. Shortly after that, the cops showed up and shut the whole thing down. I guess the problem was solved.
You want a confession? Listen, I do not care who you blog for, I do not care who your parents are, I do not care what friends you have inside, and I do not care who you work for. If you want to get into a fashion week party, there are three things to do: dress well; be polite; and try to sneak in with a big group...that's already on the list.
Related: A-List Outtakes From Fashion Week Parties Related: Dates of Wrath: 'I Let a Stranger Shave My Back on a Daytime Date'
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