Catwalk (13 page)
Authors: Deborah Gregory
Felinez gets quiet.
“Blue Boca? Come on, don’t you get it? They could get him! On camera, I mean. Maybe he’ll think it’s the fashion police or something! At least he’ll be embarrassed when I hit him over the head with the plunger!” I crow, trying to jump-start Felinez’s enthusiasm. Blue Boca is a nickname I gave Felinez one summer when a heat wave so blazing struck the city that all she did was suck on blue ices that turned her tongue spooky blue. “I just want to see the look on Mr. Darius’s face when Caterina instructs Boom to stick a camera on him.
Comprendo?
”
“
Mija
, maybe he’ll get really mad,” Felinez warns.
True to my stubborn nature, I ignore her apprehension. “Operation: Kitty Litter is a go. Signing off!”
FASHION INTERNATIONAL 35TH ANNUAL CATWALK COMPETITION BLOG
New school rule: You don’t have to be ultranice, but don’t get tooooo catty, or your posting will be zapped by the Fashion Avengers!!
WHO’S AFRAID TO PRANCE TO A PAYDAY? …
Not all students at Fashion International fantasize about becoming a supermodel or a “modelpreneur,” as the most ambitchous among us like to call ourselves. Some of us are intent on fashion domination by using our managerial skills and creative vision. Take me, for example. Nothing matters more to me than providing a platform for my unique take on style from a gay perspective. That’s why I feel qualified to lead a house in the Catwalk competition—NOT because I happen to be the best voguer in school! Yes, my adopted father, vogue legend Willi Ninja, was responsible for providing the student body at Fashion International with a more appropriate physical education elective than basketball, fencing, and calisthenics classes. Although he is no longer with us, we should all continue to express our gratitude for his making such a valuable addition to our curriculum as voguing classes, and sparing us from being subjected to the bouncing ball and other boring antics associated with butch sports. However, I feel compelled to clarify what voguing actually
is, given what I witnessed during yesterday’s pose-off. Voguing is a dance form that originated in Harlem ballrooms back in the day, and it combines various techniques from the martial arts, jazz and modern dance, gymnastics, and yoga, among other disciplines. And thanks to the dazzling voguing displays presented by Elgamela Sphinx and Miss Aphro Biggie Bright, I’m going to add belly dancing and hip-hop to the eclectic beat-driven blend. Beyond this, there is also an exquisite execution that distinguishes it from other dance disciplines. Voguing is structured around distinct hand and arm movements, so the trained voguer must keep time with the beat of the music as well as accentuate various changes in rhythms. Therefore, simply primping and POSING to the beat is only ONE aspect of voguing. Also, for the record, Jody Watley and Malcolm McLaren, NOT Madonna, were the first two recording artists to feature true voguers in their music videos. Nonetheless, the Material Girl received maximum exposure because of her blonde ambition, if you catch my drift. Given my posing pedigree, all I would have to do to gain the same exposure would be to pull down my pants and stick my butt out of the school window!! Contrary to shady belief, I have no intention of following in my adopted father’s footsteps like his godson Benny Ninja, whom I revere completely, and who thankfully may be joining our school’s faculty (no
disrespect to Mr. Blinghe). But, see, I intend to dance to my own fashion beat because I don’t have to pose for a payday. Now if you don’t mind, I must get ready for my Teen Style Network close-up, then win the Catwalk competition. Click. Dial tone. Good-bye!!
9/30/2008 12:45:45 PM
Posted by: Twirl Happy 1992
Staring at the sign-in sheet in the reception area of Ms. Lynx’s office, I shriek when I see that Chandelier Spinelli has already booked her time slot for Studio C to conduct interviews for team members. Sure, she may already have Nole and Elgamela in the Gucci bag, but she still has to enlist talent for her house like the rest of us: by
any means necessary
. Channeling Zorro, I boldly scrawl my name on the sign-in sheet in the slot for Tuesday from four to six p.m. Then I plop down on one of the gilded chairs with the leopard seat cushions to wait for the blank team member forms that I’ll need to submit after I have selected all my house members. But first, Farfalla has to win
her
battle with the temperamental Xerox machine.
“Madonna, ancora! Ma, venga!”
Farfalla yelps, shoving the paper tray into its compartment. Pressing the Start button to no avail, Ms. Lynx’s dramatic assistant turns to coaxing: “Oh,
please, per favore, va bene
?”
I smile at her, embarrassed, then avert my eyes to
the spotted plaque hanging on the closed door of Lynx Lair:
WEAR FASHION, OR BE WORN
.
Still no Xeroxes, so I scan the wild inhabitants of Catwalk Central: the bobcat heads mounted on the walls, the carved cheetah bookends standing menacingly on their hind legs, and, crouched in the corner, the leopard ceramic statue with the gaping jaw.
Suddenly, the door to Ms. Fab’s inner sanctum swings open, and out pops another predator. I stare down at the leopard-skin area rug sprawled by my feet as Chandelier’s babble spills into the reception area. “I can’t believe I got the job!” Chandelier squeals, tossing her stiff, spritzed hair that’s like an overtamed lion’s mane. Then, turning toward Farfalla, Chandelier grandly announces: “I got a job at Betsey Johnson!”
Like a well-trained fashionista, Farfalla feigns bright-eyed interest even though she’s preoccupied with her Xerox crisis.
“Bravo!”
she chortles.
At last, Chandelier floats into the hallway on her fashion-job cloud while my mind starts spinning like a dreidel. How did Chandelier snag a position at Betsey Johnson? What was she doing in Ms. Lynx’s office?
Ms. Lynx steps out of her lair and looks at me quizzically. “Just waiting for forms,” I inform her.
“
Dov’e
Sil Lai?” Ms. Lynx shoots to Farfalla.
“Lei andata in giro per il tuo cappuccino, ma espero che ritorna subito!”
frets Farfalla.
The commanding Catwalk Director continues speaking to Farfalla in Italian. By now, I’m lost in translation, so I sit mesmerized fantasizing about living
la dolce vita
in Italy for two weeks in July.
“Ecco, finalmente!”
Farfalla says, refueled by the humming sound of Xerox copies ejecting into the tray.
Finally
is right. Now I’m armed with the necessary forms.
“Grazie!”
I say, then hightail it into the hallway, but not fast enough to avoid Chintzy.
“Oh, hey, wazzup,” I say, bracing myself.
“When are you interviewing?” Chintzy asks eagerly.
“I thought you wanted to be in Shalimar’s House?” Yesterday I watched while Chintzy stood Splendafied by Shalimar as she dangled a hookup with Grubster PR, one of her father’s investment clients. Of course, the conversation went hush until I faded to fuchsia down the hallway.
“No way, José,” Chintzy responds.
“My flyer will be up tomorrow, okay?” I say, stalling. “Right now, I gotta hustle and flow to the Fashion Annex to do research for a quiz!”
As I clomp in my pink classic Swedish wooden clogs down the stairs, I’m so preoccupied with Chintzy’s sudden desire to walk feline that Zeus spots me first.
“I knew it was you!” Zeus says, his pale blue eyes squinting at me like I’m a magical looking glass.
“Oh, I guess you heard my herd,” I say, embarrassed.
“Where you roaming?” Zeus asks, chuckling.
“To the library to check on zebra migration patterns,” I jest.
“That’s always interesting.”
“Nah—actually, another kind of pattern. Tartans for textile science. I still can’t tell the difference between the Barbecue Plaid and the Braveheart!” I reveal.
“Oh, the last one’s easy—check out Mel’s kilt,” he advises, but realizes by my blankety that I don’t get it. He quickly adds, “In the movie?”
“Right.” I nod, trying to picture the Scottish plaid in question, but all I can envision are Mel’s bushy calves. “Are you into kilts?”
“Could be,” he answers.
I decide it’s time to bite the catnip. “You’d be an asset to my house—whether you bared your legs or not.”
Zeus breaks into his squinty-eyed grin again.
“We’re starting our preinterview strategies tonight at my house at six
sharpo
,” I babble, holding my breath. “Consider yourself in if you can make it.”
My cheeks start burning. Why did I put him on blast like that? Shrieking inside, I decide to take it back. “You probably have something more important to do, like scrubbing your sneaker collection.”
“Nope. Consider me in there like swimwear,” he says calmly.
“Oh, I get it—it’s Posture Like Pashmina Day,” I quip, scribbling my address on a sheet of paper in my Hello Kitty notebook. Then I get embarrassed because I don’t want to spill the refried beans about Ice Très.
Zeus squints at me like he wants to ask what I meant, but instead he just riffs, “No doubt.”
I hand him the scribbled-on paper and he breaks out, explaining that he has to head uptown.
Right after school, Felinez, Aphro, Angora, and I have to head downtown to the Alley Kat Korner on Avenue A to buy some kitschy items for our first close encounter with a camera: pink-frosted cupcakes, paper plates and cups, and pink popcorn. “These kernels will pop for the camera.” I giggle while Angora picks out posies.
Operation: Kitty Litter is about to jump off at six o’clock tonight at my apartment. That is, if Mr. Darius and the Teen Style Network crew show up. In the meantime, we get busy pinkifying my crib.
“Does Zeus know about Operation: Kitty Litter?” Angora asks as she places the flowers in the metallic blue floral vases she’s supplied for the occasion. I’m secretly grateful she left her dad’s rabbit vases at home where they belong.
“Um, no. And hopefully Mr. Hairiest Darius is on his way,” I say.
“I’m glad you didn’t tell him. As Ms. Ava says, sometimes the truth is just plain inappropriate.”
“No wonder enrollment in your mother’s etiquette school is so high. Fiberoni coaching along with napkin placement.
Quel resistable
,” I add, imitating Angora and throwing our prized pink faux fur tablecloth over the scratched wooden dining room table. “Zeus was psyched about coming over.”
“Angora, the flowers are beautiful.
Que bonita!
” Felinez says, sniffing the bouquets of pink roses and delicately spotted yellow Peruvian lilies. Angora has arranged bouquets around the living room and left one as a centerpiece on the dining room table.
“These are my mother’s favorite—the Dreamland Bouquet. I should send her a bunch to christen her new home on Hysteria Lane,” Angora declares, going on to explain the indignities her mother has to endure “living in a smaller house, like less fabbie neighbors. Speaking of Fabbie, where is my little darling?” Angora keeps cooing until Fabbie Tabby hops onto the couch and waits for Angora to come and pet her to death. It’s a ritual they have.
“Anybody up for a sip and a flip?” I ask, grabbing the jumbo bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge and the
Vogue
magazine nestled next to it.
“Hit me, Pink Head,” Aphro says, lunging at the
Vogue
like it’s the Holy Grail. “Yo, would you buy a magazine if I were on the cover?”
“Yeah—
National Geographic
!” I reply, wondering about another model with cover potential. “I can’t figure out if Zeus is on the loose?”
“Well, he’s gotta be gay, straight, or
très
taken.” Angora smiles, then shrugs. “My mom was also giving me dating advice last night on the phone.”
“From the woman who still thinks spam is canned lunch meat?
S’il vous plaît!
” I heckle, taking a swig from the bottle of ginger ale, then belching with gusto.
Felinez grabs the bottle from me and takes a swig. “That is so ghetto!” Aphro squeals.
“No, it’s not! Ghetto is when three people take swigs from the same bottle—not two!” Felinez counters.
“Well, then ghetto couture is inviting Ice Très over,” I slide in nonchalantly.
“I thought you invited Zeus over?” Angora asks, blinking at my boldness.
“Yeah, well, I like them both—and according to the game of Spades, whoever has the two of clubs wins the kitty!” I giggle, meowching Felinez.
“Explain?” Angora asks.
“We gotta teach you Spades,” I reply, making a note to my fashion self. “Once the cards are dealt, whoever
has the two of clubs gets to pick up the six cards left on the table, which are called the kitty. Then they can discard any six cards they want,” I explain. “So maybe I’ll be doing the discarding!”
“
Mijas
, the real question is, why would a tasty
sabor
like Zeus wanna join our house?” Felinez interrupts.
“He digs our theme and our dream—and hopefully me too,” I say wistfully. “That reminds me. Chintzy Colon also wants to join our house.”
“No way, José!” Felinez objects.
“She could be an asset,” I counter, because I’m not at all surprised by her reaction.
“I’m telling you,
mija
, she’s a sneaky senorita!” Felinez says, taking a bottle of pills out of her purse.
“Okay,” I snap. “Note to fashion self: shelve this discussion until later. And what is that you’re trying to shove in your blue
boca
?”
I grab the bottle out of Felinez’s hand despite her protestation: “Michelette took them—they really work!”
“ ‘Burn, Baby, Burn’?” I say, scanning the label. “Do you see what that says? ‘These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration.’ ”
“Maybe they don’t have time to evaluate everything!” Felinez argues.
Aphro lets out a snort. “You need to stop.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re skinny. What about me?” Felinez blurts out.
She is freaking. “I hope you can keep it locked down in front of the camera crew,” I warn her.
