Last night was the kick-off party of the swimsuit-clad extravaganza. And instead of being stuffed with a nation of hungry fashionites poolside at the Raleigh, the night was fairly breathable -- a little too breathable. Like, where the party at?
Even considering the stifling humidity, the body-to-body ratio was astonishingly low, making things even more uncomfortable than the dense weather that night (and the sweat-staches it created). Are Thursdays just not happening nights anymore? Or are people not as interested as they have been previous years? We scratched our heads in bewilderment.
Though the turnout of guests was mighty scarce, the party started out promising enough. On 18th Street, between the Raleigh and Surfcomber, models dressed in drapey, silk beach cover-ups, posing like fembots, ready to strike a pose for the countless fashion photographers and networks covering the evening's festivities. Behind the nymph-like models, draped in kaftans, were two rows of Mercedes-Benz cars, ranging from A class all the way to E. And just like the models standing before them, they also came dressed up for the occasion.
For every model cloaked in floral or painterly prints from one of the designers showcasing at this year's event, there was a matching Benz identically tatted to mirror its more slender and smooth-skinned companion.
The set-up of the wheels and girls was that of a museum installation of some sort - the initial eye-grabber of the night. One model, baring golden, curly locks contrasting her bright green eyes and equally flawless golden skin, even challenged the stereotypical model-protocol of sit-there-and-look-pretty and actually opened her mouth to the public stating, "I have a voice too, you know?" The sassy remark was probably due to the droves of foreign men scamming on the models and inquiring with hungry eyes, "If I buy the car, you come with it?" True story; we were there to witness such creepy behavior.