Fashion Week New York is the cat’s meow. The jumble I once covered in Moscow is the dog’s poop.
Place: The marbled walled Sovetskaya Concert Hall.
Invitees wore babushkas, sensible walking shoes, sturdy brown or gray coats.
My parachute-shaped guide’s breakfast: “Fruitwater” juice, glass of sour milk, oatmeal-like kasha, two boiled eggs, coffee and a bun. She was eating light.
“Russians find no crime being stout,” she said. “We are not so lazy as Americans who jump into their automobile. Few here own cars. We are forced to walk more. The USSR has no weaker sex.”
One lady swilled vodka neat, laced with black pepper, washed down with beer. Her companion: “The trick is eating plenty bread and butter first. Butter as a coating sponges up any alcohol. The penalty for drunkenness is severe. Your name’s placed last on the list for an apartment.”
The fashion show: Women in Sochi, the resort, swam in bras and panties because of few swimsuits to purchase. One hot item showed a brocade evening gown plus matching coat with fur hem and cuffs. “These will be mass-produced,” intoned the directress. I asked how many will be mass-produced. She said: “Twelve.”
They come with any accessory — like a hat or bag? “No.”
Understand, we are not talking any Dolly Parton look here.
The textile center model said: “I own two suits. Two coats. One with a matching skirt. When they wear out I replace them. Not before.”
She herself craved “something light. Pink. We haven’t such color. Also an eyebrow pencil of foreign manufacture, which doesn’t irritate an eyelid.”
My own Russian guide wanted my cosmetics.
We agreed to meet secretly — later — 3 o’clock, alone, on Kutuzovsky Prospekt where I’d empty what I had with me. I waited an hour. She never showed. And I never saw or heard from her again.
Gum’s, the state-owned department store, had empty shelves. Directress: “With our revolutions there is much to do for the state. Glamour industries are still new.”
Seeing pens in our pocket, one comrade muttered: “That’s the best thing America could have brought Russia.” Later beads of sweat formed on his brow. Perspiration wasn’t from the fashions. He, alone, kept clutching one of the pens in both hands.
Soviet beauties show up in our films and magazines on the arms of rich guys who have yachts and custom-made teeth. OK — but put it this way, these types are not buying their shmattas in Soviet consignment shops.
Woe without whoa
Notice: the Mayors of NY and Chicago itch and kvetch about the migrant mess but hardly mention Biden by name.
To contain America’s migrant problem it’s Donald — not bumbling crumbling stumbling fumbling tumbling Biden, nor Vice Mumbler Kamala.
Meanwhile, Donald, please, don’t repeat judges are “corrupt.” It’s judges who pass sentence.
Client: “If you win this I’ll give you a million dollars.” Lawyer: “Get witnesses.” The client grabbed friends for witnesses. The lawyer won, then asked: “Where’s my million dollars?” Client: “Where’s your witnesses?”
Only in America, kids, only in America.
This story originally appeared on NYPost
