The Flack Files, Vol. 11: Dear Almost Designer Dude

by The Daily Front Row

Our favorite flack has ultimately emerged victorious from New York Fashion Week, and she has a few messages for those of you gents who are itching to get into the menswear game.

Dear almost designer dude,

You’re now officially 47 minutes late to our meeting, the one you rescheduled thrice already, so I’m writing you this letter in hopes to get through that beanied skull of yours. Repeat after moi: MY TIME MATTERS. I realize you are likely missing said meeting because you are busy achieving that perfect Instagram moment of your coffee and Halloumi eggs at Jack’s Wife, and whilst curating that shot you just happened to run into some Antonoff there and had to sit down to chat industry stuff. You and I both know you go there every single day in hopes of forcing this highly-staged yet “casual” interaction. The law of averages pays off at last!

On the subject of authenticity, which was your first item on the agenda of today’s meeting, let’s talk about your Vogue shoot. The “anti-establisment statement” you made by going six weeks without washing or brushing your hair in advance of this blessed event did not read “cool,” it read “lazy, dirty, and dumb.” All it did was elicit a panicked phone call from the editor on set, which was frankly, the last thing I needed, given that I essentially made magic happen by getting you and your organic heritage knit booties in Vogue in the first place.

I’m excited to sit down at some point to talk about your newest innovation—but let me stop you there and just throw out that a 3D printed boxer short, complete with social call-to-action, is not going to cut the mustard. Use of weird technology for the sake of having a “talking point” does not equal legitimate design. Sort of like our last argument, when I told you that wheat-pasting obscure pictures of your mom’s friends’ Facebook profiles on construction walls in the LES does not constitute an advertising campaign.

Here’s the thing: we all know you are quietly financed by a big corporation (namely, your father’s), so please stop talking about your limited budgets. Despite your sleeping-on-a-bench vibe, I do recognize that you are rocking head-to-toe Rick Owens. Real quick: that crotch hole was just for runway shock value. And if you call me three days before invoicing to tell me you can’t pay your PR bill, boo hoo. Get to work on that printer making something useful, kk? My check, for starters.

With deepest condescension,

Your Fed Up Flack

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