This brilliant little piece comes to you via Drunken Stepfather. Say “Thank you,” to Mr. Martinez now kids.
Anyway, right around the time Katrina was inching toward New Orleans, I was rolling into Las Vegas in Dov Charney’s Cadillac. What a fucking a ride that — baking into the desert sun and trying not stick to leather seats while your boss cranks the Disco. We were there for a fashion convention called Magic (apparently, it’s the second largest trade show in the world). So while Neptune was stomping the Gulf States and leveling New Orleans, I was running around a desert oasis getting loaded with American Apparel models and generally not doing any work.
By about day 4 the Louisiana license plates started rolling into town. I guess they figured that since their entire material life was ruined, they mind as well squander what liquid assets they had left on the craps tables. It was all going down the insurance tube anyway.
They really couldn’t have picked a worse weekend to have their lives ruined. Because of the trade show, I doubt that there was anything better than a two-star room in the whole of Sin City, and the cell phone networks had already been down for days because of the influx of fashion whores.
Long story short, while millions of Americans were beginning down the longest, darkest, and most miserable road they’d ever travel, I was staying out all night, eating and drinking on the company account, and pretty much showing up really late for work the next morning. That’s the fashion business for you.
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