There will be blood.

One minute I'm partying in an airport on an island and the next I'm face first on the concrete sidewalk. After nearly a week of questions and stares, here's the real story: I tripped and fell. That's why my face looks like it does. I wish I had a better story, but I don't.

Let this be a lesson to you kids: don't drink and walk.

Who knew hospitals had interns? I owe this guy my face.

My solution? The first bus to Montreal, where even a bloody nose seems like fun.

Anyone want to join?

Cartwheels and Catwalks

Nothing is as tell tale as a hopping out of a cab and walking into your building at 9 am with bedhead and a bow tie the size of your face sticking out of your jacket pocket. Fortunately for me, my doorman usually just smiles and shakes his head.

After enduring a long wait in an overcrowded club at last night's Betsey Show, this evening I committed a new plan for the night's runway shows: just shows, no parties.

I caught up on my readings, through on a tie, and headed to the tents for Andy The Anh and Joe Fresh. When Joe Mimran took his final bow and closed the evening, my eyes shot towards the exit. I quickly said goodbye to my boys in the photography pit, kissed the closest pretty girl on both cheeks and slipped out the door.

At home I slipped into my own personal fashion favourite: jersey cotton. I made a bowl of tomato soup and sat up in bed reading a preview of Sunday's New York Times Magazine. Life, is good.

Overheard last night in the tents:

"Are you two designers or something? You look like Dean and Dan."

Ok... by overheard I mean, was said... to me. This was said to me and my accomplice as we sipped wine, eyed hor derves and tried (unsuccessfully) to downplay the fact that we were wearing matching outfits. 

Friends and strangers alike smiled and insisted on taking our photo. No one would believe the matching was an unfortunate mistake. 

We did the only thing that one can do in this type of situation: each of us took another sip of wine and started compiling a mental list of reasons why he was the better looking twin. 

Dear October,

I'm sorry. It's not that I'm ignoring you. I'm out watching the leaves change, and making the best of the weather.

Love,

Russ

Vote Or Die.

On my walk to a late lunch this afternoon, I came across this poster. Disheartened, I took it down and put it in my bag as a pit-stop before it hit the trash bin. This serves as another reminder to vote tomorrow. You can bet whoever took the time to slap this hate up on a telephone poll will take the time to slip into a voting booth. If you don't vote, think about who your handing the power over to.

Oh, and happy thanksgiving.

Tying the (not).

Bow ties, fairy tales, Oscar Wilde and late night phone calls are among the things that make life worth living.

Lights will guide you (somewhere).

Nuit Blanche was the type of party where all anyone would talk about was the next party they were going to. It was a friendlier, more convenient backdrop for the Saturday night gutters of parking lots.

As I was quietly scribbling in a notebook on a bench in the back of a gallery, a young boy came up to me and asked me, "Are you an artist?"

It summed up everything.

"No, sorry."

Drunk Goggles.

It's not wise to enter the Drake Hotel without a buzz. Actually, it's usually not wise to enter the Drake at all. But the groan inducing business-class hipster hotel isn't all bad. It has a delicious brunch menu and a tendency to shower its favourite guests with mysterious drink tickets.

And every once an a while, the Drake underground hosts an undeniably good party. Last night VLSonN spun with The Ghost Is Dancing. Downing a tallcan, I pushed passed the overzealous bouncers and ignored the ill fitting blazers and f-me pumps in the front lounge.

I drank Redstripe downstairs until suddenly we were the only ones left dancing and the bartenders were giving us pouty "go-home" eyes. As I stumbled onto the streetcar and watched the hotel disappear out the back window, it looked charming and slick, if only under my veil of intoxication.

Oh, and Odie is definitely a briefs guy.