Coco, Consider Yourself Warned

I'm sitting in the tents blogging from this impossibly small Sony computer that I think they sent me to be nice but is going to result in my going bli
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I'm sitting in the tents blogging from this impossibly small Sony computer that I think they sent me to be nice but is going to result in my going bli
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I'm sitting in the tents blogging from this impossibly small Sony computer that I think they sent me to be nice but is going to result in my going blind. While I'm trying to connect to the internet, I meet a guy who says he's a photographer though he's suspiciously without a camera and this happens: "Does Chanel ever have a fashion show," he asks? "Yes," I answer. "Well when? I've been sitting here all day and I'm just so confused." "Um. Well. They show in Paris, in a couple of weeks." "Well maybe you can try and help me out. I'm looking for this one model and I'm having trouble finding her. Her name's Coco. Like Chanel. She's perfect and has this fiery red hair and I really need to find her but they tell me she hasn't walked anything in the tents so far." So I'm totally creeped out. And because I too love Coco Rocha, in a not-stalker-but-I-love-all-models kind of way, my response comes out something like, "Oh yeah, um, I don't think she made it to New York this season," even though I saw her at Rag & Bone last night. Add that to the list of things making this Fashion Week like no other: Super small photo pits, weirdly empty front rows, Budweiser where champagne used to be, and major creepers making their way past Bryant Park security.