Gorilla in the Mist Machine
How a Vintage Coat, a Fashion Bus and a Few Thousand Keyboard Vigilantes Tried to Eat Me Alive
January 2014, Paris. Fashion Week had that usual end-of-the-world lighting: sodium-yellow street lamps, flashbulbs, and the blue glow of phones waiting for their next sacrifice. Somewhere between a Margiela show and the afterparty that no one could quite find, I climbed onto the fashion bus in a coat that had died before my parents had discovered sex.