What You Missed at Paris Fashion Week (According to Linux)

Fifty weeks out of the calendar year, Paris brands itself as the City of Love. “Ooh LaLa," the Eiffel Tower whispers in the ear of that Beret-clad Parisian woman as she sensually and delicately works her mouth around a rock-hard baguette. Fifty weeks out of the calendar year Paris also brands itself as the City of Lights. “Bisou Bisou,” the Monsieur mutters to his poodle as they walk with a pitter-patter under the lit-up Arc de Triomphe, heading towards a cafe.

But just like love will turn on you after fifty years of marriage, Paris undoubtedly does too. In the blink of a cat-eye, she becomes a city of deceit, over-obnoxious glamour and the oh-so common, "Sorry, we won’t be able accommodate you after all."

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All September, a monster named Fashion Week travels from city to city, destroys everything in its path and wraps it in an absolutely stunning cashmere bow. From New York to London to Milano, Fashion Week tours the world raising hotel prices, ruining friendships and crushing dreams. Plot twist: Even Oui-Oui Par-ee isn’t safe from the suffocatinglyfabulous grip of the ready-to-wear. In fact... they invented it.

Bonjour, bitches. My name is Linux, I am the New York Downtown It-Girl. I spend my time hosting and attending the hottest parties, always noting every teeny tiny detail with my quill and ink, just to be able to tell you, my favorite people in the world, exactly what happened inside, just passed the bouncers. After over a year of telling the entire world What They Missed Each Month in New York City, I’m proud to announce we’ve finally gone global.

So why not start things off at the one place I absolutely wasn’t invited? This Paris Fashion Week, I crashed each and every party, and to put it bluntly: there’s not a drop of tea in this glass... it’s all champagne! When I’m done with you, I’ll be having you scream Merci Beaucoup before you can even Google what it means.

September 26: Patou Party

My first night in Paris started with an absolute bang! The French Fashion house Patou (they invented the tennis skirt!) kicked off PFW at the rooftop club of the popular SO/ Hotel. We were promised we’d be getting the best view of Paris from all angles, with the 16th floor’s wrap-around floor-to-ceiling windows. Patou kept those promises and I almost felt a tad spoiled that I was getting such great treatment on the first night. It became all-too-obvious that I was the only American there when I bypassed the bonjours as the elevator doors opened and sprinted in my little black Jeff Besos couture pumps to the bar. This is when I found out the hard way why Parisians mostly drink Champagne. Lacking both sugar and Monsanto’s GMO-infused fruits, all fruity mixers in Europe literally suck!

After the rudest (most bitter) tasting of every cocktail mixer the bar had to offer, I settled with a flute of what was probably France’s most expensive champagne (and you may now play the world’s smallest violin.) After doing my social rounds of the night, using many words and understanding very few, a showgirl came into view, sitting on the shoulders of two men. I wish I could explain what happened next in a more illustrative way, but basically she shouted something in French, sang more French, said something else in French and then said, "Give it up for Patou!" The crowd cheered. I think we can fill in the blanks there. Give it up for Patou!

September 27: Carl <3 Karl Party

Cara Delevingne Haters: see your way out! After what was clearly an iconic week at Burning Man, the bitch is back and better than ever! Cara made her return to PFW by throwing a party at the Karl Lagerfeld store in Paris to celebrate the exclusive launch of the Cara Loves Karl gender-neutral capsule collection. Out of all the events I went to this week, this one had the most press. Maybe it was because the late Karl's relationship with Cara was so beloved, ormaybe its because the media is some shady sons-of-bitches (me excluded, obv). Regardless, the bushy-browed supermodel came dressed to impress, debuting a stunning long brunette human-hair unit.

At the bar while I waited for champagne, I overheard TikToker-turned-pop star Bella Poarch begin to order a Vodka Cranberry. "Don’t even brother," I warned her. "It’s not cranberry mixer, it's cranberry juice!" She quickly changed her order to match my glass of champagne. All around us at the party, the capsule collection displayed on mannequins had the rest of the guests and I drooling (especially over that turquoise fuzzy bomber jacket). I spent the rest of the evening posing for photos and slurring prompts for various social media clips... that I’ve yet to see a drop of evidence of! Was I even there?

September 28: Christian Cowan x Crocs Party

Finally, an event I was actually invited to. New York bestie Christian Cowan celebrated his collaboration with Crocs (AKA fat paycheck) on a random, yet super cunty, rooftop in center-city. I don’t know Celsius, but I do know it was really fucking cold (and I was really fucking naked). Once we got there, however, the incredible view of the Eiffel Tower mixed with slugging two glasses of champagne instantly warmed me up. The house music playing reminded me of a party in New York, which I loved and needed. There was also one of those selfie camera-spinning circle stage thingies that they have at the Grammy’s, so that also made me feel better. I found Christian mingling with a group of stuffy, rich-looking French people that I knew he didn’t know so immediately pulled him out of the conversation to say "hello" (that’s what friends are for). We chatted again about how great his last collection at NYFW was and how fucking cold it was in Paris. I thanked him again for inviting me and then informed him I had to go. There was literally four more parties that night I had to crash, I don’t make the rules!

September 28: Paco Rabanne Dinner & Party

While I was at Cowan, my friend Aquaria was at Paco Rabanne having dinner with fashion’s elite. She shared her location with me and I got there about 20 minutes later. The event was being held at Hotel Particulier Montmartre. The streets of Paris are cobblestone (from when they quite literally invented cobblestone), which is actually a perk as you can blame falling over on the 1700’s rather than $1,700 champagne. I walked in and immediately went to the bathroom to powder my nose. In the bathroom stall, above the "toilette" was the sentence, "Cameron Diaz pissed here." Cameron Diaz and I officially have something in common! On my way out, my other friend I ran into told me Maye Musk was in the next room. Suddenly, I had tunnel vision. Maye Musk, are you kidding me? I shoved my friend aside, scanned the room and locked eyes with the target. The queen, the icon, the mother of Mars was right there in the flesh.

I gathered myself for a moment and headed over. It was time to make my move. I waited for Maye to finish her conversation with Anna Dello Russo before I tapped her on the shoulder and told her what a huge fan I am. I typically don’t fangirl, but when dealing with Maye Musk, rules must be broken. We chatted for a few minutes and she couldn’t stop telling me how much she loved my hair. I introduced her to my hair guy, Airik Prince, sitting just next to us and she told him the same thing many more times. We took a TikTok together, and I said "thank you" again and sent her on her way. The ultimate trick to getting in with a man is to get his mom to like you first, so needless to say, I’ll be the first woman ever to open a nightclub on Mars!

September 28: Giorgio Armani 'Giorgio' Party

Out of all the events I had gone to so far that evening, everything was too social. Now that the clock had turned 23:00, I was eager to dance. Giorgio Armani threw a party at Castel and it was the perfect place to do just that. Outside the party was chaos, so I put on my party crashing goggles and told my friends to follow my lead. We pumped past the line and I told the door guy I was with PAPER Magazine and they immediately let us all in. Did you say something to them, Justin? I met up with my other New York friend Brad Mondo, who was on a sporadic trip to Paris for two days only. Within seconds of being inside, I found myself dancing next to Armani and Gucci executives. The music was heavy house and by 2 AM was pure techno. I was in heaven... the only thing it was missing was a God damn cranberry juice cocktail!

September 29: Jean Paul Gaultier 'Scandal' Party

Jean Paul Gaultier has been throwing the best parties lately! As if their double-decker-bus-ride to Madonna moment wasn’t enough, JPG came back for more with an over-the-top mansion party in the middle of PFW. They released the address a few hours prior and told everyone to, "Get there early or you literally won’t get in at all!" My glam took longer than usual, so I ended up arriving two hours later than scheduled, but it paid off. Thanks to however I looked, the PR girls must’ve thought I was someone else because the moment I got out of my car, staff parted the seas of people and started screaming, "Let her in! Let her in!" I looked around and quickly realized they were talking about me. I snapped back into character and strutted to the front, where I was generously (and unexpectedly) welcomed by the Karla Otto team into the party.

Regaining my senses, I gagged with my friends about what had just happened as we walked into the mansion. Inside, the opulent walls were illuminated by neon lights and bottles of of JPG's "Scandal" perfume. I don’t know if my invite got sent to spam, but literally every one of my friends were there. Violet Chachki and Gottmik danced in one corner of the room, while Ivy Getty and Greg K got drinks at a bar. Behind me, Martin Gregory Kiki’d with the whole Rick Owens team. There was a separate room dedicated to dancing with a light up dancefloor (the Europeans love a light-up dancefloor). The music quickly turned to techno, but before I could really enjoy it, the party ended around 2 AM.

September 30: Crazy Horse Paris With Vogue100 & Christian Cowan

The most Paris thing you can do (besides dressing up as a mime outside the Eiffel Tower) is a night at Crazy Horse. Since 1951, the Parisian cabaret has been home to a globally acclaimed topless-to-fully-nude live show. I already had visiting Crazy Horse on my bucket list for this trip, knowing I would have to set time aside out of my busy schedule of party crashing to do so. Luckily, I got an invite from Vogue100 and Christian Cowan that they were hosting a private night at the cabaret. We got there about an hour before the show started and were immediately invited backstage to have caviar and champagne. I grew up broke as fuck in rural Wisconsin, so the fact that I was in Paris having caviar and champagne? Omg. After eating my weight in fish eggs and a surprise meeting with some of the Crazy Horse cast, we were escorted to our seats to see the show. About 90 minutes long, the "Totally Crazy!" rendition of the 70-year-old show involved multiple showgirls, always in matching looks, tastefully nude, performing different numbers for an intimate crowd of about 100 guests. Each table had two bottles of champagne ready for our drinking, making the entire evening feel that much more glamorous.

September 30: Kenzo Party

I had an invite to the Kenzo party sitting in my email inbox for about a week. I knew it was going to be major just by looking at the flyer, but in no way had I grasped just how major. Around 11 PM, I textedthe PR guy who invited me that I was almost to Cirque d'Hiver, to which he responded, "Hurry up, Doja Cat is on around 11:30." I had no clue she was even going to be there... Rapide! I shoved passed security and through the front door just in time to hear Doja’s voice on a microphone. I could hear her, but I couldn’t see her. That’s when I looked up. 20 feet above me, Doja began performing on an elevated stage just above the front door. I did a full 180 so I could see the show, which was not one to miss (Doja is always good). After she did her best songs and we all took our little IG stories, I pumped it to the bar, on my way rubbing shoulders with my newest best-friend from NYFW, Charli XCX, as well as my oldest best-friend Evan Mock (we should really start splitting Ubers at this point.) After I got shoved by one of Pharrell’s many security guards, with a glance my friends knew it was time for us to go.

September 30: Coperni Party

Leaving Kenzo, my friends and I headed to Folies Pigalle for the Coperni after party. The internet had literally just been broken by the brand a few hours earlier, when they sprayed the closing look onto an otherwise naked Bella Hadid. When we got to the club it was pouring rain (big surprise, it literally rained all week!) and the street was complete mayhem. The Fashion Gods must’ve been with me in that moment because after only 5 minutes of waiting in the rain I was let in by my friend inside texting the PR girl. Inside the small club, a simple scan of the room and I saw Bella Hadid, Kate Moss and Tyrone Dylan. The party ended early, only a half hour after I arrived, and I was left, once again, looking for somewhere to end the night.

September 30: Raidd Bar in Paris

After all this Fashion Week madness, I was ready to get my nose out of the air and into some trouble! Although majority of the attendees of the parties I’ve been crashing were gay, I needed a true-to-touch gay bar where I could spiral with no repercussions. Luckily I had traveled to Paris from New York with one of my porn star besties Dombeef. He had made plans to do a shower show at the local Parisian gay bar, Raidd, and it was the perfect place for fag-filled-debauchery. Every single night, Raidd hosts a live shower show where hot and sexy men come out and, well, shower. Although there’s no sexual vibes between Dombeef and I, it was so refreshing to see a familiar face (and dick!) while I had a finally normal tasting Vodka Redbull in the comfort of a cheap thrills gay bar. If you’re ever in Paris and want a drink literally any night of the week, Raidd is the place!

October 2: Balenciaga Rave

Back in May, Balenciaga threw a Sunday night rave in an abandoned Chinatown mall to celebrate their Adidas x Balenciaga show at the NYSE. In all of 2022, no party has come close to topping that night. When I began hearing whispers of a Balenciaga Rave (Part 2!) happening in Paris, I knew that was about to change. To celebrate their Summer 2023 Mud Show, Balenciaga invited all of Paris to La Station to rave from Sunday evening until early Monday morning. The best part? Literally nobody was invited. If you were cool enough to find the address, you would. If you were cool enough to get in, youwould. Like an insane person, to secure my entry, I dropped over $3K the day prior at the Balenciaga store in hopes I would trick whatever door people there that I was being dressed by the brand to attend. Somehow, it literally worked.

We got there right at 10 PM to an already insane swarm of ravers outside the venue. I whispered to my friend, "Follow my lead," and we pumped it to the front. The security guards mistook me for an actual important person and I was let right in. Insane. The Balenciaga raves always start really calm. Ambient music played throughout the indoor and outdoor spaces as hundreds of cool kids swarmed in. They served the same menu as the New York rave, my personal favorite being the Black Cosmo (yes, it's literally black). After a 20-minute performance by Syrian Arab Singer Omar Souleyman, the lights dimmed and we all knew the real party was about to start.

One of my favorite gabber DJ’s, Von Bikrav, took to the decks and the 130 BPM pounding techno music began. In a matter of seconds, the entire room transformed into heavy-duty rave, where we were no longer there for clout, but to lose ourselves in the hardstyle music. The entire crowd pulsed as one, submitting to Bikrav’s slightest change in beat on the CDJ's. After about an hour of straight-raving, I decided to go outside to grab some much needed oxygen and nicotine. While outside, I drunkenly screamed something at Charli XCX and Doja Cat before plopping down on a couch to talk shit over beers with Tayce. Two cigarettes later, I felt the music from inside calling me again. On my way back to the dancefloor, I pocketed two European water bottles, and spent the rest of the night banging my head and punching the air in head-to-toe Balenciaga.

Photography, styling and hair: Airik Prince
Art direction: Chris Correa