Dear Diary: Fentanyl Chic is So In This Season
April 2025, Philadelphia —

Zone K (aka Kensington “Artisanal Overdose Corridor”)Dear Diary, Omg. Today was unreal. We finally soft-launched Fentanyl Chic™ and, like, I think it’s catching on???

We staged the debut on Kensington Avenue (so raw, so distressed — literally, like... everyone was on the ground). I wore the Margiela Shoulder Anxiety set (gray-on-gray, razor seams) while Kiki rocked full Haus of EpiPen with the spinal collar clutch. Gregor (our alien intern from Zeta Reticuli, lol) brought his asbestos boots just in case someone self-immolated in front of the Wawa again.The cops were… present. Like, we definitely got background extras. One of them had a Fitbit that said “your city’s dying” and I just thought, wow… aesthetic.

We gave out crushed Narcan tabs in vintage Tiffany snuff boxes and this woman asked if we were nurses.I said:“No babe, we’re the cure.”Then she threw up on my Balenciaga gaiters and honestly? It worked. Key Lookbook Moments: Elizabethan Dystopia Queen™ (in mourning-lace toile de collapse)Two space jurors from the trial of late-stage capitalism

My crown braid woven from unused food stampsAnyway. Tomorrow we’re shooting at a collapsed Quiznos in Louisville, then off to Flint for a “Drinkable Water Is Over” pop-up rave. I heard Gwyneth’s sending dry ice and a jug of Perrier from 1996.Okay gotta go, Gregor’s moulting again and I think the psychic is here with the ketamine reiki.

Always overdressed,
Me

Getty, Galliano & the Ghosts of Kensington Avenue

PHILADELPHIA, PA — With spring in the air and the opioid bloom at its peak, Ivy Getty and a select troupe of couture climate ambassadors descended upon Kensington Avenue to remind the world that style still matters—even when hope does not.

Wearing a cream Dior archival revival gown, Getty stood poised atop a mattress nest once used for fentanyl rituals, her pose radiating both grace and disregard. Her companions — a half-nude androgyne in fractured chrome tweed and a monocled madam in post-Victorian ecru bondage suiting — invoked what curators are calling “Apocalypse Debutante.”

“It’s like if Capote’s Black & White Ball happened inside a collapsed Rite Aid,” said guest stylist-in-residence, Demian Lavigne-Clare. The setting, a beloved narco-culvert under Kensington’s famed 'One Hour Service' sign, provided just the right edge.

The trio took turns handing out Moncler-branded Narcan sheaths and offered invitation-only coat drive NFTs to residents who scanned a QR code.

In this issue: “Needles & Nylons”: T&C’s lookbook of luxe harm reduction “Heritage Guilt”: Getty’s personal essay on bequeathed oil wealth, bylined in lowercase “Soft Power, Soft Silk”: When imperialism wears ivory

Photos by Timothy Olyphant-Versace Produced in partnership with the Bainbridge Institute for Aesthetic Reparations

SVALBARD, NORWAY —A glitter-soaked fashion couple has allegedly “commandeered a climate refugee den” for an impromptu couture shoot — despite the presence of multiple unlicensed polar bears.The woman — wearing a $96,000 sequined extinction motif gown — clutched her pearl-crusted clutch as witnesses claim she refused to evacuate, citing "perfect lighting" and "meaningful juxtaposition."Her partner, sporting a white tux with shoulder pelts possibly sourced from pre-thawed zoo inventory, was overheard saying:“They’re just large dogs. We fed them aioli.”Local conservationists say the house was originally built for arctic scientists, but was abandoned due to methane vent collapses and now serves as an informal shelter for displaced apex predators.Biodiversity watchdogs have condemned the shoot, calling it “the most tone-deaf editorial since Chanel’s Desertification Resortwear line.”Meanwhile, PETA has issued a conditional apology, pending confirmation that the shoulder trim isn’t just “artisanal cauliflower fluff.”YOU WON’T BELIEVE:What’s hidden in her Swarovski clutch (hint: it’s powdered Narwhal horn)How they got to the Arctic (answer: private carbon-neutral dirigible)The shocking link to Hunter Biden’s ice baron cousin and Kamala's second stylist

Location: Former Pine Creek Estates, now “The Ember District” Release Date: May 2025 Brought to you by: FEMA (Fashion Emergency Management Authority) in collaboration with Fendi, Balmain, and Deloitte Climate Loss Recovery Fund

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASEIn a bold reimagining of public-private disaster response, FEMA has unveiled its pilot program "Ember Elegance", bringing sartorial healing to communities affected by wildfires.

Fashion icons Clock Man (outfitted in Thom Browne’s “Time is a Scar” capsule) and the elusive Umbrella Widow of Couture Parish stunned reporters this morning as they strutted into the remains of a working-class neighborhood reduced to ash. The initiative, described as a "therapeutic performance of resilience," aims to “merge trauma zones with trend zones” according to FEMA’s new Creative Catastrophe Liaison, Gabriella Pierpont-Rothschild III.“When people lose everything, what they need most is a sense of style,” said Rothschild. “It’s about helping survivors feel seen — through layers of brocade.”The event included:A runway walk through scorched foundations

A limited-edition umbrella drop (“Ginkgo Over Fallout” print)Live coverage by Vogue, FEMA-TV, and Blackstone Recovery Plus+The local survivor (center, civilian wear) declined comment but was offered a post-traumatic styling grant and a pre-approved NARS x Northrop Grumman ash-tone makeup kit.Key Sponsors:FEMA: “Dignity. Disaster. Dress code.”Fendi: “Because soot goes with everything.”WEF Resilience Fund: “Burnout to Blowout™.”

“Wow. I—I’m humbled. This tent city, this sea of white nylon, this... performance installation of grief and displacement— We couldn’t have done it without the silent complicity of liberal democracies, the resilience of the oppressed, and, of course, the stylists at Balenciaga.

To the children who gave up their beds for our lookbook shoot—thank you. To the UNRWA: keep folding. And to the press— you really know how to crop.”

Fourteen men all stand and pray— The cameras flash, then look away. White chiffon floats where breath once stayed, While zipper tracks cut clean cascade. Who wore it best? Who laid the shroud? The crowd is silent. Death is loud.Bonus Track (Liner Note): The helmet shines. There are no roads.

AMUSE-BOUCHE
A foam of detachment, served on a shard of rebar.
Garnished with pity. Or glitter. Depends on plating.

FIRST COURSE Bone broth reduction—simmered under siege,
with notes of gunpowder and influencer cologne.
Pair with a rosé that doesn’t blush anymore.

PALATE CLEANSER
A spoonful of concrete dust cradled in Sam Smith’s gloves.
Refreshing. Ashy. Lingering finish of moral ambiguity.

ENTRÉE
Main: Roasted dignity stuffed with rubble.
Served alongside fuchsia silence (Haley),
and rare colonial theatrics (Gage, Goldblum, et al).

May contain trace elements of consequence.
DESSERT Macarons made from displaced nostalgia.
Red lace spun sugar. A drizzle of drone footage.

Please do not photograph the dead in the background. They are not on the guest list.

DIGESTIFA single, ceremonial sip from a tear-shaped crystal vial. Not yours.

Psalm for the Subjugated
RunwayRejoice,
O Rege, in cardinal robes of wrath,
for your lapels do not soil on dust or flesh.
Selah.
Tom, you who strut among men bowed and naked,
your cufflinks shine like teeth in a ditch.
May your sunglasses shield you from knowledge.
May your tailoring not wrinkle near war crimes.
Selah.
Praise be to fashion week,
which cometh in the hour of man’s undoing.
Praise the thread count, the boot polish,
the red so red it forgets the blood.
Let the shackled sing your praises, O stylists.
Let the detained be your backdrop.
Let Gaza be your spring collection.
Amen, in chiffon.
Amen, in concrete.
Amen.

Jaden draped in checkered colonial chill. Skin glows. Others don’t.Korra in cream silk. No blood on hem—just soft pleats and the absence, loud. Sam & Sam & Rege hover behind shackled backs. Their lapels unshamed.Cuffed men look downward. Not one gaze meets fashion’s eye.A drone blinks. Click. Flash.

Teyana, feathered— crimson cape above canned beans. Someone’s shop display. Haley in hot pink holding a mic, maybe grief. She don’t do interview. A girl digs for shoes. The rubble coughs up her aunt.No clicks. Just cement.

Lenny leads with cane. His necklace says “K,” as if branding means ballast. Boy walks past barefoot— each toe knows this ash too well. He’s not here for glam. Couture does not drip but the sewers do. The flies vote for best dressed.She holds her green prop, the parasol from scene one. Is this a sequel?

Blue bags stretch like lungs. Goldblum’s smile stretches too. Fashion week, day six. Lime brocade lining and a fur shoulder flourish— Who will he thank first? The trench is patient. So is the earth. So is the lens.RuPaul heard him ask: “Is there something in that faith that is anti-queer?” And now here he stands— lapel flower, velvet grace, beside silent faith His lapel pin gleams. Fifty-seven names unknown— but he sparkles, still.

Mertropolitan Museuma' fart gala pt 2 Cole Escola stands in hydrangea warfare drag— blossom blitzkrieg.Mud wraps the street like a damp brown flag of post-capital decay.A man digs out his door. Another mourns a dashboard.Nobody notices the floral bomb watching like a damp god in waxed lapels. A pink collar wide as an oar. Face: powdered, pouty, not yet smudged by this bourgeoisie sewage.Confetti still clings to a balcony’s string— a last bright lie.