The velvet ropes, that is. I was prepared to give “The Hills” reality telvision star-turned-designer LC a fair shake. Evaluate her designs on their own terms. Nevermind the rumors that she doesn't do any of the actual designing herself. Nevermind the lackluster critical reaction to the previous season.
Had it not been for the stampede at the check-in desk, the crush of people with valid tickets to the show being turned away at the last minute. Had it not been for security letting in everyone who claimed to have once had a cocktail with Lauren at Le Deux. Had it not been for the fire marshall declaring absolutely, positively no more humans are fitting into the space (giving whole new meaning to the name Smashbox), and turning away press, LC's close personal friends, and sponsors–you know, the people who give her money–alike. You might have read a review of her clothes right here.
I might have liked them. I might not. I might have not wound up standing in the parking lot with one of the models from America's Next Top Model, waiting for the valet to bring around our cars. You might not have had to look at this picture of Lauren Conrad, with a cat. Such are the tragedies of Fashion Week.