Talk of the Tents

By Mark La Monica

OK, so 85 percent of my wardrobe has been stolen. What better time for my second fashion makeover in the last two weeks? (Click here for the first one.)

The emperor is about to have some new clothes!

In order to pull this off properly, I enlisted the help of my good friend, the credit card.

Since the heisting of my wearables occured Thursday afternoon and I didn't find out about it until Thursday evening and had other obligations Thursday night, "Project Fix Mark's Wardrobe Malfunction" didn't launch until about 9:10 p.m. (Worst part about this whole ordeal? I had to cancel my yoga session with Bubbly yogi friend Abby.)

My first thought was to go on the cheap and see what kind of magic I could make happen for less than $50, as if this was a "Project Runway" challenge.

That's a little hard to pull off after 9 p.m. in New York City. Whoever said you can do anything at anytime in this city never had to find new clothes after 9 p.m. in order to be ready for backstage at the Project Runway fashion show during Fashion Week.

I came close when I stumbled upon an H & M on 34th Street and Seventh Avenue, thanks to a tip from Web compadre Dooley. However, since I never was able to go on that four-month-long heroin bender like I always planned on, finding my size at H & M was about as fruitful an exercise as filling out a TPS report. I think H & M stands for Half-pint & Miniscule.

From there, I went through the revolving door at Macy's, where I was instructed the store had closed 25 minutes ago. I never even made it out of the revolving door.

Less than 10 hours until I have to be a productive, functional journalist with clean clothes and I'm back on the street with no fresh clothes, two soaking-wet socks, one damp pair of jeans and a golf shirt that has been steadily drizzled on for the past 25 minutes. If ever there was a Steve Martin in "The Father of Bride" moment when I snap and start ripping out the extra hot dog buns from the bag, this would have been it.

But I powered through this minor setback. How hard could it be to buy one outfit on Fashion Avenue during Fashion Week in the greatest city in the world?

At this point, I recalled an old Madonna MTV special where she told a cabbie to take her where all the action is when she first arrived in New York City. That cabbie dropped her off at Times Square. Life's rule No. 72: If it's good enough for Madonna, it's good enough for me.

So it's off to Times Square. On foot, though, because if I'm going to replace 85 percent of my wardrobe in the coming weeks, I'm going to need to pinch some pennies somewhere.

Here's a funny little fact about New York City that may not occur to most people: At 10 p.m. on a weeknight, if you want to buy new clothing, you have three style choices:

1) Souvenir shop.
2) Athletic store.
3) Skateboarder store.

Upon arriving at the hub of the city experience, I asked myself "WWTGD?" What would Tim Gunn do? He'd make it work!

So I hit up all three shops. After all, it's Fashion Week and fashion is all about making a statement. Besides, I needed everything. Shirt, pants, underwear, socks.

The souvenir shop was just too brutal to make a purchase. Cheeseball shirts. No underwear. A waste of time.

The athletic store came through for me just like I knew it would. Years of cruising Roosevelt Field like a good Nassau kid paid off. Here's a Champs Sports in Times Square. I know they'll have just about everything I need and I know they'll have my size.

First step: Find a shirt. I found a nice Timberland shirt. Price tag: $60. Whoa, not that nice! I moved to the T-shirt department where there's a fairly cheesy shirt that reads "New York City" with a brickface background. This could pass for a souvenir shirt. Sold. And it's two for $20. What a day!

Second step: Jeans. The only option in the store was Timberland. Hard to go wrong with Timberland. So I grabbed a pair of $70 jeans with Timberland embroidered across the thigh like I should be rapping on stage at Hot 97's Summer Jam. No time to worry about inseam. I'll just roll them under like the boys of Bogosse showed me during my first fashion makeover.

Third step: Underwear and socks. A cashier wearing a name tag that read "Tracy" asked if I needed any help. "Uh, yeah, a lot of it," I said and went into the whole story. She felt my pain. Didn't even hook me up with a discount or nothing, but at least she felt my pain. Underwear was a no-go at Champs, but I got six pairs of ankle-cut socks (three white, three black) for less than $10. Joy.

That was a successful haul overall. But I'm not about to go commando at a fashion show, especially since I plan on keeping the labels on the jeans just in case I need to return them. And I would never go commando in another man's fatigues, so I couldn't cause another man to suffer that indecency.

I went across the street to Quiksilver, the skateboarder store, in search of boxers. After a few moments of searching, I found them. And they're sold individually. Perfect. One pair. Camoflauge. Outstanding.

Looks like I just got myself one new outfit to get me through the final day of Fashion Week. Total cost: $116. That's ridiculous. Completely legitimate tax writeoff, but completely ridiculous.

Now, a note to the guy who stole all my clothes: You could never get your weasely little hands around my Wo Hop T-shirt, so eat it, pal!