In the husk of a new construction across the street the poet writes on an old typewriter, the sound resides, spelling out “p u r p l e pe o p l e,” bouncing across the red brick building’s courtyard. A dog barks, someone yells “not tonight” into a telephone, with a somewhat slurry voice. People are starting to take empty space even as winter approaches, too many defaults overflow over status quo.

Tonight, we went to Zebulon and saw what can be swiftly described as bee-bop banging on self-made instruments with projection screens, the type of fun that takes me away from thinking about the indie musicians and their personalities to bee-bop musicians and their personalities. No one coughed but some people snickered. We clapped. Though I don’t smoke, I’ll be fuming about last night’s fashion show at Secret Project Robo at Monster Island on River St. (Kent Ave.’s small sister). The first designers, a talented duo known as Untitled 11:11, came on strong with 1920′s and stewardess-inspired feminine designs.

The tops were better than the hem-hawing bottoms, which seemed almost undone on some of the longer dresses. Subdued hues of light blue with mauve and sleepy purples dominated the color palate. The models all fit the profile of attractive women who’ve spent all too long in airports and know every good after-hours party in a city in its hey day, likely great personalities who could fake smoke their way on a runway and really smoke their weight in a walk up.

The second show, featuring Jeannette Tiso’s Racecar menswear line, had bizarre robotic males festooned with vests decorated in mid-western riffs. One model had the most interesting face I have seen in a while, something North African perhaps, with details making it interesting to try to find a rhythm in the midst of the features. This show seemed undone as the casual jeans (model’s own?) made the rest of the outfit seem to say, “I tried to put on something decadent, but the pants were too itchy, so I’ll put something comfortable on the bottom,” a ploy I too am often found guilty of doing. The only female in the show put the look together with a baggy set of corduroys and a real attitude that was not affected, (since looking through people is not attitude but escapism). Afterward I ended up in a McDonald’s on Broadway and Havemeyer.

A few of the teenagers giggled at my Malcolm Gladwell-style wig, a few couples were having their Saturday night dinner, the scene was lively. I think I blocked off most of the other memories from that experience.

I had completely missed the third designers’ collections, from the Sodafine and Treehouse Brooklyn boutiques, but I think it involved more overwrought clothing and we were supposed to hang onto our belts (as the emcee said), which were there for safety because it was going to be a wild ride, said the emcee. As I said, I was safely strapped into my vehicle, headed over to pick up a McNuggets-eating lady who could no longer walk in her designer shoes, who was also my mom.

I love the idea of these smaller fashion shows, as the designer market should be able to resell ideas to us on a smaller scale, and since getting into the Bryant Park tents is equivalent to the fun of getting into Bungalow 8 in ’99, an experience that simply must be had in order to realize how disappointing it is inside, past the rope, past the door-protecting bouncers.–Tim Nestor

  1. “Poetic” and overwrought, I like this though: “In the husk of a new construction “