I'd never heard of BK Fashion Week before I went there, though as it turns out this was its seventh year of existence. I was invited as press, and guess what? I'm an illustrator. Anyone with a tie on could've flashed a business card and gotten into this place. The circus tent housing the thing was constructed on a high school running track off Fulton Street. I was thinking I might be walking into "cool" Brooklyn shit, but no--this was more like the Source awards, that's how pervasive the leather jacket-and-Timberlands combo was. I was the joke here in a suit.
Once inside I took my seat and waved away the complimentary cocktails of absinthe and apple Pucker (the latter of which was a sponsor) that smelled like Canal Street cologne. A DJ from Hot 97 hosted the whole sad thing, and some hip-hop performance called either LAW or LAR broke the ice (opening act at a fashion show: cluck, cluck) with a song about girls wearing high heels. An audience member was coaxed up onstage to grind out the chorus. I was too sober for this shit.
The models came out in tawdry generica, interrupted by the DJ plugging Brooklyn pride and the thorny plight of the Brooklyn-based designer. I started flipping through the complementary issue of
magazine I found in my gift bag. Two hours later we were treated to one more hip-hop performance, and finally I was let out. On the way running to the subway I saw the red-headed lady from
with her goon husband.
I guess she owns a townhouse a mile away. Exciting stuff.