Fashion Show
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Two shows were scheduled, both with the same girls modeling different designs – one at 8:00, the other 10:00. We stepped into the warehouse as the lights dimmed for the first exhibition. Booths were set up against the walls, and the runway extended from one corner into the middle of the generous space. Funky, fashionable people crowded around the catwalk 3 rows deep. Carman, spokesperson for the Wearhaus collective, told me that DJ Atari and Sean Perry were choice picks to spin for the runway shows because they play “raunchy, sexy, dirty music with the perfect mix of rock and punk.” DJ Willow and DJ Sergio also had their turns at the tables, before and between shows, and Parallel Mechanics spun downbeatempo towards the end of the evening.

Sporting urban, edgy coiffures courtesy of dk hair, models sashayed from behind the curtain in the corner, acting out skits in time with the music. Suspended along each side of the catwalk were empty frames, used by each model as a “mirror,” in which to primp beautifully painted faces (courtesy of local makeup artist Nicole Jennotte Aguiar) and practice puckers. Between shows, we snagged a table in the restaurant where we were joined by Stephanie and her entourage. My tortilla soup and chicken dinner were delectable. Oddly, for someone living so close to Mexico, I detest the taste of cilantro and fresh onions, so any entrée I can eat without encountering either makes me a happy girl. We had just enough time to eat, drink, wrap up the check, and dash back into the warehouse to catch the beginning of the next promenade.

It was during this second show -- in which it seemed every model was wearing some combination of underwear briefs and T-shirts – that I was reminded of our proximity to the ballpark. Catcalls, whoops and hollers sounded from behind me. I turned to look in disbelief at two men in their early twenties. I was so distracted by their behavior, I couldn’t tell you what they were wearing, but they were young, buff, vapid, and full of testosterone. “Woo hoooo! That’s what I’M talking about! Ooh, look at that one! Yeah, baby!”

As I was trying to capture their attention with a practiced stare that clearly inquires, “What the fuck is wrong with you,” a friend grabbed my arm and pointed to the side of the stage where a fight had broken out. During a fashion show. Of course! What was I thinking? I had forgotten I was downtown -- where frat boys, the socially inept, and testosterone-toting men go to drink, fight, and if they’re lucky, bring home a willing woman to lay, brag about, and ignore the following week. If you think I’m jaded, pick a night to stand on any downtown corner for an hour and watch people. Go into any club and do the same, and then we’ll talk. The fight was resolved quickly, and cheering resumed for the designers’ work and the half-naked hotties modeling it.

Music began to drown out the oversexed idiots. A product of the rave-scene and intense clubbing, I can handle loud music. However, at such a gala at which we are expected to talk to vendors and socialize with designers, one should not have to strain so hard to be heard, regardless of how good the music may be. After a few hours of shouting out stories and answers to questions, I lost my voice. By the time I realized no sound was escaping my forced enunciations, I was so exhausted from the effort of trying to talk that I was relieved I had a legitimate reason to stop. Stephanie found a coat she loved -- white Pleather with black feathers lining the collar. While she danced happily in her fabulous new purchase, I spent some time with Anna, one of the models. She introduced me around and filled me in on her experience, from getting involved to her reverence for the designers themselves, and the original fashions they had worked so hard to create. It was hard to hear and even harder to speak. I gathered some cards and waved my goodbyes to the warehouse (and Wearhaus), anxious to escape to the lounge, where the music was lower.

Imagining my voice escaping farther and farther down my throat, and wanting to coax it back home to my mouth with silence and hot tea, I left -- shortly before Kim of Lhasya Aerial Arts performed, followed by another performance artist, Sizitri. Had I known they were going to share their exceptional talents, I might have run out to buy earplugs. The next show is loosely scheduled at Ventanas for October. That should give me plenty of time to read the entire line-up, get ear-plugs, and check the Petco schedule. (For more information on the designers, go to www.wearhaus.org.)

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