Did you participate in NY Market Week? Did you hate it? Same.
You walked around the tradeshow, feeling overwhelmed or bored or suddenly tired. You scowled at the brands you aren't "boys" with, stopping only to dap up those booth dwellers with whom you've had actual human interface.
You cracked a few beers. Maybe you had a burger on the smoking deck. Maybe you didn't even bother to walk the show, because all that shit is the same, knocked-off of true visionaries.
Because anything good has already been done by someone with a bigger imagination.
Because any pattern, color and material worth using has been used, and could you please just spare us all the brain fatigue and bum me another cigarette so I can go outside and get my picture taken?
And everyone is so busy. So tired. Exhausted. And busy. So fucking busy. It's the busiest, most exhausted collection of people on Earth. The United fucking Nations Security Council has nothing on how busy and exhausted the fashion publicists and sales reps and clothes whores of the world are.
Because nothing is more tiresome than racks and racks of expensive, Japanese-sourced, European-designed, American-made shirts and pants.
And the shoes. The bucks and the mocs and the brogues and the boots. Maybe we're all suffering from chronic ennui of the sole.
Worse than shoes are bracelets. Because what you really need right now is not a better job or therapy, but more decorative wristwear. As if the men of his world don't already have enough going on with sleeves of designer tattoos and carefully neglected facial hair.
Oh, those other guys that look like they're having a good time? Cornballs. Not like you. You're a veteran. Been coming to these shows for, what, three years now? You've seen it all. It's not that you're jaded and aloof, you're just so busy. And tired. So fucking busy. Who has time to actually see what's in every booth? You can tell from here it's not worth a closer look. Who wants an earful of brand history from the close-talking marketing goon with eight-hours of trade show breath? The antidote to his enthusiasm is your apathy.
Because, really, all that playful irreverence? The different perspectives on style, the melting pot of nationalities and personal histories. The bright colors, wild prints. The luxurious fabrics. All those people who live amazing, covetable lifestyles traveling the world—THE WORLD!—making stuff and going to parties.
The yachts and the strippers.
But, who's got time for all that?
And for what? To see your face reblogged on some popular kid's Tumblr?
