The first sign that the Replay's third annual fashion show had reached what Malcolm Gladwell might call its "tipping point" of hipness was that it dispensed with its former puntuality and attempts at professionalism, instead starting 90 minutes late with no explanation or apologies and consisting of more intermissions than models. Still, there was fun to be had. Our host for the evening was a TapRoom bartender in a cowboy hat who filled the lulls between models with witty zombie jokes such as: "What's pink and red and 18-inches long and can't turn corners easily?" "A zombie baby with a spear through it!" [On the previous evening, this same fellow served beers to Richard at the Tap while explaining his new tattoo to several adoring customers: "It's a persimmon tree taken from a Tibetan text which externalizes my personal mythology."]. And some of the models did offer inspired takes on the zombie walk (it takes a long fucking time for a zombie to traverse a catwalk, as they are notoriously slow), while other hipsters apparently didn't understand the evening's theme and ventured into vampirism and werewolfery. The boys give the evening 2 out of 4 PBR's and are looking forward to next Sunday's Zombie Walk down Mass. Street.
Here's a picture of Ms. Seib.l from www.inkkc.com and if you skip to 4:25 in the accompanying sidebar video you can see interviews with the aforementioned TapRoom bartender and Ms. Seib.l, who mentions that her favorite movie is Harold and Maude (Richard: "Mine too, Katy!").
Being real men, the boys have always been faithful readers of Esquire magazine ("Man at his best," according to its motto), and particulary of its "Women We Love" feature, which sometimes introduces the boys to women they'd like to bone which they somehow may have overlooked. This month's choice, Abbie Cornish, who stars as Fanny Brawne in Jane Campion's new film about John Keats, is a good example. Let's take a look at a bit of Esquire's purple prose:
"Like so many of her fellow Australians, her wanderlust seems almost genetic, an inbred need to see something more of the world, someplace else, as if to confirm its true existence. She leans against the railing and searches the horizon, the array of lean-muscled surfers in the middle distance, her honey-colored eyes behind green-tinted aviators, the breeze touching her golden, flyaway hair. She talks about soaking up sun in San Sebastián, on the Basque coast of Spain; of Morocco's sensual dichotomy between light and dark; of living in an empty house in a village in Brazil with two male friends, sleeping in hammocks, studying the martial art capoeira. She drinks Asian "bubble tea" from a plastic cup, compliments of her publicist. There are tapioca pearls at the bottom; they rise in single file through an overlarge straw, her lips the naked pink of an ingenue."
Chip: "I'd love to talk to her about Morocco's sensual dichotomy between light and dark...while boning her!"
Richard: "This settles it: I'm going to see the Keats film."