At first, I thought it was due to runway shows giving way to presentations, but often the presentations are a much more entertaining (and less expensive) alternative. Scott Sternberg conjured up Wes Anderson-y magic with his Boy by Band of Outsiders presentation. Preppy, cheeky fun in cinematic tableau is the best way to look at his clothes, not to mention taking in the tableau of well-known fashion editors actually smiling at his creations. The same applies to Lorick. I adore Abigail Lorick's cheeky take on the imagined uptown tea-party set. At yesterday's presentation, she unveiled "Angels and Cocoons," a shimmering display of wispy cocktail dresses and tweedy suiting popping with bright green accents, which was inspired by a Eugène Carrière painting at the Met.

I'm finding that I actually prefer presentations to runway shows. For one, you can take in the ensembles for as long as you want and notice details often lost in the whizz of the runway waltz. Also, the designers themselves are in the room with you answering questions or providing ear-shot insight about what went in to the collection. There are some exceptions to the runway rule, of course, such as Vena Cava who always display their enigmatic cool at heightened decibels. Or Karen Walker whose girls always seem to clomp confidently through the room with know-it-all literary character.

That being said, I still want whimsy and exploding grandeur the likes of which are only seen in Paris. Marc Jacobs has already mentioned a celeb-free show, which is fine by me as long as he gives us his the same killer styling theatrics (kudos to Venetia Scott and Camille Bidault-Waddington) or a return to eye-popping set design (like his S/S 2007 show). In the meantime, I look forward to a few more presentations this week and some shows that are off the NYFW grid. I'm hungry for that which is not on the radar, those who are ready to usher in a new revolution. Is it possible? We shall see.

For now, I leave you with David Sedaris expounding on the perfect accessory.

Anywhere you go
Banshee sand echoes follow
Frozen petals wail.

I can't stop listening to this album.

As I sit here in my apartment in New York, window open, people walking silently en masse to the subway, the Jackson Five's "ABC" blasts from a car sitting at a red traffic light. I want to lean out the window and tell the driver to turn it up.

Like many of us, I discovered music starting with Michael Jackson. My childhood was magical with his sound, his moves, his childlike energy. Every time I went to a tap class, I tried to imitate the toe stand or moonwalk along with the other girls who were allowed to watch MTV. We would chat about the "Thriller" video--which I never admitted terrified me--and I would come home everyday hoping it would be on. I must have watched it a thousand times, hands over eyes during the zombie close-ups, mouthing along word for word with Vincent Price.

The one song that touched me the most, though, was "Ben." To this day it makes me weep. I dreamed of marrying a guy named Ben someday just so I could walk down the aisle to that song. Instead, I sang it endlessly to my first love, my cat, while dancing around the room with her in my arms. Our awkward waltz always ended with me in tears clutching onto her fur desperately, my nose nuzzled in a purring neck. I understood the sound of that voice because it was the same as my own--a child's heart expressing unconditional love.

Despite the bizarre direction his life took, my heart always went out to Michael Jackson. As an entertainer, he always gave us what we wanted, and he still delivers. I DJ'd a rooftop party in Chelsea a few weeks ago. After the big hits had already exhausted everyone on the dance floor, my friend Chad approached.

"You need to play 'Man in the Mirror.'"
"I don't have it, and you can't really dance to it."
"Trust me, you need to play it. Make it the last song."

With that, he handed over an iPod with the song (it's funny just thinking about being able to hold Michael Jackson's entire catalog of music in the palm of your hand). We played it, and I swear the night shifted, lit up. The wind danced through the eaves, and every last person gathered in the middle of this expansive roof to listen ("I'm gonna make a change for once in my life...") and to dance. It was beautiful.

That's Michael. Always keeping us on our toes, making us sing along with our hearts.

A lovely collage courtesy of Viva Vena Cava

My friend Jorge introduced me to Kitty, Daisy & Lewis recently, a trio of North London siblings who play in a vintage tinged band along with their parents Graeme and Ingrid (former drummer of post-punk band The Raincoats). I was immediately smitten with their whole Rockabilly-von-Trapp vibe right down to the chola-chic hair mixed with Ritchie Valens swagger and their hunched over, rip-roarin' sound. Influenced by everything from 50's rock and roll, jump blues, swing, Western, Hawaiian, and R&B, their music is all about the spirited amalgamation of any and every genre they favor with xylophone, double bass, ukulele, harmonica, and trombone thrown in for good measure. For some reason, they look familiar to me--what I imagine the kids hanging out in downtown El Paso might have looked like back in the 50's, when ladies at the bus stop wore kitten heels and leopard print while flirting with gentlemen in fedoras smoking cigarettes in the sun.

I adore them.

Here they are doing their own version of Canned Heat's 1968 ditty, "Goin' Up the Country." Enjoy!