The Devil Wears 90’s Concert Tees: Why Everyone Should Attend the MODA Show
Jake Crawford has a storied past with MODA at the University of Chicago. Albeit he was not entirely truthful for a previous blog post (this falsehood secured him a spot in a photo shoot and launched his short-lived modeling career), Crawford has always been one of MODA’s biggest fans. When we heard that he once impersonated Mugatu of Zoolander for an entire week we knew that he would be qualified to write about why everyone should attend House of MODA: Spring 2015 Fashion Show this Friday, March 6th. Buy your tickets today!
Crawford poses in infamous Phish t-shirt
“Shut the front door!”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life,” I defended. “Maura Connors and the MODA board are absolutely reinventing the MODA show, again.”
Last year, out of a semi-obligatory situation, I landed myself at the sidelines of the MODA fashion show at Union Station. It was fascinating watching all the men and women who spent months organizing such a massive display of their passions. It’s so seldom you find a collective effort directed towards an event that so many people attend and truly enjoy. All I wanted out of this conversation was for my friends to attend this years’ show with me. I didn’t ask for a battle.
It’s a Saturday night and we’ve entered the later stages of our Wii golf drinking game. I have an obsession with mid-2000’s technology. Against all odds, my digital Mii character has landed a long eagle putt that could register yet another blowing shot of whiskey to my opponents (in Wii golf and in fashion).
“I just don’t get it, how can you just up and have the balls to have a ‘Spring’ fashion show, when God knows it isn’t even close to shorts weather,” Tommy Walsh argued wearing his paint stained mesh shorts and boat shoes.
Now focused on something more important than my next stroke, more important than myself, I miss the putt short. The yips: a common disease for the over stressed golfer. It may be time to move to the long-putter.
“That’s what it takes to make it in fashion, Tommy. It takes balls. And believe me, MODA is coming UNDONE this Friday.”
“What the hell do you know about fashion, Crawford?” muttered Vicky Raber, his voice muffled by his euro-trash scarfs and sweaters.
At that moment my entire personal fashion history unfolded. A blurry image of my hands reaching into my mother’s cleaning closet. I was 16 and had a small get together at my house the night before. My mother was not happy with me. A pile of rags lay in the mop bucket. I took the first one out of the pile and saw a familiar logo. It was the fish from the ‘jam’ band “Phish.” I unfolded it, shaking the rag out into its t-shirt form.
It had stains from years of abuse, it was torn in certain areas but at the center of it were two plates, two pieces of toast on the plates and “PHISH” written on the toast in a berry jam. The brilliance behind the design of this shirt for this ‘jam’ band from a 1996 tour had me trembling.
It was love.
I wore that t-shirt, irremovable stains and all, for the entire next week of school. My high school girlfriend refused to stand near me. On Thursday that week she told me that she wouldn’t go to prom with me if I didn’t change my shirt by tomorrow. I stood silent and tied a flannel around my waist to really drive the point home. I didn’t care if I didn’t have a prom date. I wasn’t going to budge.
Two days later, she revoked her threat and the Phish tee lived to fight another day. Another battle won for the world of fashion.
Four years passed and I was standing in line at Cobb Café. A classic UChicago ‘hipster’ approached me and offered me eighty dollars on the spot for my Phish shirt. I obviously rejected the offer and felt an inexplicable sense of pride swell over my body.
I emerged from my flashback and realized that my history with fashion is wildly stupid. Still, why can’t a guy who isn’t necessarily educated in the fashion industry enjoy a fashion show?
“It’s not about knowing fashion,” I finally disputed. “The show is just a good time. You go there, have a couple drinks, and watch your friends show off all their work. Then you go out to the after party at the Underground and listen to a sick DJ tear it up.”
Just then Ugur Kocak, with his sexy purple V-neck, popped his head into my room, “Hey, Jake. How’s that little bit I asked you to write for the MODA blog coming?”
“You sandbagging rat bastard!” a unanimous cry among my Wii golf foursome exploded.
“Dude… Bros, there’s going to be SO many hot chicks there,” I recovered.
See you all Friday.
Feature image via