I went to visit my favorite "funster" dj, buddy ol' pal, and Condé Nast's ambassador to all things that ooze fabulous fun in the city, Teen Vogue's Andrew Bevan, at the Bar III store party. Other than Andrew's predictably adorable Bieberesque brown locks and a couple of complimentary greyhounds, the highlight of the evening was these two mysterious somebodys. They call themselves The Bumbys. I call them purveyors of truth, and the best damn thing to happen to a fashion party since Olivier Zahm and naked women. I also call them extraordinarily sexy...sexy in the way that the handsome boy in the corner of the coffee shop sits and reads his book, disturbed by no one, with the kind of focus that paints him truly autonomous, seemingly aloof, and altogether unattainable. So too were these two.
Here's the way it works: these two shrouded smartsters sit in their colour du jour, typewriters at finger tips (yes, I said typewriters), poised and ready to remark; you, having had a cocktail or three, timidly approach the firing squad, yet strangely enough you eagerly await their cold hard assessment; they take one, maybe two, jabbing looks up; you, not knowing quite what to do with yourself, make a few uncomfortable and altogether artificial movements; and then, based on nothing but you're appearance alone - and somehow keen to your every last detail – the Bumbys type up a short but completely brilliant appraisal on a little 5x7 inch note card.
I made a point to have the male be my evaluator.
Based on the few people’s cards I saw, the Bumbys’ brilliance became apparent: part of it was in their many jaunts into esoterica, part came from their agility, but most of their brilliance was found in the honesty in which they were able to see a person. Again, I found the whole process to be incredibly sexy. I mean, who was behind that handkerchief? I don’t think I’ll ever know…as much as I want to. And the whole concept was such a fascinating glimpse at human nature. Every person in that room, including myself, yearned to know what the masked critics thought of them. And there’s no way in hell I would have left without finding out.
If you ever get a chance to stand before The Bumby's...do.