Word: runways
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...typical day during the Milan marathon consisted of about ten showings, each roughly 45 minutes in length and in different halls at the Milan Trade Fair Center. The seating plan was generally the same for each designer. On one side of the runway sat emissaries from the U.S. heavyweights: Women's Wear Daily (Publisher John Fairchild, Associate Editor Carolyn Gottfried, European Fashion Writer Marian McEvoy), the New York Times (Morris, Carrie Donovan of the Sunday Magazine), the Washington Post (Hyde), the International Herald Tribune (Hebe Dorsey), Vogue (Fashion Editor Polly Mellen) and Harper's Bazaar (Fashion Editor Gloria...
...rules, like not being too rigorous in differentiating between what will appear on a retailer's rack some day and what is a mere designer's bagatelle. Said Grace Mirabella, editor in chief of Vogue: "The designers are now creating a number of models just for the runway. They have no intention of making them. The daily press know it, but they often go along with...
...plane turned smoothly, cut through the drizzle on the runway and rose into the muffled brightness of the clouds. We sipped coffee, the pilot speaking little but holding true to the ubiquitous grin. He was a flying mystic, spinning yarns about Kierkegaard and the ineffable quality of flying. We dropped from the clouds, touched down the plane at Detroit City Airport...
...corner of the airport, just off the main runway, stood a trailer converted into the dispatch office of Executive Aviation. EA, its twin-engined carriers and a snaky Lear jet, flew quick-order runs of car parts to GM plants around the country. Everything, from the reined jet to a sharp-boned and muscular Doberman, jutted sleek, Steinberg angles. Everything, that is, but an unshaven guy snoring in a wood chair propped against a wall with his boots on a table. He wore a Beech-nut "chaw" cap and kept a spit tin on the floor next to the chair...
Marty flicked a series of the jet's decks of glowing switches, buttons, meters, clocks, and gyros. He spat into his tin as the jet blew an escalating, piercing whine. "Shit--oh--God--oh--shit," he said, "I jus' luv doin' this." The jet floated toward the runway, gushing Detroit's air in a screeching rumble. "Hold onto your seat boy, or it'll go right up your ass with the rest of the rig," he said with the deep blue lights of the runway shining in his eyes. He drew the throttle back. The lights turned a thinner blue...