Got Socks?

Is it us, or is there something chilling in the vision of hundreds of disembodied shrink-wrapped sneakers pointed our way, an army of phantom Jordans ready to walk right over us into a future where shoes become a pure fetish item, with no more need of pesky feet?

You can experience this sensation in person at the ShoeZeum, Neonopolis’ latest excursion into the unconventional. The attraction—the personal collection of a man named Jordy Geller—is open daily at 4 p.m. It’ll cost you $10, proving that even when you don’t wear the shoes, you still have to pay for them.

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It’s inexplicably humid as a summer swamp in the ballroom at LVH, where hundreds of aspiring actors are already perspiring through their polyester. The substantial sequins, bouffants and bushy sideburns aren’t helping matters. “Oh my God, it’s a flop sweat,” my friend says, furiously fanning herself with her info card. “Look at this frizz. I’ve got a sweat mustache.”

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