It was a failsafe mechanism for spandex. All along, if spandex went awry something would be there to rein it in, or so they thought. But it wasn't true, except now it was. People came from Red Hook, Brooklyn to Fish-hook, Brooklyn, to Red Fish Brooklyn, and over to Scared-ville Queens, just to see it. It was a tour-de-force that made no sense at all. Somewhere in the deep store of images that structure a composite of the urban landscape, spandex researchers and bike-spoke engineers and crystal meth addicts and weird-understated sewer-grilles that don't avail themselves of the latest techniques in digital design find out the stuff each other are really made of. It's our version of the middle-American circus that used to really unsettle small town settlers by virtue of reflecting, or rather animating even as it circumscribed, circus-circum, the very I mean the exact freak disposition at the heart of whatever composed I mean structured the small town to begin with. It is the very same principle that underlies the reason why spandex, failsafe or not, is knit under around and through the very substance of why anyone would journey from Redhook, to Red-Fish, to Blue-Fish, to Blue-Point, to wherever the far fringes of industrial design idiocy seem to transpose themselves on the somewhat quixotic act of a writing a hipster children's book.