Yesterday evening, after the story about a shoe began to run at the top of sites around the country, The Observer ran a piece explaining the creative origin of the shoe, something nearly every other news outlet running a story about the sneaker neglected to mention: It was very plainly and clearly inspired by a My Little Monster, a 90s cartoon, something that emerges as a common theme in Jeremy Scott's work.

Scott nor Adidas had mentioned this throughout the controversy. Furthermore, the sneaker hadn't been news since January. How, we wondered, did the sneaker get railroaded so quickly? What was the viral timeline of this story—which had a beginning and an end, and moved at an astounding pace—like?

As far as we can tell, it went like this:

January 31, 2012: Jeremy Scott's JS Roundhouse Mid ‘Handcuff’ for Adidas is announced, and fashion blog High Snobiety picks it up.

June 14, 2012, 5:33 AM: Almost six months later, Adidas posts a photo of the sneakers to their Facebook page. "Tighten up your style with the JS Roundhouse Mids, dropping in August. Got a sneaker game so hot you lock your kicks to your ankles?" The first few comments on the Facebook page:

June 14, 2012, 5:40 AM: One Facebook fan of Adidas asks: "my pet monster?"

June 14, 2012, 4:20 PM: Shadow and Act, an IndieWire film blog about African-American cinema, posts about the shoes after one of their contributors sends in link to Adidas' Facebook page.

Maybe inspired by "slave-movie-fever" perhaps? Adidas brass looking to capitalize, as Anthony noted in his email? Or is this just entirely unintentional on Adidas' part, although ignorant of what the design of these new kicks might suggest to some? Or not even worth discussing?

June 15, 2012: An NBC Blog, The Grio, posts about the shoe, linking to the IndieWire post.

June 16, 2012, 1:44 PM: A Syracuse professor posts to YourBlackWorld.net with the headline "Adidas Releases New Slave Shoes with Shackles and All."

June 17, 2012, 1:19 PM: Hip Hop Wired posts about the sneakers, linking to IndieWire.

June 18, 2012, 9:09 AM (GMT): Huffington Post UK picks up the story, linking to both IndieWire and YourBlackWorld.net, and quotes extensively from the Facebook page.

June 18, 2012, 10:43 AM (EST): The New York Daily News picks up the story on their site, using the IndieWire post as a source, but incorrectly cites sneaker blog Kicks on Fire as debuting the shoes in February.

June 18, 2012, 11:35 AM: The Huffington Post US picks up the story in an unbylined post, correctly identifying the sneaker's drop-date, but linking only to Adidas' Facebook page. They're the first to get quotes from both Adidas and Jeremy Scott denying any racial motivations to the shoe.

June 18, 2012, 11:05 AM: DrJays.com, a lifestyle site, picks the story up. Their story is later linked by USA Today.

June 18, 2012, Noon: The story is beginning to go viral. Rush Limbaugh discuses the shoe on his show that morning, and the transcript—released almost instantly—reads:

If you show 'em to a black guy and they think slavery... And he had no idea it was coming, so I'll defer. I'll defer on this one to [Limbaugh acquaintance] Mr. Snerdley with his 100% slave blood. What do you bet these shoes never see the light of day? A couple or three pairs will end up on eBay. They'll be collectors items. They'll be sold. They'll show up on a Hitler video or something like that. (laughing)

Fox News posts it, and puts it on their news wire. The Christian Post picks it up and quotes from YourBlackWorld.com and the New York Daily News' report (the post, dated for this morning, was indexed by Google yesterday afternoon).

June 18, 2012, 5:13 PM: The Observer posts the actual inspiration for the shoe, which was not—as widely reported or speculated—human slavery.

June 18, 2012, 6:48 PM: Jeremy Scott Tweets out a picture of the toy that inspired his shoe. At 6:52, he Tweets out the Observer's report, ostensibly confirming our theory about his work.

June 18, 2012, 8PM: Later in the evening, word gets out that Rev. Jesse Jackson has released a statement denouncing the shoe.

Jackson told CNN this morning:

"I am stunned at the insensitivity," Jackson said. "It was a gross insult. We were prepared to engage in a boycott in 50 markets. We contacted Adidas yesterday and contacted [National Basketball Association Commissioner] David Stern, who, in turn, within a few minutes called Adidas and had it cancelled. They cancelled it because they got a call from David Stern and the threat of a real boycott," Jackson proudly declared.

June 18, 2012, 8:36 PM: Adidas announces that they're canceling the shoe.

June 19, 2012, 3:43 AM: The New York Post files a story about the shoes to go on the 15th page of today's paper. The only sources quoted are users from Facebook, and the Adidas PR rep.

June 19, 2012, 3:15 PM: The words "Jeremy Scott racist" index 221 results from the last 24 hours on Google News, despite fairly irrefutable proof that designer Jeremy Scott had no intention of offending anybody so much as paying tribute to a 90s cartoon he liked.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Designer Jeremy Scott—who appeared alongside Harlem rapper A$AP Rocky on a recent Complex cover—has a line of apparel with Adidas. It's another entry in the longstanding (but recently flared up, over the last few years) trend of collaborations that pairs highbrow designers with ubiquitous consumer brands.

One of the pieces in the Jeremy Scott/Adidas collaboration is the JS Roundhouse Mid ‘Handcuff’ sneaker, which was announced—much to the delight of sneakerhead blogs—in January.

The shoe looks like this:

Somehow, nearly six months after the sneaker was announced, someone on The Internet has managed to procure enough outrage in one place for news outlets to latch onto it. An MSNBC.com headline reads:

Adidas criticized for 'shackles' sneakers, denies link to slavery

They even managed to get an Adidas rep to deny a connection to slavery:

"The design of the JS Roundhouse Mid is nothing more than the designer Jeremy Scott’s outrageous and unique take on fashion and has nothing to do with slavery," a representative for the shoemaker told TODAY.com by email. "Jeremy Scott is renowned as a designer whose style is quirky and lighthearted ... Any suggestion that this is linked to slavery is untruthful."

Adidas is correct: There was nothing about the idea of slavery that inspired Scott's design. What they likely won't say—because of copyright law, and because they don't want to damage their relationship with a designer like Scott by speaking explicitly to his inspirations—is what it is (pretty explicitly) inspired by:

90s cartoon/toy sensation My Pet Monster.

Note a few things:

1. The big, plastic cuffs.
2. The purple and orange color scheme. Which matches that of the shoe's.
3. The fact that Jeremy Scott has alluded—on multiple occasions—to the inspiration behind the shoe, though not explicitly:

Cartoons were a huge part of my life. I grew up out in the country with very poor TV reception, but I had endless amounts of cartoons on VHS tape...I love Halloween and Monster movies.

He's also culled the inspiration for entire fashion lines explicitly with 90s cartoons in mind: One runway show rolled out direct tributes to The Simpsons and My Little Pony.

Oh, and

4. Sneaker blogs were able to make the connection over a week ago, prior to this "controversy" breaking.

Result: Jeremy Scott is not racist. He just enjoys 90s kids cartoons. Case closed.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Jeremy Scott with candy colored clown models (Getty)

"That's Cobrasnake," Valentine replied. "He's taking picture of Terry Richardson sitting next to Joe Jonas."

If you've never seen a Jeremy Scott show, imagine the world's best rave...which of course would take place in Tokyo. Add some nostalgic symbolism (The Simpsons, old Apple icons), a whiff of PCP, a soundtrack by Dov Charney's former houseboy Jonny Makeup, and voila! You're basically there. We were lucky enough to go backstage after the show to talk to Mr. Scott, who was being swarmed by fans, interviewers, and 20th Century Fox. And that's when things got really weird.

By the time the designer and his crew had migrated to to Le Bain, however, the colors had drained -- the crowd, sandwiched together, wore mostly black and the bar was as dark-lit as it could be. As expected, Misshapes played New Wave standards. Leigh Lezark was wearing a Jeremy Scott skeleton dress. The designer danced behind the DJ booth. This would go on until 4:00 am.

But why was John Legend there? He seemed a tad out of place among the scrum of people dressed like 90s club kids. He was wearing a simple tan leather jacket and sipping a cocktail. He seemed apprehensive of the whole scene. It's no surprise that he had never been to Le Bain before.

"This is the first time -- I hadn't even heard of it before tonight," Legend said to The Observer. "It's cool. A lot of mohawks!"

We did a quick three-sixty. If the definition of "mohawk" was interpreted liberally than, yes, there were a lot of "mohawks." He also could have been referring to the designer's side-cropped coif, a thick block of curls resting on his skull.

John Legend told The Observer he missed much of the spree of runway shows and parties due to a scheduling conflict.

"I live in New York, but I'm always gone during Fashion Week because of the Grammys," Legend sighed.

Later, we remembered that Legend picked up three statues at the ceremony last Sunday.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Jeremy Scott will design a collection of apparel and footwear for Adidas; it will go on sale February 1. [WWD] 

From Milan: Dolce & Gabbana showed brocade jackets with structured shoulders; Matthew Williamson's final collection for Pucci was heavy in yellows and purples, and towering heels which made several models fall down. Meanwhile, the Versace collection was heavy in reptile skins and gold hues. [Vogue UK]

Manolo Blahnik appreciates a woman who can walk in flats. [Vogue UK]  

Despite the financial downturn, Dolce & Gabbana reported a spike in sales. [WWD]   

Or, to cast it in feminine terms: After a decade of mushrooming hype and pointlessly proliferating shows, during which La Mode actually became-albeit unironically-the shrill and shrieky media-crazed pastiche so accurately depicted in Absolutely Fabulous , she has waddled back down to earth.

The A-list celebs are not front-rowing much any more, the seen-it-all editors can barely disguise their ennui and, most significantly, no new modish messiahs (with the exception of the two Juicy Couture ladies, the crushingly successful creators of upscale track suits) have emerged to supplant the Giorgios and Ralphs and Toms and Donnas and change the way you dress. Fashion, like the culture of which it is the mirror, is a confusing morass of goofy, conflicted ideas and excess stuff.

But fashion designers-much like Madonna-are not going to just sit there passively while our burnt-out gaze drifts to some other aspect of popular culture. They are going to give us a big sloppy tongue sandwich, on the mouth or elsewhere, whether we want it or not. Welcome to Spring Fashion Week 2003, sponsored by Mercedes-Benz and a bunch of other companies who won't let you forget it!

"Porno-it's my new career," guffawed Mimi Rogers, the former Mrs. Tom Cruise, while pulling on her jeans during an impromptu backstage interview after the Pierrot fashion show on Saturday, Sept. 13-just one of a ridiculous 300 presentations this season. According to Pierrot designer Pierre Carrilero-he specializes in nifty hand-knits-La Rogers had been a real trouper, even covering her own travel expenses from Los Angeles to be part of the sleazy, desperate montage that this year's Fashion Week is rapidly shaping up to be.

Staged improbably on the Maury Povich set in a midtown TV studio, the Pierrot show was less a traditional runway show than a tableau vivant /high-school play. A bossy porno director, played by Monsieur Carrilero himself, gave instruction to a motley assortment of models and studs, each wearing a cute, culty Pierrot sweater and/or adorable hand-crocheted hot pants as they role-played around a cheesy set. The lovely Mimi depicted a soft-core, bisexual den mother straight out of a misty 1970's baby's-breath David Hamilton photo spread (remember Bilitis ?). One young lady, dressed à la Suzanne Somers as Chrissie Snow in homage to the late John Ritter-who had the misfortune to die the day Fashion Week started-jiggled excitedly on a depressing hospital bed.

The curvaceous Ms. Rogers, who brought the show to a climax by bumping and grinding with a large African-American man, brought a whiff of class to an otherwise tawdry spectacle.

As sleazy as it was, the Pierrot show was a Bible class compared to the Jeremy Scott "Sexybition" the night before at the Deitch Projects gallery on Wooster Street. This flagrant homage to stripper culture was like an agonizingly drawn-out version of Madonna's desperate romp with Britney and Christina on the MTV Video Awards earlier this month. Not surprisingly, many of the models/tarts who seethed and shimmied with erotic arousal in their respective themed dioramas ("Teacher's Pet," "Sleazeastical," etc.) found it hard to maintain their torrid orgasmic demeanor and soon lapsed into boredom/discomfort. The one exception: Lisa Marie. Cast as a medieval-dungeon sex slave, the former almost-Mrs. Tim Burton clearly has no problem finding her motivation: In fact, she was hurling herself around with such eroticized abandon as to cause genuine concern among some spectators.

But my favorite was Little Bo Peep, a lovely, crook-wielding wench in a white broderie anglais onesie who shared her little performance space, à la Miguel Adrover in the fall of 2001, with a tubby live sheep. This well-fed beast was pooing raisin-sized pellets faster than a jackpotting Vegas slot machine. By the time I left the gallery, Little Bo Peep had become Little Bo Poop. Poop, schmoop! Fashion may well have peaked in the public consciousness, but it is prepared to do what it takes to at least hold our attention.

The clothes? Other than Bo Poop's outfit, and a pair of shorts with a satin trapunto vagina cobbled to the crotch, the Scott designs were completely upstaged by the shagadelic shenanigans.

The hetero porno antics which dominated the first few days of Fashion Week were a mystery to us attendees. What an improbable way to attempt to seduce the faggy, femme fashion audience! We poofters and fashion chicks, when confronted with all this Bada Bing muff culture, can only stare at each other like terrified gerbils trapped in the headlights. And regardless of your sexual orientation, isn't the whole porno-chic thing just a tad déjà vu ? A sigh of recognition rippled through the Pierrot audience when the set backdrop was revealed to be the same rec-room wood paneling utilized by Calvin Klein for his infamous 1995 kiddy-porn ad campaign. If this trend continues, fashion may well become the chosen career of hot-blooded straight boys: "I'm gonna have to saw my pants off when I get home!" remarked one mesmerized, bonered, bona fide hetero at Jeremy Scott.

Some designers managed to combine sex with hip, groovy clothing design without going totally over the top: At Mao, one of the "alternative spaces" adjacent to the tents at Seventh on Sixth, Gary Graham's turn-of-the-century brothel collection-another David Hamilton moment-seemed to say, "If the Waltons grew up and went to work at the local house of pleasure, this is how they would dress." At her West 12th Street abode, Diane von Furstenberg did what I can only describe as "courtside kink" with perforated leather tennis skirts.

Nevertheless, there were some tiny pockets of perversion-free wholesomeness, and a startling revelation or two. A Shirley Temple look-alike opened the Imitation of Christ show at Splashlight Studios. (China Chow, Natasha Lyonne, Rufus Wainwright and Imitation creative director Chloë Sevigny went through the motions of being front-row celebs, while photographers went through the motions of documenting their presence.) This brave little hoofer, whose sturdy legs and electrifying body language reminded me of my own in younger days, threw herself into an endless tap routine with a chucky verve which warmed the hearts of the audience, despite the fact that her perky bum was hanging out of the rear of her little costume, suggesting a kiddy-porn theme. The tapping was eventually followed by a Vargas-girl collection of baby dolls and mini frocks, and then- quelle horreur !-something far more shocking and transgressive than anything Jeremy Scott could dream up: posh people! Suddenly, out came a parade of white, well-heeled Republican couples: blondes in evening gowns accompanied by men in tuxedos, promenading with all the upscale savoir faire of a 1980's Fortunoff catalog. A shiver went through the crowd: Ms. Tara Subkoff, the actress/designer behind I.O.C., was really trying to fuck with our heads. She was doing the unthinkable: She was lauding WASP-y rich people instead of prostitutes and pimps!

In her own demented way, and in one fell swoop, Ms. Subkoff had shone a critical light on the current fixation with pole-dancers and parking-lot hos and highlighted the silliness of the broad pop-culture obsession with "getting down and dirty" and "keeping it real." Question: How can you stay cool and groovy and bohemian and still embrace the all-pervading contemporary bling-bling materialism without losing your hip cred? Answer: You can dress like a skank, e.g. the Hilton sisters. Slutty dressing, and behavior, has become the ultimate protective panty shield against accusations of bourgeois conformity or general dreariness. Is country-club glamour the next frontier?

Talking of dreariness, the anti-drear Betsey Johnson turned in one of the sleaziest but most exuberant shows of her career at the Gertrude Pavilion in Bryant Park. The theme? "Guys Love B.J." Whee!

This season's porno platform is familiar territory to the pin-up-lovin' Betsey: Her baby dolls, bloomers and French-maid uniforms were executed with the sure hand of a gal who has dabbled in cheese before. There was no attempt to be arty or angst-ridden. B.J.'s girls weren't pissed-off crack whores; they were lip-glossed Fredericks of Hollywood hotties who had things like "Best in Town" and (my personal fave) "Fluffer" written on their provocative ensembles.

And what of Marc Jacobs, whose show for the past few years has served as the week's proverbial climax?

Even though the designer looked as if he'd just engaged in a heavy bout of sadomasochistic experimental sex (post-show, he was sweaty, disheveled and wearing a neck brace), he had not. Mr. Jacobs, having ditched his 60's futurist pastiche from last season, had worked like a dog to turn out a brilliant collection of unpornographic, unironic romanticism: flirty tea dresses, Virginia Woolf coats in denim tweed and gorgeous panne velvet flapper frocks.

Speaking of S&M, the Jacobs show, scheduled for 9 p.m. on Monday night at the 25th Street Armory, didn't start until 10:20 p.m. The profusely sweating audience passed the time by watching C- and D-list celebs getting flash-bulbed to death. Gina Gershon? Well, she was fabulous in Showgirls , a movie that has probably played a significant role in perpetuating the fashion-porn connection. But Ingrid Casares? My lesbian social-worker sister back in Blighty has more wattage than she does. So there .

Re Marc's neck brace: a keeping-it-real accessory? Rough trade? A barroom brawl? A kooky style statement? "A pinched nerve," said a spokesman.

How apt!