While waiting on a yet another too-long line to get on a freight elevator for the ThreeAsfour presentation, Amy from New York Magazine walks out, having already been inside, and says, "Don't do it! It takes forever to get in and forever to get out, it's not worth it!" I say, "Were the clothes good?" (ThreeAsfour has always been my favorite show of Fashion Week, hands down.) Amy: "I have no idea, I could barely see anything." It was around then that people started to just leave for Elise Overland rather than wait. Feeling like we're about to see U2, we stay on the line anyway. After another fifteen minutes, we're surreptitiously waved by a PR person who says there's another elevator on the other side. On the way there, we realize we have to jump a couple feet off a platform to get to it, but since I'm in a miniskirt, I scooch down. In the process, my trustiest pair of opaque Wolford tights rip: "This shit better be good". Fifteen minutes and one Roisin Murphy sighting later, we're inside. Except the teeny tiny venue - a one room art gallery in Chelsea - is packed to the point where all you can really see are people's heads, and since the PR people keep telling you to keep it moving, you end up catching only a glimpse of what looks like a truly great presentation. In fact, it was almost exactly like trying to see the Mona Lisa on a Saturday in July, if that gives you a better idea. We managed to push our way to the front long enough to see the clear Ohne Titel Spring 09 influence in the sparkly leggings, and the fact that the models are picking at tiny little plants. Excited, we start snapping away, except all of a sudden, the presentation ends about an hour earlier than the invitation indicated. So really, we wish we could tell you more about the clothes, but we're still a little pissed at the incredibly poor planning (there really should have been time shifts for such a small space) and the fact that we had to go on Style.com to see clothes that were right in front of our faces last night. We're hoping ThreeAsfour sends us some sparkly tights in apology.