The latest development is the partnership between shoe company Mozo and three fabulous, fashion-forward (and product endorsement-happy) chefs: Marcus Samuelsson, Chris Cosentino and Aaron Sanchez.

For those of us who resisted the Mario Batali/Croc plague that swept our nation, a new nightmare is upon us. The trio has produced a line of kitchen-friendly work shoes for Mozo–but in stark contrast to the unseemly blocks of cheddar Batali let loose upon an already aesthetically challenged world, the Mozo shoes aren’t completely hideous.

Samuelsson, he of Top Chef and Red Rooster fame, designed surprisingly subdued shoes featuring a wee Brooklyn Bridge silhouette on black; Cosentino’s feature superannuated pig-butchering diagrams and a tripe print, but Sanchez beats the rest of the feet with his memento mori skull theme and, natch, Mexican flag shoes.

They go on sale in May, and Mozo is coughing up $10,000 to the Careers Through Culinary Arts Program in the toques’ honor.

Below, check out the Renaissance man Samuelsson’s erudite take on how food, trends and geopolitics are making the world a smaller, friendlier place:

Janelle Monae plays the Ralph Lauren show today (free at the SoHo location), while JJ and CEO spin tonight at Oak’s Fashion Night Out after party at Bowery Hotel. The Strokes might pop some collars while playing Tommy Hilfiger’s party at the Metropolitan Opera House Sunday September 12.

Iggy Pop is rumored to be performing at the John Varvatos store, the former site of CBGB (Guns N’ Roses played there earlier this year), and Metric are rumored to be playing the Richard Chai show on Monday September 13.

You don’t care about fashion, you say? If it’s any consolation (OK, it’s probably not) there’s always the MTV Video Music Awards this Sunday September 12. And if you’re feeling a little out of touch with the latest trends, Bridges and Powerlines feel your pain.

Lucy’s most notable commercial success was her 2003 hit “Dumb Girls,” but just as she was gathering steam, Atlantic Records pulled a corporate fast one, merged a bunch of shizzle and showed a roster of promising artists to their gleaming door–including Lucy.

No matter. She grew up singing in jazz cafes around New York for tips and/or a meal, so she probably was never particularly interested in following the typical “crank out a few chart-toppers; get seen at all the right nightclubs in NY/LA; date a bunch of douches; have a sex tape leaked online; suffer a breakdown; enter rehab for drug addiction; emerge and start talking about healing to Life & Style magazine/launch a perfume line” career path most aspiring songstresses stick to these days.

Lucy’s style is decidedly more ephemeral and simultaneously grounded. She sounds like her vocal cords have been sprinkled in lavender fairy dust. She looks like a sophisticated version of what Miley Cyrus’ publicist totes hopes she’ll look like in five years, but she acts like that enigmatic, super-smart, sweet sprite you knew in high school who is just as likely to go for “foreign affairs” as she is to run out and help build an Ashram in Goa, India.

But her kaleidoscope style, music and lifestyle are all part of her charm, right? She’s the CBGB-loving punk next door, the sextress who may or may not bite and the jaw-droppingly pretty smartass who’s always two steps ahead of you.

Below, check out Lucy’s perspective on traveling through passion-infused South America; the importance of holding onto your drunk-ass dance pants for two seconds on occasion; and of course, the joys of salsa-ing your way toward dawn.

Today we’re synchronizing with Telepathe.

Telepathe, a startlingly unique avant-garde electro act from Brooklyn, is way ahead of all of us–who better to turn to for thoughts and advice on what to expect in the coming year? Former math-rockers who decided to join forces and ditch all of the boring conventions that can stymie experimentation busted open their doors of expression and now produce the kind of pop that can send anyone into trance. They pour “layers and layers of sound, with girlish vocals woven in as yet another rhythmic element” onto the swooning, sweaty masses, proving that basic arithmetic does add up to a solid foundation one can use for fun things later in life.

Terrifyingly trendy to boot, sometimes it’s hard not to fall under the spell of their “improvised guitar gusts, woodsy chirps, wraith-like Björkian harmonies and powerfully jabbed drums into minimalist baroque.” You’ll be put into the same sort of Pabst-drinking, bad parka-wearing sparkly fog in which we find ourselves wearing purple jeans without a trace of irony.

Best leave it to the experts though. Instead, the rest of us can learn from their rather outré approach to crisis management. Below, check out how Telepathe plans to save us all from ourselves, bears and quicksand.

The Washington state-based Lonely H got together in high school, and they’ve managed to play more than 250 shows in 47 states–not bad for a bunch of Port Angeles teens who shamelessly “hoist the geek-flag” and blithely cite musical influences as classic rock as The Eagles without batting an eyelash.

And they definitely look the part, sporting ’60s- and’ 70s-era side-parted, behind-the-ear long hairdos that have clearly never encountered the wonders of Frizz Ease. Plus, they top it off with well-worn bell-bottoms, mustaches and vests–and no palpable irony detected! They are so gloriously, unabashedly unconcerned with the sun-glassed, slicked-back, sad-faced boo-hoo urban hipster movement currently sweeping the nation, you can’t help but love them despite their wildly upbeat, innocently grinning selves!

Below, see their slightly less peaches ‘n’ cream take on getting busy with fans, groupies and other  sundry forms of admirers. Oh, boys.

Today, we’re headed into the realm of Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, a name that sounds like it belongs to someone with the ability to write checks with a buttload of zeros. The only thing that’s missing is a Jr. or a series of Roman numerals after his name–guess he isn’t a WASP after all.

But that doesn’t mean dude can’t sting. Miles’ talent is reportedly as big as his name, size of the venue at which he warbles and strums be damned. The musician’s commitment to his audience is practically palpable at shows and on his well-received records. He’s in it for all of us: Some of his songs are nothing less than a “choir of the damned reach[ing] it’s fever pitch on ‘Written Over,’ a desperate plea for redemption and second chances that gathers a host of rawly unfulfilled voices to shout its titular refrain.”

No slouch in the existential crisis department–Miles is like Camus for the urban hipster set with ennui–he, natch, has the style chops to go with doe-eyed deeper-than-thou and I-could-probably-use-some-Prozac-but-I’ll-take-a-Pabst tortured artisté style we all know and love.

Best of all? He shows serious evidence of a working brain-stem, in addition to a tasty physique and envy-inducing talent. Below, check out Miles’ thoughts on the ugly side of American dream. Maybe our generation’s Camus comes with a guitar strapped to his back.

A “don’t f with me” New Yorker to the core, Toh has been writing and producing music since middle school. That’s right champ–while you were snapping your Bubble Yum and issuing poorly executed drawings of rainbows, butterflies and unicorns in your diary next to embarrassing revelations about your crush on this total tool Ted, Toh was busting out hip-hop albums.

These days, he’s spending more of his time behind the scenes, working on albums for Lil Mama and other up-and-coming rappers. And don’t you forget it!

In fact, why don’t you just go taking a flying you-know-what while you’re at it, you you you…! OK, so chicks who were born in the Midwest should never try to channel Toh. They’ll just end up sounding like their grandmother Rita who was constantly begging the fam to “pardon her French” when she issued scandalous exclamations like “piffles!” while darning socks or trying to find the glasses that were generally safely stowed in her sturdy beehive.

But really–don’t bother this slightly intense (some might even say intimidating-looking) graffiti-lovin’ bad boy because he will cut you. Or at least totally screen your calls. Below, check out Toh’s rant about people who don’t seem to quite get the concept of “catch ya on the flip side.”

Hurricane Bells (Steve Schiltz) has been resounding quite loudly of late, due to the overnight sensation-style wave of teeny-bopper fans created when the track “Monsters” reared its deceptively lovely head on New Moon’s deceptively lovely soundtrack.

Schiltz–of (relative) Longwave fame–seemed to figure Hurricane Bells was just a side project. But like many seemingly innocuous hobbies and side interests–Grandpa’s penchant for golf, Aunt Marge’s devotion to kitty cats–it’s taken over his life. And he couldn’t be happier. In fact, when describing his newfound popularity with the young, pale ‘n’ posh set, he sounds like a slightly slow fourth-grader who has received a gold star every day this week.

But instead of being tiresome, it’s totally cute. It also helps that Hurricane Bells genuinely began as a quiet, creative outlet–not some MTV-grasping bid for fame. You can now find the band’s debut album, Tonight is the Ghost, at several fine digital retailers.

Schiltz and his cohorts are those rare rock gems who seem (and look and sound) like the type of fun, smart, slightly insecure but totally kickass guys you’re actually friends with, except with better hair and lighting.

Today, we’re headed into Basement Jaxx’s pimped out den of iniquity to see what they’ve got. The UK house music duo got their start at a night club in Brixton in the mid’-90s, but by the turn of the millennium, their shizzle was landing in commercials and on the soundtracks of cinematic tour de force’s like Bend it Like Beckham.

So does that make them, like, totally lame? Mmm, not so much. Especially if you take their various forays into po-mo land with collaborative installations at London’s Tate Modern museum and their work with the likes of Yoko Ono and Lightspeed Champion.

Their maximalist musical style, boldness and simultaneous ability to evoke “potent sadness…open-hearted plea[s] for affection and understanding” amid a potpourri of “fun, uptempo party tunes” summarizes their raison d’etre.

At first glance, they look like suits who are ready to sell out to the highest bidder–but after about, oh, one second of careful concentration, you realize they’re flipping the bird at that concept (literally in some cases).

So who, and what, are they–really? Just two regular hipster dudes who liked Metallica when Metallica was still cool. Oh, and they may have a slight addiction to video games. So, yeah; two regular hipster dudes.

CF lucked out–no fashion faux pas to be found. The Denver, CO, indie rockers are clearly more interested in keeping it real and sticking to what they get paid for (i.e., making music) than making waves on the catwalk.

Aggressively outré without being flashy about it, Crooked Fingers are the Prada of the music world. While a lot of outsiders don’t really get what it is they’re selling–more than just a pretty package; it’s like a philosophy on life wrapped in a pretty, tuneful package–music insiders totally get Eric Bachmann’s schtick. And whether they like the schtick or not, they can’t help but respect it.

It seems Bachmann’s yin and yang approach to album-crafting bleeds into his strange blend of hippie/professor, Hemingway/Lethem, dapper/slob style. Oh, and his love life too.

Below, check out why he aims to take a lover who’s the enemy of his music.