YOU see a lot of strange things at fashion shows, but models chugging cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon is not usually one of them. Two weeks ago, however, at the show put on by Vice, a Lafayette Street boutique, a series of gaunt men and women in $200 overalls and $80 T-shirts applied their bee-stung lips to cans of beer and then gleefully tossed the remainder of the brew -- sometimes nearly half the can -- on the whimpering audience. In the front row, a slender woman with a fuchsia streak in her hair raised an umbrella.

After the show, a sendup of Fashion Week, the wet 20- and 30-something crowd gathered in a parking lot next to the store, gripping plastic cups of beer pumped from a keg and eating barbecued hot dogs served by waitresses on pink roller skates.

In many ways, Vice, which is less known for retail lines than for publishing a free glossy magazine found at downtown boutiques like Seize sur Vingt and record stores like Other Music, embodies the apex of hipsterdom 2003. What that has meant this year is a trailer-park sensibility, embraced with and without irony, that has taken hold among postcollegiate society in the Silver Lake district of Los Angeles, in Brooklyn and on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

The fashion aesthetic is epitomized by vintage shirts with high school football logos and the foam-front trucker hat. In entertainment, the touchstones are the Southern rock revivalists Kings of Leon and testosterone-charged skateboarder-influenced shows like ''Jackass'' and ''Punk'd.'' In contrast to older and gentler downtown style guides like Paper magazine, Vice shuns the Nirvana generation's wounded sense of responsibility, instead embracing a frat-boy crudity and ethnic stereotypes. Think of it as a lad magazine for the Williamsburg set.