Fauxty vs. Fo'ty: Battle to the Death!

Let us a play a game. Title: Fauxty vs. Fo'ty...

In keeping with faux fur/leather/jewelzZ as perfectly acceptable and chic garb for the current season, we will determine tasteful, youthful yet mature style and appearance as "fauxty." Think: elegant, yet age-defying. We should all aspire to this as the years pass.
On the flip side we have "fo'ty." This is characterized by an overly exaggerated appearance that is decidedly distasteful. Decisions of the fo'ty nature are often centered around excessive plastic surgery, overly young clothing, or simply trying far too hard to deny one's true age. The results of such choices usually result in a more aged appearance, rather than a younger one. Alas...

Linda Evangelista in the new Fall Talbots ads: (Fauxty.)




The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, wearing stretch shine satin: (Oh so fo'ty...)

Airbrushing Mishap on W Magazine: (FO'TY) vs Real Life Casual (Fauxty)



Victoria Beckham's Chest: (Blatantly fo'ty. Sorry...)

(To be continued)

--A special thanks to Adam Mohamed for providing inspiration here--

The Rolled Cuff: Potential Fashion Panacea?

Perhaps the rolled cuff trend hinges on a longing for the days when a woman showing her ankle was both erotic and scandalous. I do subscribe to the argument that the spans of leg between the lower calf and beginning of the ankle bone still holds some sort lingering aesthetic charm. (Not that "showing a little ankle" can really attract droves of men these days... but historically speaking it's a validated attempt!)

Regardless, the strategic nonchalant pant roll has a multitude of life benefits. And by life benefits I do mean important, earth shattering, and otherwise absolutely necessary for happiness. I cannot TELL you how many times I've salvaged an otherwise ill-fitting pant by rolling up the ankles and creating the illusion that all is well and good.

A slightly rolled pant (if executed correctly!! mustn't be too perfect or too precise!) can provide the following benefits:

1) Trick observers into thinking that your shoe matches the rest of the outfit. I call this the "buffer zone phenomenon." Think of those 2 inches of ankle as a visual field which combats the necessity for continuity between pant and shoe. Glory be!

2) Make your outfit appear as if it is more styled and contemporary than it actually is. The rolled pant indicates a mediated action upon dressing. It says: A minute or so of extra time was spent in thought about the aesthetic balance of the outfit. In other words, this person cares a little. NOT SO MUCH AS TO SEEM HIGH MAINTENANCE. But enough.

3) Create more substance on the bottom of the pant leg in order to detract from an ill fitting thigh-of-pant. This is particularly useful when trying to get away with wearing A RELAXED FIT TAPERED TROUSER SITUATION. A relaxed fit pant with a large leg opening, however, cannot be rolled without one appearing as if one just came from some sort of waterlogged terrain. There are some pants that truly cannot be saved.

4) Allow an otherwise casual pant to be paired with a heel. Again, this falls under the category of the buffer zone phenomenon. A truly priceless naturally occurring event!

But in all seriousness... Some winter picks

A return to a more subdued menswear look. Warm browns and utility-based brands translated to novelty accessories. Yes!

The Ambiguous White Sneaker: Part Deux

Because judging from recent sightings, this really does merit more discussion.

It has recently come to my attention (not to quote the Chloe Sevigny youtube spoofs) that there are several components differentiating an inoffensive white shoe from a dreadfully ambiguous white sneaker. Think Converse vs. any of the above footly delinquents. I'm speaking mostly about males here, as almost all modern day females have thankfully steered clear of this particular offense.

For newer readers: Please refer to my first white sneaker post for an introduction to the terrors of said ambiguity. Essentially, I concluded with the following:

A large white lumbering object on the foot is a sure fire buzz kill/swag kill/game kill.

And yes, I do speak from experience as an innocent bystander caught off guard by a STEALTH ambiguous white sneaker quietly tucked under the pants of a potential suitor. As I've said before, good thing I've got eyes like a hawk for things like this!

Anyway, onwards to new realizations about the issue at hand.

The following are the primary attributes of an ambiguous white sneaker:

1. That chunk-nasty sole: Really, any casual shoe with a noticeably tall/springy looking sole makes the wearer look slightly bewildered or out of place. Think: child, senior citizen, tourist aesthetic. Not particularly a smooth shoe. Not particularly a wise shoe. Platform soled shoes for men really haven't been acceptable since the 70s. And even then, the platforms were not of the rubbery/athletic variety. On top of all of this, recall that anything in white looks doubly large. So white + chunk + foot = spongey lumbering mess. Now that's a foul equation if I ever saw one.

2. A criss-cross velco strap: Though not on every ambiguous white shoe, this attribute denotes one specific subclass of the larger group: the stereotypical "Euro" sneaker. Let us recall the reason for velcro to be a shoe in the first place: the inability to tie one's laces. Thus, velcro straps poking out of a pant rarely appear adult and never appear streamlined. The sound of velcro is equivalent to the sound of your swag frantically scrambling away from yo misguided self.

3. Skewed toe-width to arch-width to heel-width ratio: (See 3rd picture from the top above.) Hourglass figures are ideal for female bodies, and not for much else in this world. So riddle me this: why in the Sam Hill would a straight male want to artificially create a feminine silhouette with his footwear? There is something incredibly offputting about a heavy, wide heel tapering into a feminine arch. And looorddd when a wide toe is thrown into the mix, all aesthetic hell breaks loose down there. Eek!


What to conclude from all of this? As I've said before, and I'll say once more: Males, exalt the slender soled canvas shoe!

Our dear old friend, the "CZ" Stud

One of my fabulous scouts has alerted me to a most unfortunate issue. An issue that I naively believed to be buried in the early 2000's. An issue that appears much more resistant to the purifying nature of cyclical fashionbiotics than I had hoped.

Now this isssssh(u) needs to be handled with a delicate hand, as it centers around a most delicate topic of taste in jewlz.

So let's get "real" here: nothing screams questionability like a massive cubic zirconia square-cut stud pulling down on ones earlobe.

Number one: We all know that a rock that size cannot exist outside of the Tower of London. Why must absurd exaggeration be the choice here? Particularly where diamond size is concerned, there is a steeply sloped bell-curve of believability. Something a little more subtle could in fact be perceived as legitimate. Oh the perils of catching the Diamondique bug!

Number two: We can hear your earlobe wailing and gnashing it's metaphoric teeth from here. For goodness sake, free the poor lobe from it's bedazzled torment!

Now, I must confess to owning a pair of cz's back in the day. This was approximately during the same time period when I deemed it appropriate to be wearing Air Force Ones. We must all forgive ourselves for stylistic transgressions of yesteryear. The important point here is that in 2010 there are many wonderful options for ear ornaments besides cubic zirconia - or real diamonds for that matter.

A few thoughts on Halloween Costumes

Being that the parasitic "Spirit of Halloween" seasonal franchise is in full throttle, it is probably about that time again to consider the thought process behind poor choices in Halloween costumes.

I'm pretty sure ALL of us have a few mis-steps in our past. See: freshman year "Strawberry Shortcake" costume, childhood "Hershey Kiss" costume that unfortunately appeared more like the garb of a racial extremist sect than a chocolately treat... (the list continues).

Thankfully, every Halloween is a new opportunity to make up for the errors of the past. So what exactly DOES qualify as a good costume?

1) Culturally irrelevant figure, clutch style. Think: Linda Hogan. This allows the wearer to dress in absurd, over the top "trendy" clothing of poor taste. On no other day of the year could this be at all a positive. A perfect excuse to venture into some sort of hot mess of a trashy retailer and not wear a ski mask.

2) Odd consumer packaged good. Think: box of Wet Naps. Sartorial accuracy gets bonus points here. Mixed media, paper products, and bizarre household materials are all up for grabs. This is the only opportunity to relive "anything but clothes" themes, post college.

3) Washed up musician. Think: Ja Rule. Study obscure music videos from the early 2000s. Learn outdated dance movies. Embrace unfortunate temporary hairstyles.

4) Faux social "concept." Think: Wangsta. Simultaneously embody all cliches of the character type at once. Deliciously obnoxious.

Happy Halloween!

Swag Alert: The Power of the Slim Cut Suit

Inspired by my recent viewing of The Social Network (Holla Eduardo and yo fine fine self), I find it to be an appropriate time to articulate my theories on the slim cut suit.

At times erroneously dismissed as "European" by members of the mainstream male population, the silhouette of a slim cut suit more than makes up for in swag what it lacks in fabric volume. Now, I'm not talking skin tight. And I am most certainly not talking about pompous quaffing and flashy expensive hooplah. We shall leave that to the fools who believe that arrogance in dress is at all relevant or attractive.

Let us now return to the issue at hand: the inherent swag of a wonderfully understated slim cut blazer and pant. It is inspiring to see that while women have been dressing to fit their bodies for years (with only a few trip ups along the way--> see: hoop skirts, mom jeans, etc.), now straight men are finally realizing that it is okay wear clothing that accepts a live human form underneath. Fancy that!

I'd venture to say the male torso is somewhat of an ellipsoid. A freely moving ellipsoid with appendages that function to feed, dress, and groom the male. Whatever the case, this torso is not a rectangle, so why cloth it in conventional "generous" suiting that is shaped as such? Seems a little deceptive if you ask me. And we mustn't be deceptive now.

This all understood, I do realize that the slim cut suit may be frightening to newbies. Here are my points of advice on proper execution:

1. Start with a darker, non-patterned suit. All sorts of bad things can happen when an unruly plaid or paisley is introduced to the situation. When one is more comfortable, one can venture into slim stripes in lightweight, casual textiles.

2. For more casual environments, a strategic unbuttoning of TWO topmost buttons on the shirt underneath is permitted. No more or you will, without fail, be perceived as a damn fool.
While I'm at it, it goes without saying that a shirt must be worn underneath. Eek. The folly of some lost lambs!

3. Tightness quotient: purchase a pant that follows the lines of the backside and legs, NOT one that grips them for dear life. Alternately, there should also be no excess fabric saggage chilling on the back of the upper thigh region of the suit pant. The pant (and the blazer similarly) should NOT be able to comfortably house a Christmas ham or woodland creature.

4. Shoe choice is crucial here. Let's walk away from the clunky. And away from the square toe as well. Let us don a nice slim oxford. Let us give thanks.


Follow these and swag will follow shortly thereafter. Predictable little bugger.

Commuter Fashion: Sneakers, Boxy Suits, and all sorts of Blasphemy

We’ve all seen it. Perhaps some of us have even done it. I myself may proudly say I have trekked to and from work in platform heels most days this summer, with the occasional change to metallic flats when necessity demanded. Never, ever, did I don a sneaker with any of my work outfits. Not even on casual Fridays when we are allowed to wear jeans to work. This may be extreme behavior, but I’m a walking illustration of an important point, damnit!

I understand the restrictions associated with having foot problems. Due to an unfortunate spill freshman year of college, I myself have remnants of an untreated fractured foot as well as a history of several stress fractures since that time. Never stopped meeeeeEe from donning respectable shoes during the work week.

My long-winded point here is that ambiguous white running sneakers with business suits is a MOST dreadful and unnecessary assault on the eyes of unsuspecting fellow commuters. [See related: my previous post entitled “The Ambiguous White Sneaker.”]

With the exception of the very aged, there is WITHOUT DOUBT some sort of shoe entity besides that of the athletic variety that is functional and comfortable enough to carry your body a few blocks to the subway. Face it, unless your commute to work on the island of Manhattan involves,

a) Cardio acrobatics (and I say cardio here because normal acrobatics can be performed barefoot or in a deliciously soft-soled shoe)

b) Hurdling objects taller than 3 feet above ground level

Or

c) Darting around defensive linemen

it is probably better to preserve your dignity than to don a clunky “sneak” (and I’m not being affectionate here) with that pencil skirt/tapered slack/etc. etc. Especially now that brands such as Cole Hann are making business appropriate footwear with comfort technology.

And if you ABSOLUTELY insist to wear some sort of non-boot lace up thang, let me remind you of an old standby and a wonderful footly gem: the Converse shoe. At least with this strategic selection, you’d clearly be saying,

Yes, I am copping out and wearing a non-matching shoe for my work commute, but it is a cool canvas shoe. A culturally relevant canvas shoe. A canvas shoe that does not automatically decrease my attractiveness level to passerby. A canvas shoe that does not assault the integrity of the rest of my outfit.

Oof!

Jeggings: Jigga whaAaaaAt?

Perhaps it is time to discuss the elephant in the room.

You know whatI'mtalkin'bout.

Jeggings.

Now, I'll be the first to admit, I recoiled backward several yards upon first hearing of these bad boys. However, I do admit that certain tasteful mass retailers such as J.Crew and Zara have managed to execute the style in an attractive manner. I myself do not own jeggings in their true form, yet I will nod in respect to another (female) member of society who does choose to wear an appropriately styled pair.

My main concern here, however, is with the backwoods family of jeggings seen most prominently on boardwalks (on BOTH coasts!!) and on the span of Broadway in NYC between 25th and 30th streets. Think: spray painted faux Ed Hardy type deals. Or printed denim on microfiber spandex.

Can someone PLEASE explain the rationale behind printing stitches on leggings? Do you think we can't tell that these "stitches" seem to be quite warped and elongated across the backside of the wearer in question? A most unflattering look indeed! Hundreds of tiny stretchable printed lines charting the undulations of the bod.

Again, correct me if I'm wrong but the main function of leggings should probably be as a streamlining garment. No bulky waistbands or unflattering whiskering commonly seen on jeans. Obnoxious screenprints or spraypainted biznass probably negate any potential figure flattering that a legging could do.

So while I'm still having a rough time coming to terms with what a fly-less crotchal region on the front of a pair of jeggings can do to some wearers choosing to wear shorter length shirts, I will send out a mental peace offering. A tasteful, refined jegging can be executed appropriately. It can "be the right outfit for the daaaay," as little Edie from Grey Gardens would say. But for goodness sakes, let's leave screenprinting to the t-shirt world!

Ruminations

Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally for not blogging in a while.


Inevitably with the onset of fall comes feelings of sentimentality and a desire to scrap the tomfoolery of a sweaty summer in New York. Fashion week works wonders as a little slap to the backside of our collective urban populace. [Ahem: Time to put away those predictable smocked sundresses, myself included...]

So what can fall bring besides untraceable whiffs of smoked sausages and prepackaged Halloween costumes?

Why, I'm so glad you asked!

As far as I'm concerned, I'm placing my bets on popcorn knit sweaters, boots with daaa furrr (but not like THAT), and shearling. Throw in a few dolman and cape silhouettes with attached ribbed cuffs and you got the top covered. No pants for you!

Just kidding.

Perhaps I will give you pants. I will give you non-denim creations in a wide variety of tailored cuts. Some still skinny, some tapered, some artfully cropped and cuffed. Ta da! Fully clothed.
But really, pass on the denim. This year is not the year of the jean.

On a more reflective note, there is a clear reversion to more conservative styling going on all around us, especially this fall. A sigh of relief. Though I've been known for my mini dress/skirt/etc. getups, I never was a fan of overly tight-fitting attire. And let's face it, we're all getting older, even if we are still "young" by most standards. Piling on layers of interesting fabrics really excites me now. Large silk shirts and billowing trousers are quickly becoming close friends. [Side note: Except not when it flash thunderstorms when one is attempting to navigate home whilst wearing insanely large silk polka dotted pants and 5 inch platform sandals. This would be a time when billowing fabric quickly becomes soggy, twisted fabric and a foe! Blasphemy.]

But matronly? Never. Not when styled appropriately. A platform sandal or boot with an otherwise questionable ensemble can really do wonders. Add a jarring digital watch and some lip/cheek tint and you're good to go as long as the weather holds up.

Could my theoretical projections of the Fall 2010 to come also be linked to a fast approaching personal spinsterhood of large hair, large jewelzz, and large furs? Most likely, yes. But not all of us can be content to wear the uniform of current mainstream fashion day in and day out. I'll take the single life and a hot toddy too!

The Denim Mini Skirt in a Post Millennial World

I admit it. I held onto my Hollister denim mini skirt with sequins strewn about the pockets for entirely way too long. I would picture scenarios in my mind where this skirt could actually be acceptable to wear. These scenarios, naturally, involved mostly themed parties or my alabaster self in some sort of poser "beachy" situation.

One day, a few months ago, I finally let go.

I--at the very core of my being-- believe there are some articles of clothing that must be called "closet hermits." Not hermit like the crab, hermit like the crabby old recluse living in the woods behind your high school.

And not closet like closeted, closet like the literal glorious space where furs and luxurious silk pants are stored. (And if they are not, they should be!)

Anyway, the denim skirt is the coronated queen of the closet hermits. She hangs there: defiant, mainstream, yet unwearable in most social settings. Unsophisticated and brazenly holding onto the worst parts of the 90s aesthetic. A stereotypical wardrobe "staple" yet at the same time, not part of a functional wardrobe at all. Which leads me to ask: What does a grown adult actually DO with a denim mini skirt? Use it as a rag? Swaddle a newborn child in it?

Closet hermits in this post millennial world of ours cause myself significant stress. I feel active anxiety when an article of clothing is not being worn, yet is hanging in my closet. Obviously, me and the Hollister denim mini would exchange suspicious looks every time I opened the double doors to my closet at home.

Oh haaaaiiii denim mini. Fancy seeing you here! (Coughcough as you NEVER leave...) No, I will not be wearing you today. Today I cannot be mistaken for a 12 year old. And your attitude is not appreciated!

Etc. etc.

Then I realized a number of things, not the least of which was that I was both talking to an inanimate object and giving this object personality traits. Concerning.

The Demise of Costume Jewelry: Lessons in Mass Market Beastliness

I love costume jewelry—don’t get me wrong. But as with every other product category and its related trends, mass production often manages to so exaggerate the initial charm of an idea that the result is a beast of a hotmess of a damn shame.

Prowling the streets of Soho on the second to last of my summer Fridays, I naturally find myself looking for jewelzz. Except on this particular day, something is amiss. Epiphany—that wonderful defense mechanism against brainwashing—strikes. Bauble-strewn costume jewelry in its current form is so over. And not over in a graceful, bowing out kind of way. Over in that everywhere from Aldo (Whaa??) to Bloomingdales has a surplus of over-the-top, cheap mixed media insanity certain to give the wearer both a backache and a mystery rash. Unabashed overabundance. Some one grab me a chamomile tea, I’m all riled up!

Now I am all for large neck ornamentation. In fact large collars, jewelzz, etc. have become my long term, go-to method of distracting from a lack of other assets. [See my previous post on “Rocking the Sternum”…] Neck ornamentation, however, must still be strategic even in an age of “more is more” mentality.

If your necklace weighs approximately the same as a medium sized pet, dinner plate, or small infant, perhaps it is time to step away from the jewelry tub and have a serious talk with yourself. And admit it: at this point, who can actually fit all of their enormously sized costume accessories in a jewelry box anymore? A tub is what you have and a tub is what you must admit to having! A traditional jewelry box is the size of one BEAD on your H&M tomfoolery you call a necklace.

I have developed a set of questions to ask oneself when shopping now for costume jewelry:

1. Is this _____________ than my own head?

a. Smaller

b. The same size as

c. Larger

2. Could I operate heavy machinery comfortably and competently while wearing this?

3. Are each of the elements on the periodic table represented in the different materials on this piece?

Answers:

1. B & C are causes for concern. Drop it like it’s hot and step away from that bauble!

2. If “no” assess the costs of loss of mobility in the context of day-to-day life and normal physical functioning.

3. One should probably not attempt to be a collared, walking high school chemistry lesson on the wide number of existing solid compounds (or liquids/gasses for that matter….)

In conclusion I will like to warn against what can be called “The Christmas Tree Aesthetic.” One does not need to appear as if ornamented for some sort of festival business on the day to day. Amen.

Census 2010: Are you a member of the Sparkly Top, Flare Leg Jean (ST-FLJ) demographic?

Good lord, let us hope not!

***[At this moment in my blog writing, a dubious man in relaxed fit denim paired with running shoes walked into the gallery and proceeded to ask me to drinks. Oh, and he sells rocking chairs for a living. If this is what the future looks like, I am fearful. Very fearful.

If you have not already, see my previous posts for my thoughts on relaxed fit denim and running shoes worn outside of athletic activity…then commence to pray for their extinction.]***

Anyway, back to ST-FLJ:

Nowadays, the key to the proper nighttime outfit is subtlety. One should not look as if going out has been carefully planned and predetermined. One’s outfit should not appear to scream, “My name is _______ and I am going out tonight!” This applies to both the male and female population. Nothing worse than a boldly colored, widely striped button down on a dark ground and overly designed cross-hatched denim, paired with slick hair and heavy cologne. Those vertical stripes on your “going out shirt” may be huge, but they aren’t fooling anyone into thinking that you are taller than your natural born 5’4”.

But my main focus today shall be the females of the Sparkly Top, Flare Leg Jean subsect of society. It quite boggles my mind that a substantial portion of women automatically reach for something shiny when they decide to make plans after a certain hour of the evening.

Riddle me this: Why? Are you afraid a truck may come barreling through the bar and the driver may not see you in his path unless your body is covered with sparkly polyester in halter-top form?

I’m not saying that I am opposed to all things that reflect light. I do, however, think that execution is crucial when sparkles are involved. Sparkles are tricky little devils after all. And commonly scratchy. In general, one should avoid a high scratch factor in one’s outfit if hoping to have an enjoyable evening. Trust.

Now about those flare leg jeans you’ve decided to add to the mix. HmMmMMmmmZZZz… how DOES one begin to explain the problem here? There is something inherently womp womp about a flare leg in 2010. In an age where sculptural and streamlined silhouettes are mainstream, the sparkly top and flare leg combo stamp the wearer as an emblem of high school nostalgia. It really is time to let go. It is proven fact that members of the ST-FLJ stronghold are often ostracized in modern, upscale bar settings as those who do not belong. The sparkles, unfortunately, are not redirecting enough light to blind the surrounding observers into thinking that the wearer[s] know what they are doing, where they are, or—more often than not—how they got there.

I could go on, yet I do end this post on a concession. There have been times when I’ve (literally) found myself exclaiming, Why! Why is he choosing her? BUT SHE’S WEARING FLARES!!?? AND FOAM PLATFORM ROCKETDOG FLIPFLOPS!

Members of the ST-FLJ group do have a surprising knack for attracting men when in some sort of seedy fratty bar-like setting. Perhaps the combination of stimuli overload, sparkles, and cliché 80s jams like Pour Some Sugar On Me (no. never.) disorient normally level headed fellows into becoming temporary ST-FLJ groupies. Perhaps I should be telling my readers to dress as blatantly “going-out shirt-y” as possible, instead of the exact opposite. I must remain firm, however, in my assertion that the sparkly top is not where it’s at. Let us, in any case, hope the 2010 census measures the ST-FLJ ranks as dwindling.

The "Goach" Phenomenon

You know what I’m talking about. Those damn C’s, G’s and LV’s (or, equally as bad: those mutilated, distorted black market versions of the same alpha/numeric luxury imagery). Why do I consider both a real and a fake “G” emblazoned canvas wristlet in the same category? Well, frankly speaking, they’re both equally subpar. Only our smug luxury-obsessed culture has falsely trained our eyes to see the real logo covered Gucci bag as more attractive than the fake. Sure it may be made of better quality materials, but the styling is still an aesthetic catastrophe.

As the result of deep philosophic ponderings, a good friend of mine has coined the phrase, “the Goach phenomenon.”

A short lesson on this “Goach” business:

Let us hope that my readership is comprised of individuals insightful enough to deduct that “Goach” represents a dastardly, faux Gucci and Coach hybrid product. Imagine some sort of twisted, backwards alphabetic garble stamped on a cheaply made wallet bought on Canal St. This particular name combination can stand symbolically for the whole of intertwined luxury and faux logo culture, however, and will do so for the purposes of this post.

1) 1) From whence did the Goach cometh? From whence shall it leaveth?

Goach was birthed from the loins of an ostentatious desire for traceable displays of money and class. How can I, the aspirational consumer, signal to as many passerby as possible that I am wealthy and important? That I am relevant and on my way to do relevant, cool things? How about huge, obnoxious letters covering the surface of every accessory that I own... for a start?

Sadly, I cannot say when Goach shall leaveth. My prediction is that it won’t go quietly, and that it most certainly won’t be pretty. Perhaps with some sort of explosive final flourish of poorly stitched pleather or logo burdened leather will Goach rise defiantly into the night sky.

2)

2)Who is Goach’s BFF?

That’s easy: the Big Tymerz. Let me recall that work of lyrical genius, “Still Fly” :

“Ain’t got no job, but I stay sharp

Can’t pay my rent, cus all my money’s spent,

But that’s ok cause I’m still fly…

…

The Gucci with the matchin interior,

3 wheel ride with the tire in the middle…

The steering wheel is Fendi, dashboard Armani,

Where your baby mama play is where you can find me”

This, naturally, continues throughout the course of the song. Goach was elated at this plug. No money for food, gas, liiiife? That’s ok as long as you have logos covering your car and body.

In this case, the logos were real but at that point what sane person cares? Can’t eat em’. (Although judging from Baby and Birdman's waistlines, they must have found a way around this minor problem...) Of course the slo-mo, booty poppin' "reality" of rap videos is only slightly different than real life. Guess Goach wins on this one.

3) And Goach’s arch rival? The one hope for respectability in a sea of offensive branded or faux branded accessories?

The refined.

The Red Headed Step Child of Textiles

Dare I speak her name? (Lest she emerge from her dark hiding place in the corner of a dimly lit Sears??)

Oh Velour, you red headed step child. There is almost no other fabric that I recoil from faster. I'd feel bad for you but your insistence on pal-ing around with rhinestones and other riffraff really makes it quite impossible for me to feel pity.

Velour, rebelling against the rest of the respectable Textile family.
Velour, bff of the J-Lo design team.
Velour, brazenly hot pink, lime green, or skin tight white.
Velour, commonly seen with ambiguous white sneakers.
Velour, when will you learn??

GUEST POST BY (the one and only) MORGAN ROPER

The Ed Hardy Aesthetic: Douchebaggery in Garment Form

There was once a time when one only had to worry about the female’s affinity for a catastrophically rhinestoned tee-shirt and jean combination. This female was usually in the 7^th grade, harboring some sort of unhealthy obsession with both Britney Spears and the Bedazzler she was given for her 12^th birthday. However, thanks to the million year old, exorbitantly sketchy Christian Audigier, men around the world are able to express their inner sparkle by wearing shirts, jeans, shoes, and hats covered in glittering dragons, tigers and skulls. After we had survived the Von Dutch Explosion of the early 2000s, I thought that the men of the American Public had learned to avoid the attire favored by those who drive tractors, are suffocatingly tooly and/or live on the Jersey Shore. How wrong could a young girl be…

As I walk down the street, I am sporadically blinded by some sort of oily, guido character sporting a too-tight, gleaming atrocity of rhinestones and cartoon animals. He strides down the boulevard, his blow-out catching the light of the mid-day sun, muscles bulging, looking like an overcooked turkey and he’s pleased with himself. Proud. The posterchild of Ed Hardy Elegance. I understand that most of the people who frequent the Ed Hardy store also live by the spiritual mantra “Gym. Tan. Laundry,” but there are some ­normal people who also find themselves attracted to the aesthetic. And that is a problem. I have seen far too many males wandering the streets wearing muscle-tees, the male equivalent to your grandmother’s sleeveless, high-necked blouse. I know that it’s summer and that its 1000 degrees, but straight men are only allowed to wear sleeveless shirts underneath their real shirts. They are called undershirts for a reason. Christian Audigier made the male tank top widly and disgustingly acceptable and he had the audacity to throw a multicolored, glittery rose on it?! How dare he? Though I blame you, Mr. Audigier, for making me to encounter already unattractive males clad in acid wash jeans adorned with sparkly ninjas, I also thank you. You made that “Is he a douchebag?” guessing game that much easier.

Clear Plastic Bra Straps: A fleshy catastrophe

You step onto the subway on an unassuming Tuesday morning. You actually find a seat for once that is NOT next to a snotty nosed child insistent on smearing his grubby little hands all over your beige blazer.

You think, mistakingly, "SCORE. This is going to be an unoffensive trip to work. At last the integrity of my garments' fabrics will last throughout the day!"

Turning slowly to the right to scope the subway scene, you spot a dreadful sight. A most disturbing and uncouth sight. A sight so horrific you suddenly wish there was only a nasty little toddler pawing your left arm. You would gladly sacrifice another overpriced dry cleaning bill to spare your psyche from this trauma.

What could so radically change your perception of this Tuesday morning?

Why, the sight of the most resistant strain of poorly developed undergarments this side of the 18th century: clear plastic bra straps.

Sticking brazenly out of that teal tube top, cutting deeply into the flesh of the wearer's back, clear plastic bra straps are oh so visible. Yes, I said it. I can see those "clear" bra straps. Actually, they are quite effectively catching the light from the subway bulbs and redirecting it into the eyes of the surrounding innocent observers. You, my clear bra strap wearing friend, risk responsibility for any of the following conditions sustained by bystanders of your flesh-cutting crime:

Melancholy

Sadness

Dispair

Etc.

Oh, how awful that skin underneath that plastic must feel. Look! The pressure has turned it white with fear...

Shuddering, you reach your stop. You walk slowly off in the direction of work and switch the music on your ipod to a nondescript teen angst band.

Dear Square-Toed Shoe...

Dear Flamboyant Square-Toed Shoe,
(Attn: The Males Who Wear Them)
123 Brokedown Blvd...

You may be a descendant of the pimp shoe, but you sure ain't pimpin. Oh no no no.

I often wonder, deeply, about the course of events that could lead to the donning of such a foot-ly nightmare. As in, perhaps the wearer was held at gunpoint? My mind begins to spin the tale that could make such shoe choice excusable: ...the gunman must have been particularly cruel and forced his victim the endure the ultimate humiliation: a day of square-toed shoe wearing?

But if only that were the case.

Dear Square-Toed Shoe,
Bad call. Very bad call.
Try again?


--EDIT---

2 hours later and I'm still ruminating on the dreadful nature of this silhouette.

Oversized square toe indicative of oversized ego and a tragically bad eye for footwear. What a deadly combination.

Tales of Woe: Whiskered Denim edition.

<--- oh HELL naw.





It is beyond my realm of comprehension as to why over-the-top faux washes on denim perpetually resurface every few years. One of the biggest offenders in this faux foolishness is whiskering around the crotchal region. I understand that the worn-in look for denim is an American standard. This probably relates to our cowboy heritage and other "classic" things involving dusty open areas and smelly animals that simply want to be left alone. But just because horseriding and similar extracurriculars that involve crouching, sitting, etc., tend to stress the upper thigh region of pants does not mean that everyone should strive for the urban (or suburban) saddle-worn look. Sorry to say, but the "rugged" facade is easy to see through when a man in whiskered denim is daintily sidestepping into a subway car on his way to the club. [PS. No degree of bottle service will make up for that whiskered mess on yo' trousers. I got eyes like a hawk!]

Besides all of this is also the purely aesthetic argument that, well, Whiskering, you ug-lyyy.

Why stress lines radiating outward from one's crotch could ever be considered a desired finish on a pair of jeans is beyond me. Why my younger self did not question my own whiskered denim? Also difficult to say. I must own up to the folly of my darker years, however, and pledge never again to let a piece of whiskered garb within a one foot radius of this anti- faux finish zone.

"The Ambiguous White Sneaker"

Nothing--and I truly mean nothing--is quite like the disappointment when seeing an otherwise attractive male wearing horrific footwear. Call me a terrible person, but I simply cannot tolerate running shoes (i.e. Asics Gel Kayano or similar silhouette) worn with jeans. Yes, that Gel Kayano may be one of the top selling, top performing trail and distance running shoes for the past 5 to 10 years, but its performance off the road? Incredibly awkward and emasculating actually. That huge shoe is, minute by minute, draining out all of your swag from every pore. I automatically deduct 3 attractiveness points on the 1-10 scale if I spot this beastly sneaker/jean combination on a potential candidate. More points are deducted if the sneaker is beaten to a meshy pulp. The meshy pulp- thus, therefore, furthermore, etc. etc. is a symbolic representation ... OF??? Your manhood. Ouch.

Why the harshness, you ask?
A trouser leg simply cannot fall on a sneakered foot without looking:
a) too short
b) too long and bunchy, giving a faux "2003 thug" look. Faux because you have a freaking running sneaker on and you're not running, hiking, or exerting yourself in anyway other than drinking a Heinekin.
or
c) cheaply constructed (something I like to call the "Wrangler" visage...)

All of these are in violation of pleasurable aesthetics and proportion. In other words one simply cannot spit adequate game when looking like he has outgrown his jeans, is wearing another taller man's jeans, or (worst of all!) is wearing his father's lawn-mowing jeans from the early 1990s.

Now let me take this one step further. If the sneaker in question is that of the ambiguous white variety (think KSWISS, white New Balance...) then all visual hell breaks loose on the poor misguided wearer.

By selecting a large, lumbering white athletic shoe, the rest of any paired outfit becomes completely and utterly irrelevant. At this point you should probably just put on some medium wash, relaxed fit denim and add 30 years to your age.

On the terrors of "relaxed fit" denim...

I cannot even articulate the level of despair I feel upon viewing a new case of "phantom diaper syndrome." Many a young thang has desecrated his svelte figure by poor choice in the denim department.

This ailment, though present in some extremely careless women, is particularly lethal and widespread in the male population, ages 17-30.

So what exactly are the causes of said syndrome?
"RELAXED FIT" denim!!! And if the denim is medium wash??? Immediate (social) denigration.

I caution: Do not be fooled by the euphemistic nature of hangtags reading "relaxed fit" on men's jeans. A relaxed cut to denim essentially condemns the wearer to a visibly lower and flatter backside. My calculations find 2 inches to be the magic "sag factor" associated with an offending vs non-offending pair of jeans. Sag factor is calculated through a highly complex mathematical equation involving ratio of perceived BOC (bottom of cheek) to perceived backward extension in 3-D space.

I have found that when the sag factor for a particular denim-clad male broaches the 2 inch barrier, surrounding females experience a physical force (akin to the resistance demonstrated when placing like poles of two magnets together) which propels them away from the offending phantom diaper. Essentially, if the downward sag of one's denim is greater than the perceived outward extension of one's backside, to the 2nd degree, the forces of nature intervene to protect innocent passerby. Contact with phantom diaper is both unsettling and unsafe, especially for those of frailer constitution.

So why do I write about denim, specifically? The innate weight of denim as a fabric itself tends to aggravate the gravitational pull associated with a more generous trouser cut. While relaxed fit khakis can look tolerable--if not tired and dated--relaxed fit denim is far more weighty and far more dangerous.

Tread with caution, my precious blog readers.

"Rocking the Sternum"

Be it a snaggle tooth, apple bottom, or rogue hammer toe, we all have at least one physical flaw that keeps us from being the "perfect" specimen. [Yes, even Megan Fox has a crazy clubbed thumb, courtesy of a condition called brachydactyly.] And thanks to the repetitive subject material for popular rap songs, most of us get to frequently drop it to beats about our own disproportionate backsides.

Get yo fine self on the flo', dis yo soul!
...Shake ya ass, watch yourself.

Couldn't have said it better myself, Mystikal. [If, in fact, this is actually what you were trying to articulate in that song. One can never be certain with you.] Regardless, some ten years later and I still can't get your spastic attempts at rapping out of my head.

Anyway, while I--and I'm assuming most of you-- have escaped the perils of clubbed appendages and chronic bursts of verbal garble, genetics do seem to encode a little bit of irony into each little bundle of joy.

Take, for example, the undeniable fact that there are fifth graders walking this earth with larger chests than you, a full grown 22 year old female. And by you I mean me. Dammit. There's something rather cruel about a world in which walking past an elementary school can inspire cleavage envy. Whatever. At least I --and my small chest-- am able to cross the street on my own.

This being said, there is a little something I like to call "rocking the sternum" that has finally helped me to embrace my own lack of cleavage. While all around thinness may be in now, remember back to your middle school days. (A period I now refer to as THE DARK YEARS.) That gangly creature in the jazz band uniform? Not so cute back then. Thankfully, with age comes grace. And by grace I mean not grace at all, but money to buy strategic and expensive clothing to trick others into thinking that your awkward limbs and flat chest are "edgy."

Rocking the sternum, like a fine cheese or a small child, must be treated with the proper tools. No one should leave an expensive cheese unattended. Likewise, but to a lesser degree, with the small child.

Some quick information on "Rocking the Sternum"

1) Let's hope you know this, but the sternum is your breast bone. This is visible on those without large chests.

2) V-necks specifically are friends of sternum rocking. The "v" shape displays the full faculties of a high class sternum.

3) Be sure to take care of your sternum skin, ladies! No crepey business --or biznasty I should say. Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen, or you're quickly following in the footsteps of those old potato ladies you see on the beach. You know what I'm talking about.

4) Without a large chest, apparel choices that could teeter on the edge of trashy suddenly become chic. Low cut shirts? No problem. After all, what is there to show but that fabulous sternum! Short dresses/skirts/shorts? Leg is allowed when nothing is spilling out on top.

5) Whenever using the phrase "Rocking the Sternum," one must accompany this with a chest shimmy. You are, after all, a brave pioneer, and must behave as such. (This probably should have been first on the list, being as it is obviously crucial.)

6) Enjoy the ability to sleep on your stomach after partying for hours with your sternum. Your bosom-y friends are stuck with fewer options for sleeping positions. HAHA, suckers.


A certain sibling of mine texts, "I think you should write about people who wear tube tops and then a bra with clear plastic straps that cut into their flesh."

I shudder, gather my strength, and begin preparing for my next entry.