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.