Guys, it is Girls and Fashion: Part Deux: The Fashioning! Guess why. No guess. No guess. Because it is Fashion Week, which is when a particular subset of the beautiful and the damned do not so much descend on New York but wiggle-wobble into and around...
Guys, it is Girls and Fashion: Part Deux: The Fashioning! Guess why. No guess. No guess. Because it is Fashion Week, which is when a particular subset of the beautiful and the damned do not so much descend on New York as wiggle-wobble into and around it like very attractive gelatin steak-strips in Prada silkies and rough denim and mean jewelry. And, yeah, we did a “Girls and Fashion” part I like a month ago, but then I hit bottom, wrote a column called “Everything Is The Worst” and asked for two weeks off. So. Now it’s fall.
It is basically the funniest, always-guaranteed-100%, when “fashion” is applied to something unfashion, like, “Week.” Or, the “Fashion Café,” which was a project of the Supermodel Era (don’t even worry about it) and a precursor to models’ mid-to-late-career-diversification, which usually includes self-branded bedsheets, lotion, Kmart-y bras, “eco,” collaborations with whoever, photography careers, blogging, I dunno. My point is that while fashion is a legitimately important and huge-scale industry and responsible for a lot of beauty, art, commerce, and innovation it is still basically embarrassing.
Paper magazine just did this oral history of X-Girl, which was a clothing line so 90s-covetable (Ask me if I still have X-Girl stuff, even though my personal fashion philosophy is mostly a low hiss of “This is garbage, get it away from meeeeee” because yes I obviously do but you have to be rookie-card-careful with something like a shittily produced nylon X-Girl bag) that it lives on in the girl-institutional memory even more, maybe, than its co-founder Kim Gordon. Peeersonally I was always more about Milk Fed, a Coppola joint, and Tocca, which nobody ever talks about even though their dresses were the perfect shades of melting popsicles, all creamy blues and raspberries.
Anyway, this week Kim Gordon sold her clothes through some rando vintage store in Oakland (???), and not to be a traitor or whatever but I was more ew-ed out by on-stage sweat-grungies than I was really interested in buying one of her old Marni dresses, you know?
Last night was Fashion’s Night Out, which means that a zill fashion girls and boys and designers and models and then that number of people times infinity of PR interns do little thingers around New York like DJ while little bunny-rabbit girls buy limited edition t-shirts, or draw designs in their sidewalk dinner-barf with a stick, or whatever. So the good part of all of this is nothing, or nothing specific. The bad part of this is that we are subjected to the real-time reporting of Fashion’s Night Out via tweets that say “Victoria Beckham in a clementine dress. #FNO” as though it’s fine, as though it’s creative, as though it’s OK, to just verbatim-report something like that without a little basketball-spin. There are a lot of big eyes and big ideas in fashion, but are there big brains???
I spend a lot of time googling “+ heroin” but it seems like all that has been classified? WAIT, SHIT, IS THERE A FASHION ILLUMINATI TOO???
Inasmuch as it hurts me to get into (what’s cliché-er for a bisexual girl with huge guns to want to talk to you about than breasts? Precisely nothing? OK? OK), I’m pretty, pretty, pretty obsessed with breasts, in the basic, unfurling cartoon tongue-carpet man-way, and in the “HOW?” constant-shock way, as in, my own look like a truck pulled up and parked there one day when I was flat and sixteen and here they still are. There is so much about talking about breasts that feels more and regrettably sleepytimes than mid-afternoon procrasturbation, but also urgent and political and “HOW?” I have yet to resolve this, I have yet to resolve the other implications of wanting and needing to know everything about sex and human function and how it all feels, but also not wanting to be the kind of person who wants—needs—to know, because “wanting” that much is a kind of internal, execrable ore, except you can dig forever and still feel like “Yeah, but WHY?” which is not how I want my existence to spool out.
Anyway, what fashion teaches women with breasts is that they are too inelegant (sexy, maybe, but official fashion maintains a respectful distance from that and other good filth) for dresses, that dresses need a clean line. So, aside from even “size” and “models” and “democracy” and other stuff I don’t care about (the kinds of girls I like tend toward the Scandinavian) there is this shame culture around boobies that is both of and outside of fashion. Mostly I wear t-shirts.
Why didn’t this take? Why is nobody outside (I looked) in men’s jammy tops? Heartbreak.
WHAT BOYS WEAR
The primary failure of women vis-à-vis relationships is caring about a man’s style. This isn’t even about “straight men” in relation to gay men, this is about you. Like, once my friend Greg told our friend Amy, who didn’t want to wear a bicycle helmet, that she only didn’t want to because she didn’t want to look uncool, and “How cool do you think you look now?” Like, what kind of Willy Wonka’s Style Factory do you think you exist in that you can overlook a dude because he dresses stupid?
Also, the point of “having a boyfriend” is to use that moment right as/after he comes, when you’re retracting your pussy muscles to remind his dick that you have the security codes, as currency for later on when you choose his jeans.
In reality, the very and objectively best absence of selected clothes-matter is that double-slice of hipbone between some shorts and a shirt. Unfortunately, I saw two many episodes of The Hills wherein at least one of them is tugging a camisole over a nut-brown 20-year-old belly-concavity with a squared-off French manicure and it ruined that area as a place to look at in the same way that nu-Gwen Stefani has ruined everything about how teenagers look. Anyway, I’m just really into those low triangle cut-outs at the back that a lot of dresses have, like really really really. Don’t you just want to put some fingies down there and wiggle ‘em?
The pop-up shop I would most get on board with would be called “Freaks and Geeks.”
RICH KIDS OF INSTAGRAM
The reason that the progeny of the one-fifth-of-the-one-percent are annoying to you should not be because they happen to exist. It is actually not their fault that a balding guy riding the wave of his father’s financial legacy and a shaky lady had a child together. The reason that they are annoying should be because they do very little with their money and wardrobe beyond stacking up ten monochrome Birkins and taking pictures. This has the same uber-rich-mystique as how every woman over 40 in California looks just like all the other women she hates.
Over them. Will trade for those Tiffany & Co. themed Dunks. BYEEEE!
Previously - Girls and the Weekend
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