September 27, 2007

Very Rare: Fashion Continues Winning Streak

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Draw the curtains, draw the bath – it’s time for another Very Rare. Returning from New York City’s Fashion Week, the basal ganglia of U.S. fashion, I’m moved to digress from the usual—grading of champagne, the gold watch futures market—to share my experiences with the frills and trimmings of fashion. Shall we start with phonetics? Draw the syllables away from the soft palate with a gush of moist air: fa-shun. Good. That’s a German accent. And that’s fashion. Like a red leather jacket with one pocket (for drugs), it’s sexy in a dangerous way. Cute is temporal, readers, and Twiggy already owns the copyright.
Onward, to semantics! Fashion is not a diet. If you wear jewelry, you are not fashionable. If you wear too much jewelry, you probably are. If Tic Tacs are your favorite accessory, you probably don’t own jewelry – and you probably sit alone at lunch. And Fashion is never hungry.
Sometimes Fashion is gross, like when it’s old, and not Vintage. Sometimes Fashion is prophetic, like when Teva becomes hip, it will be too late to fix global warming. Sometimes Fashion is reflective-lettering on cheap t-shirts printed in Holland and sold at Barney’s (“Cause me pain, Heidi Slimane”). But really it is none of these things and all of them.
Though it certainly isn’t funny. Unless funny replaces black. That’s not going to happen. So stop laughing. You look better when you aren’t smiling, unless you are Swedish. (And speaking of those chiseled ivory blokes!) Fashion is all things north of 51° Latitude. The Swedes have delivered us immaculate jeans (see Acne), and the Dutch, heavily plagiarizing some retard’s coloring books, have sent us glow-stick-vomit-patterned jackets (see Henrik Vibskov). On that note, a warning: several new age cults hope to spread their lame gospel through unsuspecting sweatpanted students. Do not concede to the deceitful advertisements they wish to display across your asses (like so many have already done).
Along the same wavelength, scribble this into the moleskine: anything resembling mesh or, vaguely, chain metal, is the new Puritanism. I learned that in L.A. from a transsexual resembling the late Candy Darling. Rei Kawakubo, not dead, agreed and then ate a snack-pack of Jello Jigglers. She is extremely avant-garde. She founded Comme des Garcons and could unfound it without blinking.
Lo! One must have such a firm concept of fashion to appreciate the bacchanal that is Fashion Week. One particularly regal event featured seventeen maidens dripping with cotton-candy-flavored paraffin wax; their bodies distended, they were strewn across a matrix of shoelaces, which were artfully flanked by a team of Korean acrobats. It was here, among the cream of the industry, that I bore witness to the type of outfit that defines an ear: a strapless jumper of diamonds stained with the semen of twelve albino stallions. Oh, I, like a dervish among the anti-thesis of all dervishes, bore witness to a garment so opalescent it barely sheltered the sweet boy’s pale body. It is fashion! It is art! To heighten my self-loathing, I consumed only the garnishing of my Kobe steak.
It was then that my spidey sense tingled, or rather, my Prada phone. Gucci’s gala, Untitled #2, was to commence when the miniature photos of Madonna crossed the “12” on my Tag Heuer watch. With nothing to wear, I strangled a homeless man for an old Fila sweatshirt and skinned the fido beside him for leggings. A gentlemen is always prepared. I made the Gucci gala within two hours, just in time for the after-party, Untitled #2: Night.
I spotted a comrade in the corner, sipping a Zima with a woman resembling the late Mary Magdalene. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the number on his Falcons’ jersey was that of Michael Vick’s. I rued skinning that dog. I downed several olives and took a cab to the West Village. I stumbled through a crew of scarfed-fiends making their way into a nightclub, Don Hill’s. I decided against joining them, for fear that I would be asked to show identification. Fashion is not having to show identification.
Resigned, I walked toward a garbage can and forcefully projected several olives. It was then that I realized that fashion, its quintessence, is being the last kid to wear Nike Pumps, but wearing them like you were the first.