GETTIN’ STARTED YOUNG. (These are the gems you can only resurrect on Christmas vacations, guys.)
Look out Rihanna. Comme pasties are so much hotter than sequin-spangled stars. (AND A DEFINITE MUST IN EVERY THREE TO FIVE-YEAR-OLD’S FASHION ARSENAL.)
We are so VOGUE PARIS.
xx
Blank eyes. Sallow skin. Protruding bones. Deadly stare. We’re all familiar with the cadaver-chic look popularized by fashion’s most eminent tastemakers- the human hangers frequently gaze over at us from the covers of Italian Vogue and saunter past desensitized editors on European catwalks. More than likely, we, too, have grown accustomed to the obligatory child-like bodies, the sharp cheek bones, and the angular hips- low points in the frivolous, fantastical world that is fashion. So it was with jaded eyes that an unintentionally zombie-ridden editorial in W shocked me out of my boots. In the place of radiant beauties energetically flaunting fall’s luscious fashion smorgasbord, emaciated, sunken-in faces plastered with ghastly, near ghoulish expressions gawked blankly from the gloss, the drab, dreary lighting highlighting their fragile limbs and bony ankles. Standing lifelessly or lounging in supposed stupors like mindless revelers at a corpse bazaar, few people could identify these girls as warm-blooded humans, with only their visibly protruding veins giving them away as not-quite-legal money signs in the modeling biz. It hardly seemed like I was eliciting the emotional response luxury companies anticipate when they throw their product out on the market- I was appalled!- and not only at the industry’s glamorization of weakness and childlike frames, but because the nightmare lives on in every important style publication, with fashion’s once-bright young things tirelessly succumbing to its pressures. And contrary to the claims of delusional casting directors and out-of-touch designers, it fails to represent any sort of aspirational fantasy, but rather a dismal confirmation of fashion’s stereotypical selfishness and inhumanity.
Remember the days when we celebrated All Hallow’s Eve as the one night of the year when the spirits of the dead could return to earth? (Hocus Pocus 4 LIFE, babes.) When skanks’ kinky PVC guises weren’t malfunctioning for perverted hipsters all over the East Village? When potentially uglifying yourself for the sake of horror was socially acceptable? Yeah, me neither. So could there really be any better time to resurrect modestly-induced Halloween terror? The pre-Saw ghost stories and haunted attractions? If Gareth and Giles have anything to say about it, we’ll be crawling in spidees and basking in goth gowns by spring (I LOVE), and with that unique inspiration hot off the presses, millions of runway looks freshly etched into my skull, I dedicated myself to disguising myself as an old-school forest-floor-crawling wicked witch for the big night (specifically look thirty-four at Gareth Pugh on Abbey Lee, stalkers- results above). Positively enchanting. And by the looks of this year’s requisite hookers devils/Gagas/bunnies, we should all be begging for a little intentional fright. In which case, I also present you with that girl from The Ring (no she doesn’t have a name, duh). And for the rest of the year, when you’re desperately longing for terrifying freak-show garb? I always recommend costume-scoping on the L-train.
It’s that time of year again… I’m not talking pre-show casting season or back-to-school shopping (how cliche!), nor is it the celebration of two decades of my existence (the parade starts promptly at sunrise on August 9th, babes), but rather the moment is ripe for the unveiling of the September issues. Party at the Conde you say? Before you all lose your knickers- I hear Grace is quite the cougar- as it seems another lackluster year after another, the perennials- Charlize, Jessica, Kate, and more blonde blah- will be out in full force on U.S. soil. (OMG Confederacy is so the new black.) It seems to be just a sad fact of life that PYTs on this side of the Atlantic must choose between reading middle-aged heiress fluff, always disguised as a life-and-death matter, on losing fat around the collarbone (ahem, Vogue), how to slut your way into skinny- just like [insert trashy B-list celebrity]! (I hate you, Elle), or, at the ultimate best, style-guides for disguising spilled PBR in mountains of head-spinning patterns (please disappear forever, Nylon). Did we mention all the poor-economy garbage about conservative (timeless! classic! wear forever!) dressing for recessionistas? Just the term makes me gag! Where’s the creativity? The stunning avant-garde? Where are the first-rate models and the eye-opening spreads? Why has all the thoughtful writing gone to the blogs? Heaven forbid a journalist critique a fellow insider- or worse yet, a member of fashion’s sacred Mount Olympus! And what happened to that irresistible urge felt by inspired readers to lock themselves up with a glossy, read it cover to cover, and then cut up its copy to immediately incorporate into collages?! All evidence seems to scream that European mags are now carrying the edgy, need-it-now torch. And with French Vogue’s editors singlehandedly sparking the latest rock ‘n’ roll style craze, Italian Vogue launching a million and one black models’ careers, and Pop featuring a Russian-socialite-princess-cum-leggings designer at the top of the masthead, clearly that claim would be impossible to dispute. (You know leggings are so hot right now.) But with the intention of reviving our own nation’s beloved Vogue- yes, I do still owe my Anna-worshipping loyalty to the title- I propose we play a little game called “The September Issue.” How festive. It’s quite simple really- players merely imagine the perfect “Fall Fashion” edition of the magazine (What’s that Fabien? Oh yes, ads may be included.)- a roundtable of sorts! Oodles of fun, no? Now put on your best Givenchys and suck in those stomachs…I call I’m the Editor-in-Chief!
Fedora? Mmhmm. Wet-look waves? No doubt. Finger bandages? Off the wall! Yes, pretty young things, these stylistic elements are, for all intents and purposes, trademarks of the legendary King of Pop, and seeing as you are all well aware of mine and Christian’s undying love for the entertainer, I thought it fitting to treat our readers to Vogue Nippon’s “Pop Pin-Up” (published March 2009). The modern, wearable homage to Michael Jackson’s signature look features model Ali Stephens channeling MJ’s stage persona, stylist Polina Arinova tapping into his wardrobe, and Josh Olins capturing the moves… quite a sparkling editorial fitting for this period of mourning, no? And (creatively) there’s nary a Balmain band jacket in sight! Fabulous, darlings. Now throw on some loafers, pull out your old “Thriller” paraphernalia, and moonwalk to the nearest club… just avoid the cemetery and refrain from beating up on any rebels along the way, though if you do, just blame it on the boogie.
Dearest Mikey J,
Growing up in Indianapolis, Indiana during my formative years (yes, we were Hoosiers together, Mike!), I spent my ’90s childhood reveling in your genius (or at least idolizing my older brother Jolly, aka your number one fan). Jolly was obsessed with mimicking your moves and your voice- when he wasn’t devoting himself to 2Pac, naturally- and when he came home from school, my sister Ali and I would swiftly make our way to the TV room, where we’d join him, the youngest of the four boys in our family, in impromptu lip-syncing to “Beat It” and attempts at the robot and the moonwalk (big bro was actually quite impressive for a suburban white boy, as was noted by all his observers). We’d blast “Scream” and jump around the couches in awe-inspired revelry, enchanted by the beat and impossibly catchy melodies you explored. After watching your video for “Smooth Criminal,” we dangerously attempted your elegant floor-skimming lean, and by the time we heard “Man in the Mirror,” we considered you our own personal friend. When “Thriller” crept through the speakers or onto the television screen, little Al would either run to Mommy or cry in fright… such was the power of your imagination and work. I mean, really- we practically worshipped you.
Attention J.T., Rihanna, Kanye, Brit, Jay, Beyonce, Weezy, Gaga, Taylor Swift, Jonas Brothers, et al.:
Two things happened in 1982: 1) I was born AND 2) Michael Jackson released Thriller. The former is kind of like a big deal; whereas, the latter is a HUGE deal. The sales of every album in each of your individual catalogs will probably never combine to reach the total sales of this ONE album. You’ll never drop an album that makes your face as instantly recognizeable as Jesus Christ, Santa Claus, Che Guevara, or Yao Ming. You make music videos because of “Thriller”, but Michael Jordan, Marlon Brando, Naomi Campbell, Magic Johnson, Eddie Murphy, Macaulay Culkin, Chris Tucker, and Wesley Snipes will never star in yours – you’ll just have to settle for the likes of Scarlett J., Camilla Belle, and Michael Rapaport. And don’t even think of asking guys like Martin Scorsese, John Singleton, John Landis, or Vincent Price to get involved.
Justin, make an album with nine straight tracks that are as good as “My Love” and you’ll still be dancing in his footsteps. Rihanna, don’t act like I didn’t see you at Galliano’s fall 2008 runway show mouthing, “Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa.” Kanye, he’s Christopher Columbus, and you’re just the pilgrim. Brit, he invented comebacks. Jay, you weren’t the first to deliver your vocals from memory. Beyonce, years before “Single Ladies”, my friends and I were playing a game called “Moonwalker” for Sega Genesis. Weezy, do you really think the world would be as accepting of freaks if it wasn’t for him? Gaga, “Just Dance” is great, but I STILL crap my pants whenever I hear the opening drum beat from “Billie Jean” on the dance floor. Taylor, hi. JoBros, Jackson 5… enough said.
To call him the King of Pop, is, quite frankly, an understatement. Michael Jackson was, is, and always will be Pop.
Act like you know,
Christian
P.s. Isn’t it about time for another “We Are The World”??? Just a thought…
P.p.s. Which one of you is curating the Michael Jackson tribute album?
[audio:08-pyt-pretty-young-thing.mp3]
Oh hey Carine!
For years you’ve dazzled the fashion industry with your easily-identifiable brand of sexy rock ‘n’ roll cool alongside your trademarked Parisian je ne sais quoi, sparking carnal lust in men and greedy desire in more feminine card-wielders. You’ve managed to out-shock the competition with your devilish “sex sells” mantra and Margiela-swathed strut, frolicking in the natural attention and reveling in the Moet-popping excess. Does it come as any surprise to hear that you’ve revolutionized modern fashion as we know it? You and BFF Emanuelle Alt have diabolically put the Park Avenue royalties’ style to shame. The “Do Not Disturb” sign so icily cementing the classy attire heralded by Anna Wintour and her perfectly-coiffed and lacquered gang has been ripped off for you to replace it with an Emilio Pucci-biased bouncer. You’ve knocked the style heavy-hitters out of the ballpark with your Balmain and Rick Owens (which have both flourished under your tutelage) and broadened our interpretations of “polish.” While women once swooned over a princess-cut De La Renta, they now dream of a cut-out, curve-hugging Alexander Wang. Elaborately caged, dangerously provocative platforms have unapologetically replaced restrained stilettos in captivation of shoe fetishist hearts. Gothic silver jewelry and a quintessentially French style of fresh, natural beauty (messy bedroom hair and appealingly dewy skin) have contributed to your characteristic rebellious streak, along with a heavy hand of highly pigmented black eye kohl. And where lifeless minimalism and girlish romance once took up ad space, consumers are now treated to hard-edged glamour with erotic currents and racy art direction. It’s all kinda genius. What warm-blooded human isn’t going to stop and stare with our dominating primitive instincts? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you brought sexy back before JT ever set foot on a disco ball. The only thing preventing your high fashion material from becoming fodder for unseemly membership sites are the gangly models and thousand-euro designs they’re sporting (am I right, legs-wide-open Natasha Poly?).
Hi Mr. Jay-Z,
Some people think Lil Wayne is the best rapper alive. Some people say DJ Khaled. Additionally, others be fronting like Q-Tip holds that title. No disrespect to those other heavyweights, but you’re soooooo good at rapping – you’re the best. Perhaps, detractors don’t like the pop songs you’ve been making since In My Lifetime, Vol. 1, but those people have probably never experienced the exhilarating thrill of counting stacks. I used to hustle marinade at farmers’ markets, so I feel you. Gosh, I’d say the lyric sheet for “The City Is Mine” should be on display at the Smithsonian, but you don’t write your lyrics down. Anyways, well, I guess I just want you to know that I think that song is pure genius – it’s like you were foretelling the next decade of hip hop history. Are you psychic? When you claimed, “I ain’t a player, get it right, I’m controllin’ the game”, I just took your word for it. Thanks for being you.
Still listening,
Christian
P.s. Hahahaha! Nice Keyser Söze impression in the video. “Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Agent Rappinport?” Michael Rapaport? Wow. I was driving him to a party once, and he was running late, so I rolled through a stop sign. Just so happens, my boss saw me run the stop sign, and he immediately called me on my cell. My boss was questioning me, “Why’d you run that stop sign?!?!” Mr. Rapaport overheard me trying to justify the traffic violation, and he said, “Tell him you’re driving Michael Rapaport!” So I told my boss, and my boss paused and asked, “Who?” Pffff!!! Glad to know that your career had a little more longevity than his.
P.p.s. Do you seriously play Monopoly with real cash? Baller.
NBRHDWTCH November (PRE-THANKSGIVING OBVS) Playlist.