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

1. Yeah Yeah Yeahs “Heads Will Roll (A-Trak Remix)”

2. Vitalic “Poison Lips”

3. Sebastien Tellier “Divine (Danger Remix)”

4. Pony Pony Run Run “Hey You (Kolt13 Remix)”

5. Plastiscines “Barcelona (Lifelike Remix)”

6. The xx “Crystallised (Rory Philips Remix)”

7. Nightwaves “Fascination (WPAHP Remix)”

8. Florence and The Machine “You’ve Got the Love (The xx Remix)”

9. Kleerup “Until We Bleed (feat. Lykke Li)”

10. Miami Horror “Sometimes”

11. Hot Chip “Sexual Healing”

12. Florence and The Machine “Raise It Up (Switch Remix)”

13. Electric Wire Hustle “They Don’t Want”

14. Wale “90210 (prod. by Mark Ronson)”

15. Drake “Best I Ever Had (Matamatics Remix)”

16. Wale feat. Marsha Ambrosius “Diary (prod. by The Sleepwalkers)”

17. Chiddy Bang “All Things Go (feat. Sufjan Stevens)“

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.

It’s a widely-accepted fact that models must be thin. Through time they’ve maintained an image of perfection and elitism, and as society’s waistlines have grown to epic proportions, the proud high fashion industry has required its models to shrink to near skin and bones- an effort to distance itself from the piggy McDonald’s-craving mainstream, making it even harder to achieve the model look, and therefore more exclusive and more fantastical. Clothes move gracefully on the sticks, which, in the absence of curves, require little tailoring, and therefore mean less work for design houses. These hangers with faces fail to enliven clothes (impossible when so many appear to have scratched their way out of coffins), but rather provide an anonymity which enables buyers and editors to solely focus on the designs. But who does this really benefit?

Let’s examine the food chain. Elitist, egocentric narcissists over in Paris want rotting corpses in their next campaign. (MAJOR. FIERCE.) Tragically, black magic doesn’t sell so hot to the trashy American public (uncultured, illiterate fools- duh) so they opt to hire three underage new faces for an opulent opium-den theme instead. Much less offensive, no? Attention-Hungry Narcissist #1 wants to book that pretty pillow-lipped Dutch girl along with his other two victims, but Attention-Hungry Narcissist #2 knows she’s a total chunkster, so he refuses to hire her unless she’s lost that blubber around the hips- totes the same fat that forced her into the massive Yeti-style coat she overheated in at the company’s show last season. In the mean time, Narcissist #2’s vote’s for the cool Australian girl who’s agent’s legendary bribes are impossible to pass up- plus she’s been offering sexual favors to the campaign’s photographer, so she’ll easily make it through his ballot. Unfortunately, Aussie’s contracted pink eye or crabs or something, so she’s “recuperating” back home/getting a boob job. On the other side of the Atlantic, Dutchie’s New York booker is scrambling to prove himself worthy of a promotion to New Faces Director, but none of his charges are scoring much more than Asian department store ads while his table-mate just finalized his sixth campaign for a models.com top-ten hottie. Sooo Booker #1- little white liar- tells Narcissist #2 that Dutchie’s gotten skinny! Then he BBMs Dutchie to come in and meet with him and the new faces board for a chat. SUSPENSEFUL. Surprise, surprise- Dutchie learns that she won’t get hired by major conglomerate’s biggest design house (or anyone else- THREAT) until she stops being so fat, but Booker #2 (heart of GOLD), tells her that his little Russian diva over at the model house is also going for a pancake butt, so- ooommmmggggg- they can share diet tricks! All of Dutchie’s friends back home think she’s like some sort of supermodel or something- she’d be a loser if she showed her face back there without so much as rubbing her hot model pics in the cool kids’ faces- so she’d be a complete idiot if she didn’t agree to be the company’s puppet… RIGHT?!

Heartbreaking, no? Egocentric narcissists- and the sheep that follow them- convince impressionable young models everyday that they are inadequate. They pressure them into losing weight, going out with creepy promoters, and into painful beauty treatments all for the sake of fashion. They are brainwashed into believing their only chance of approval and monetary success in this world is to fit into a wickedly-designed mold, and potentially hurt or deprive themselves in the process, despite what a stunning personality, sweeping intellect, or genuine sweetness they may possess. So what is to be made of the models? The girls required to maintain the body types of prepubescent children, a nasty position which often forces them into resembling the vulnerable victims of terminal illness? Heaven forbid they gain an inch around the hips and lose that major show next season, or worse, be shunned into commercial modeling (the horror!). Respectful agents will quietly suggest their models eat less or forgo dessert, while aggressive bookers will stop at nothing to whittle down their charges’ waistlines, perhaps offering pills, smokes, some lines, and a lesson in Bulimia 101. The models are meal tickets, susceptible means to that must-have Bora Bora vacation or trendy detox retreat. To quench the fear of undesirability, the girls don’t eat, restricting their diets, insisting they “just ate” in measurement-compromising situations, and frequently- notoriously- claiming they’re all “big eaters.” But how is it possible for an entire industry to become numb to a flock of growing children and malnourished women? To treat them like objects, on call for any whim or request, without a care for their genuine well-being? And most importantly, when will they remove their blinders?

I grew up aware of my body and was always taught by my wise mother to appreciate it whilst focusing on my inner beauty and mind as the most important facets of my person. Contorting my shape to become another was never a desire, as I was just delighted with the one that I have and was far more interested in developing my talents and strengths than looking like the man-eating Victoria’s Secret brigade. And since boys weren’t very interested in the curve-challenged physique of my gene pool, I dedicated myself to intellectual pursuits and obsessed over my performance in track and field, hoping that if I wasn’t visually alluring to my bimbo-loving peers, I would have other notable qualities worthy of attention. Despite my career goals (I set my sights on the thrones over at Vogue), when modeling became a possibility, I took it. It wasn’t a hard choice, but it was a sacrificial one, as I gave up the chief editorship at my school newspaper, my favorite classes, and any inkling of a track scholarship- all things I had worked years towards. And of all the things I lost, the easiest were the inches. When I was told I needed to “work on” my hips, I was shocked, embarrassed, and ashamed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing… they wanted me to what?! My hips gave me power and strength, but they- and the attributes they continue to represent- weren’t acceptable in this new world. Still, I reduced my hips by two inches in four months, and I was suddenly the most dedicated new face on the board, an inspiration to the poor Brazilians bingeing on Haagen-Daas at the model apartment every night as the Russians left for their suspiciously gratuitous dinners with sleazy American businessmen. Little did I know that foreign agencies would refuse to take me on board for being too bony, and when my feet were too big, my shoulders too narrow, and my ankles too large, I was accepting, and I took the criticism gracefully, strictly detaching my body’s “shortcomings” from who I was as a person. The day I left modeling was only hard knowing that I had given up so many of my passions to work towards stardom in a fickle, meaningless business that didn’t want me, but merely my shell. I found it callous and unforgiving, and I was sickened that I had become reliant on the predatory power players holding all my cards in their conniving hands.

Casting directors and designers know of this frequent dilemma- they’re well aware of the pitfalls of their industry. The sex and the drugs will never disappear, low self-esteem is an unwavering constant, and there will always be girls who are forced to lose an illogical number of pounds… but the question remains as to why such an ill lifestyle continues to be so romanticized. If I wanted to watch zombies I’d find “Thriller” on YouTube, not look at footage of the most recent Prada show or flip through Italian Vogue- two of the most influential catalysts of the modeling industry and frequent purveyors of the childish zombie phenomena. As much as I adore Olivier Theyskens’ work for Nina Ricci (the man is beyond brilliant), his show girls were almost always spot-on doppelgangers for killer skeletors (PLEASE PLEASE click on that link for what may be the most eerie example of this topic). And Alexander McQueen? He’s an absolute genius, but if I didn’t know all the names of his mannequins, I’d SWEAR they were all malnourished aliens. Why can’t the industry switch gears and endow healthily slim, athletic bodies as the ideal? Obviously I’m biased, not out of petty envy, but rather because I identify with poster-children of that type, like the vivacious Hilary Rhoda and the former speed-skater Doutzen Kroes, their bodies products of both physical training and “good” genes. In a society that worships glowing health, why shouldn’t such models be demanded? They are strong and exude a gorgeously Amazonian, feminine power. Such healthy, slender bodies are still hard to attain, but when they are achieved, it is through exercise and proper eating habits rather than devastating disorders or underaged cruelty.

So has fashion finally realized its farthest extreme? Once the pendulum has swung as far as it can go, someone will have to make the leap for a change, the question is, who will have the courage to take the risk?

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!

First step, COVER GIRL! Fall fashion is all about the ’80s… the tacky decade of neon excess seems to have no end. So who can pull off a punky crop, neon nails, over-the-top styling, and mimic Michael Jackson’s “Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa” with ease, without looking like a bad spread in Seventeen or sounding like a drunk karaoke victim? Too easy- obvs it’s Rihanna! She’s got enough star power to sell a flammable toilet bowl cleaner to teen girls- maybe a good gift with purchase for those mascaras?- and as long as Jonathan Van Meter can get her tongue loose on Chris Brown, the cover line will toss People to the poor house… or at least to Salvation Army to scrounge up some story for their next lame report on charitable celebs (no offense!). RiRi will be smoking- figuratively, my beloved babes- in the Marc Jacobs, Balmain, Louis Vuitton, and Versace that we incorporate into the shoot. Now someone get Mert & Marcus on the phone, please- stat! Fabulous? Naturally.

Instead of plastering tired and freshly Botox-ed socialites in the party pages, I’m thinking we resurrect the supermodel (the term, not the middle-aged) with shots of the fashion crowd… at least they’re interesting to people who live below 52nd. Glorious. The oh-so-typical (for an oil-heir) zillion-dollar New England cottages, for lack of a better term, are just not hip and edgy enough to hold this generation’s attention, hence I call Pharrell to the stand! So maybe that idea’s a bit stale, but y’all catch my drift, right? And for the bland “Affordable Fashion” feature? We’ll replace the overpriced t-shirts, because really- who’s buying $275 silk Rag & Bone on a budget?! Replacing such disturbingly expensive items will be equally chic alternatives- J. Brand’s Balmain-inspired Thrashers, Frye Engineer boots, sparkly Topshop jackets, Kain/Sophomore/LNA tees, Pour la Victoire heels, etc. Such items may slightly veer into Teen Vogue territory, but with the right sophisticated pieces thrown in on the side, we’ll have a heaping plate of fabulosity- chef’s zero-calorie special, of course. Can we ring up Hilary Rhoda to model the wares? I’m lovin’ it! (Don’t think that means you can sneak in that McGriddle, Andre. I’m gaining ounces just smelling the oil.)

Now for the editorials, you ask? Let’s give Caroline’s and Raquel’s poor feet a little rest from the Sir Mix-A-Lot moves, and instead infuse a little bit of wit and sexy rock ‘n’ roll into the issue. We’ll have Greg Kadel behind the lens (LOVE. HIM.) for a biker-chic edit, with model Maryna Linchuk in the studio. To keep it classy, there will be no boobage (keep it clean, kids!), and I’m envisioning some black-and-white shots. Ya feel me? We’ll also feature besties Toni Garrn and Ali Stephens in a witty spread on location around New York or LA, shot by Inez & Vinoodh, with lots of color and super-glam hair- very Chloe, no? And for career-wear (ick, I know, but it is a necessity, people), we’ll book Steven Meisel with Sasha Pivovarova- who else could make such a category look tempting? We’ll just leave him to do his thing… and we already know Sasha’s fierce (zing!). Every ed will be pristine, clean, and perfect- this is still American Vogue, lovelies- but with a dash of sass, whimsy, and freshness. Oh, and I’d like a side of ritzy charm with that, please.

Now we just need to get the staff crack-a-lacking and we’ll be in BUSINESS. Y’all think Lauren Santo-Domingo and Ladybug- er, Bee- will approve? Their spoiled-socialite faces won’t be quite as prominent within the mag’s hallowed pages, but no one ever said such a phenomenon was a bad thing…

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.

Just click on photo in gallery below to view, and then click on the photo again to view it larger. Click again for full mag size. (My apologies for the endless clicks). All photos scanned via TFS.

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.

To my chagrin, your most memorable performances were all accomplished well before my 1989 birth… not that that has prevented me from developing my own favorites, the foremost of which was at the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of Motown, where you delivered the most stunning spectacle of talent with “Billie Jean.” Effortlessly suave and charming, you glided across the stage, debuting the moonwalk and your infamous crystal-encrusted white glove, clad in piles of sequins and your signature fedora, exposed sparkling socks, and leather loafers. The emotion emitted during the performance is absolutely infectious, the energy magnificently undeniable. The persona lighting up the event is the definition of a superstar. And that superstar spirit? It’s easily invaded nearly every facet of the fashion and entertainment industries since. Ali and I have realized we developed our own signature dance moves from watching your pelvic thrusts, arm flinging, and obvious passion for the theatrical… we certainly weren’t learning to shake it from Madonna. And your unforgettable influence is evident in nearly every artist working steadily today- Justin Timberlake’s smooth moves and Lady Gaga’s penchant for outlandish costumes didn’t originate from their own ideas, and Rihanna has surely learned to reinvent her style from your endless attention-grabbing get-ups. Speaking of which, those sequins! You revolutionized fashion with those pailettes, the glittering glove, and your penchant for embroidered jackets. Your warm embrace of Givenchy and Balmain in the past year caused such joy and ecstasy among the fashion elite that it seems the recent ’80s revival on the runways (super smatterings of sparkle, statement-making metallic leather, and sparkly band jackets) was perfectly timed with your would-be return to the stage in London… but now it seems to be a fitting memorial at the close of your illustrious life.

In recent years, the media and unappreciative fools have mocked you in the vain belief that by so doing they can undermine your startling influence and achievements, but who of any of us can be so hypocritical as to laugh at your quest for outer perfection when we are all so obsessed with it ourselves, that we’ll seemingly endure any number of surgical enhancements to artificially achieve such, adding on to other torturous habits deemed necessary to compete in a world of ageless, lacquered, and, let’s face it, plastic bobbleheads? I don’t blame you or think any less of you for your innate desire to fit in. What has always been of utmost importance is your overflowing talent- the songs you wrote literally light up dance floors and tempt even the shyest kids out of seclusion. Your lyrics have become so engrained in the cultural lexicon that PYT was a natural, organic choice for naming this website on high fashion and music- not only are Christian and I catering to “Pretty Young Things” as our readership, but you, as quite possibly the greatest entertainer and fashion pioneer of our time, embody the spirit of our site.

You may have struggled in an ongoing battle of loneliness, you loathed your looks into augmentation, and you’re sweet, sensitive heart was often overlooked by those of a more callous nature, but when I think of you, Michael- the instigator of the soundtrack to my childhood and the icon of a generation- I’ll smile at the sparkle of your falsetto squeals and melt at the smooth as silk tone of your vibrato, swoon at your shimmies and wonder at your limitless creativity. The stories you wrote, then dreamt up for an MTV-addicted population to watch in humbled amazement, are beyond compare… I think of your seduction of Iman in “Remember the Time,” tigers and ghetto-blaster wielding Macaulay Culkin in “Black or White,” and, of course, “Thriller”- the hallmark and definition of the ’80s. And that gleeful dancing displayed every time a DJ spins “Wanna Be Startin’ Something”? It’s more real and inherent than any fleeting “Sugar” or “Single Ladies” could produce, and will continue to incite riots in clubs around the world well after your funeral. I still get excited when I hear “Rock With You,” my heart never fails to skip a beat when I listen to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” and I’ll always emit a little giggle at the sound of “I Want You Back.” Forever and ever, Michael, you will be in my heart.

Your eternal adoring fan,

MJS

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

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]

Michael Jackson – “P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing” (zShare)

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?).

And as the rivalry between your French Vogue camp and le Wintour’s looming American division has grown to near NBA standards, your rapscallion spirit has seemed more and more a reflection of the anti-American sentiments popularized during the Bush era. Coincidence? For all your ironic wit and humorous sartorial comments on modern society, I’d venture to guess you quite enjoy mocking the try-hard, too-perfect glamour (and imminent downfall) of Hollywood celebrities and uptown socialites… Adriana Lima in logo-strewn baby tops and diamond-encrusted shades? A+ on that comedic caricature. Mockery of goddess Anna and her Park Avenue style? Snejana killed it! And neurotic Amy Winehouse as portrayed by a sizzling Isabeli Fontana? You know your pop culture. The obvious dare and adventure displayed in your mag’s pages is a chic contrast to the safe and conservatively charming styles of America’s best-sellers- and it looks like you’re effortlessly converting fashion folk to your naughty inclinations. It’s hardly a secret that you actually adore being the antagonist to the increasingly stale mastheads at American glossies with your nipple-baring, nearly obscene Lara Stone spreads and androgyny-exploring eds, plus your reputation as one half of a nightclubbing mother-daughter duo and a saucy vixen in your own right. But could there be a little trouble in paradise? Or am I the only one noticing the Frenchie “inspirations” in the recently renovated pages of the Times Square Conde’s most fashionable money-maker?

It all started during the rumors… you remember the ones- right, doll? Everyone from here to Timbuktu was claiming you’d be stealing Anna’s throne, and naturally, the gossip queens of the fashion world were in a frenzy. Sides were taken, loyalties assumed, and I’ll admit, I was on Anna’s team (I’m afraid your genius would not translate so well on this side of the Atlantic, darling). Obviously the blather turned out to be nothing more than water-cooler chatter, and the traditional hierarchy was kept in order. But then I noticed the changes… It seemed a little surprising to find party-hopping sparkly minidresses in US Vogue, shot by your boy Mario, and featuring a few of your all-star girls (Anna Selezneva, Catherine McNeil, Anna Jagodzinska, Lily Donaldson, and Raquel Zimmerman- in one spread). But it retained a sense of playful cuteness (in comparison to your edginess, at least) with Karlie’s baby-doll smile and Arlenis’ effervescence, Anna J.’s glossy iron-curled blonde mane and some terribly awkward wannabe-raver wigs. But this was just the tip of the iceberg. After the Voguettes started recruiting their new model posse, they enlisted your styling staffer Marie-Amelie Sauve more frequently and introduced middle America to the unusually orthodox work of your go-to photographers. A little dash of Natasha here, a sprinkle of Terry Richardson there, and maybe a shot of a no-faced model’s behind for good measure. Did I mention Edita Vilkeviciute was featured, followed by your buddy Lara Stone, and now- wait for it… Iris Strubegger?! Yeah, I know- who does that sorcière think she is?! Either the Ice Queen has made a deal with the devil or caught on to the trend… but you’re being imitated by the villain, and Tinsley is undoubtedly receiving the Heimlich as I write. Next thing we know, Lara Stone will be shooting a back-of-issue special on lingerie with Mario Sorrenti, or perhaps we should expect a little Anja Rubik rolling around in shaggy furs in the halls of Versailles? You don’t need me to tell you this is despicable. Now I know some girls say “imitation is the best form of flattery… blah blah blah.” Fortunately for you, I’m not one of those girls. And quite frankly, those little chicas are the ones getting their toes stepped all over and being pushed around- and we know you’re a fierce independent woman (plus those Balenciaga platforms are just too hot to allow for abuse). So what is a forward-thinking Givenchy-attired maven to do when her blood-sworn enemy (hyperbole, kids) creeps in on her territory?

I’ll always remember my first official brush with devil-may-care French Vogue royalty, at the Nina Ricci S/S 08 show in the Parisian tuileries. (Obviously this event had me in throes of ecstasy all morning.) I encountered you backstage after the presentation, congratulating Olivier with your chic arm sling (refuting the phrase’s oxymoron status), looking fabulous and untouchably chic. Clearly, babe, whether in the company of fashion-worshipping stylophiles or womanizing club-owners, all those in your presence would willingly bow at your Alaia-clad feet, kiss them with cherry-red YSL gloss pur, and then obey every whim pronounced by your dangerously husky voice. I don’t think you need me to tell you that’s quite the mean feat, though I guess it’s made a little easier by those irresistible clingy mini-dresses you’re so partial to. (Who says women over fifty can’t show off toned olive gams?) And ever since that day that I first feasted my eyes on your sexy style and sensibilities, I’ve dabbled in its realms to find myself quite literally addicted to giant heels (boys better live with the fact that I’m already 6′1″), obsessed with slinky bandage dresses (I would live in those babies if my budget allowed), and grasping for any leather clothing I can get my hands on (HOT). Seeing such alarming temptations watered down and recycled for the masses in Vogue until they eventually make their way down to Seventeen is about as exciting as reading the plot-line to a Matthew McConaughey flick- you’re quite positive you’ve seen the same thing a million times before and that by this point, the novelty is as insipid as a limited-edition Lucky Charm marshmallow. You’ve already got the lead, you just need to find the next direction.

Anna will never be able to reproduce your (almost offensively) raunchy, wildly chic art and dirty, slept-in glamour will never make it’s way into her American pages (our Western provincial hearts just couldn’t handle the shock!). She may take cues from your explicit content and applaud you for such boldly brazen endeavors, but her safe and business-savvy glossy will never replace yours as the quintessential international style bible (don’t worry, no one deems French literacy necessary for interpretation of your louche glamour).

XOXO,

MJS

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.

Jay-Z – “The City Is Mine” (zShare)