Auntie Fashion

Since February 29th only comes around once every four years, it is a lot like Zob’s gloriousness: Fleeting and priceless, it must be celebrated when it graces the humdrum lives of mere mortals.

Today is Zob Day.  Please observe the holiday by being fierce and fabulous, just like the goddess herself.  And if you happen to run into the evil AntiZob (he should be in Paris this weekend), honor the glory of Zob by peeing on his shoes while he’s being interviewed by Jeanne Beker for Fashion Television.  Just don’t tell the cops that I told you to do it.  Zob doesn’t look kindly upon stoolies.

On last night’s ultra-glamorous episode of America’s Next Top Model, Tyra made it clear to the contestants that supermodels need to be super role models.  I guess that explains this gem of a photo.  It is rather inspirational, now that I think about it.  I’m so inspired that I’m going to spend the upcoming weekend knitting leg warmers for homeless bums.  Thank you, Tyra!

In other news, Marvita looks at her feet when she walks and Kimberly is a twatchop.

If I had to name my biggest fault, it would be this: I care too much.  It hurts to be so caring.  It hurts!

 Anyway, in this section of my blog I would love to answer your questions.  Ask me anything.  I’ll sacrifice a few minutes of my glamorous life to provide you with the sort of “tough love” plebes like you need.

 Here’s an example:

Dear Auntie Fashion;

If Marc Jacobs is the evil AntiZob, why are his designs so popular?

Puzzled in Pittsburgh

Dear Puzzled;

Marc Jacobs’ designs only appeal to undersexed magazine editors and the homosexual companions they dream of converting one day.  If all women wore Marc Jacobs, even the straightest, most vagina-loving men would be hard-pressed to find anything attractive about the opposite sex, and breeding as we know it would cease to exist.

I hope that helps!

Love, Auntie

I have a love/hate relationship with most avant-garde designers.  When you’ve seen as many collections as I have,  the”cutting edge” can be about as dull as a butter knife.  But I adore Gareth Pugh.

With his fifth runway show, Gareth seems to be generating the kind of worldwide buzz that a Londoner hasn’t seen since Alexander McQueen turned his back to the cameras.  The biggest difference, however, is that Pugh seems to be absolutely confident in his artistic vision.  McQueen fed off of the positive reviews as if he had never got a compliment in his life.  Pugh seems to take his praise in stride like he already knows that he’s the best thing to happen to fashion since Nicolas Ghesquire.  And if he wasn’t?  He’d probably be fine with that, too.

It’s going to interesting to watch his career unfold over the next few years.  I suspect that he’ll be going to Paris soon, but I’m just not sure which house he’ll be fronting.  Wherever he goes, I hope that he keeps doing what he’s doing.  He makes unwearability look so damn desirable.

Hilary Swank in Versace.

 In what might have been one of the most nap-inducing red carpet events I’ve ever seen, Hilary Swank woke me up and slapped me across the face like an award-winning dominatrix.  She dresses like a movie star, which is all I can ask an actress to do at the Oscars.

Onstage, the dress looked gorgeous at a distance.  Swank wears architectural shapes well, and the hard lines of the bodice actually softened her athletic frame.  Upon closer inspection, the embellishments appeared as if they could have been made of rubber attached to a backing of translucent vinyl instead of lace on tulle.

It gave a suggestion of kink without giving up an iota of discretion.  I’ve been a big fan of Donatella’s Versace for the past few seasons because the label has become so wearable.  Now it’s beginning to fill the void that was left in Italian fashion when Tom Ford left Gucci.

The first red carpet review I read this morning cited Swank’s dress as the worst of the evening.  The article went on to praise every other dress, including Miley Cyrus in Valentino.  What’s wrong with that sentence?  If you don’t already know, don’t ask me to explain.  You’re as hopeless as the twatchop who awarded the worst-dressed distinction to Ms. Swank.

Leave the fashion criticism to the experts, please.  Your pathetic tries bring tears to Zob’s eyes.

Of all the people in the universe who could have co-hosted the Oscar pre-show on E!, why on earth did they choose Kim Kardashian?  I can just imagine the meeting where the network brass came up with that idea: “We need a glamorous woman who Americans associate with good taste and impeccable style.  Get me Kim Kardashian’s agent on the phone!”

I thought that they hit rock bottom when Lisa Rinna and Joey Fatone worked the carpet for the SAG awards.  I guess I was wrong.

Klassiness personified.

I hate the red carpet.  I guess I blame Joan Rivers for that.  Don’t get me wrong; I love the caustic bitch.  But ever since she turned the red carpet into a horse race with her pre- and post-award show commentaries, everyone else has been trying to get in on her act.

 The problem with that is that most fashion critics have no idea what they’re talking about.  They have a sense of history that goes back two weeks and a sense of style that can only be described as pedestrian.  If I have to listen to another Z-list celebrity fawn over some starlet decked-out in precious prom regalia, I’m going to retch.

Anyway, I’ve abbreviated “The Wretched Red Carpet” in order to name this section of my blog: The Wred Carpet.  With the mother of all red carpets scheduled to take place tomorrow, I’ll have plenty to make you nauseous soon enough.  Bring a bucket.

Not a fashion critic.

I loathe scrubs: The hideous utilitarian garments the style-challenged wear to my gym.  Nothing says unfashionable to me like a guy who has stolen his pants from a public hospital.  I can just imagine some doctor saying “I’m sorry, but little Timmy can’t have an operation to save his gangrenous leg because too much of the hospital’s budget has gone toward replacing the hundreds of pairs of scrubs that were stolen last year.”

Anyway, if you’re going to steal your clothes, why wouldn’t you steal something nice?  I don’t get it.

Last night marked the debut of the tenth cycle of the greatest television show in the history of the medium: America’s Next Top Model. While the competition has never lived up to the hype of its own title – Jaslene, Caridee and Naima have hardly become household names – that’s beside the point. The show is great because it’s about the greatest role model in the history of the world: Tyra Banks.

The inaugural episode featured Tyra as a blubbering homecoming queen, graciously accepting her title as an audience of thirty-five awestruck hopefuls trembled in her presence. By the end of the episode, only fourteen girls remained. Although a few of the contestants appeared to have a slight glimmer of modelling potential, there wasn’t a standout contestant. The problem? As Tyra will undoubtedly remark in a future episode, too many of these girls have “lost their spark.”

Lately, that’s the problem with models in general. What happened to the day when a model could be a household name? Sure, I know the names of the so-called supermodels, but I’m in the business. I recently mentioned Erin Wasson to a friend, and she had no idea who I was talking about even though she’s probably seen the lovely Ms. Wasson a thousand times over.

But gone is the era when a top model actually had to have much of a personality to get ahead in the business. I miss the day when Tyra was actually a relevant force on the catwalk. I miss the day when women who were old enough to try out for ANTM would get booked to walk in a runway show. I’m sick of the army of fifteen-year-old nobodies who have seized control of the runways in Paris and New York.

But Tyra is obviously sick of those girls, too. That’s why she never chooses anyone with any potential in the real world of modelling. She wants to turn back the clock to 1990 as badly as I do. One day soon, she might just do that. The reason: Fashion is cyclical, and the day when supermodels ruled the earth was nearly two decades ago. If Tyra sticks to her guns and continues to choose girls who currently have no relevance in the business, she’ll eventually see the business come back around to her. One of these days, another Furonda is going to enter the Top Model house and win the contest solely based on her ability to not only believe her own hype, but also to model through it. Then she’s going to convince the rest of us to believe it, too.

Frankly, I can’t wait for that day. The world doesn’t need any more anonymous models. The world needs another Tyra. Or maybe a Furonda. Don’t make me decide.

Furonda

. . .  and I am the fashion world’s most enduring muse. Throughout the modern era I have provided creative inspiration for almost every designer of significance, from Coco to Cristóbal, Hubert to Halston, and Yves to Yamamoto.

I was born Prunella Crudsworth in 1903. Moments after my birth, my parents were visited by a man of an indeterminate complexion. This dark stranger informed my mother and father that I was possessed by the spirit of Zob: An ancient goddess who had presided over all that was gorgeous since the beginning of time. Naturally, my parents believed the swarthy mystery man; I was a breathtakingly beautiful baby, after all. Soon my entire family was uprooted and moved to a secret, faraway location – a veritable Shangri-la – where I was raised by glamorous, sibylline women who had devoted their lives to the glory that is Zob.

On my twenty-first birthday I was instructed to leave my idyllic home so that I could share the gospel of gorgeousness throughout the world. Soon I was flitting in and out of high society like a beautiful butterfly, inspiring stylishness everywhere I went. I singlehandedly taught Diana Vreeland how to accessorize. I alone convinced Christian Dior to drop his “Old Look” in favor of a new one. I even urged Anna Wintour to take on a monstrously large companion to draw attention away from her preternaturally large feet. André Leon: You owe it all to me!

While the spirit of Zob inhabited my body, I was able to remain ageless. Consequently, I couldn’t stay in one locale for very long. My secret wasn’t sinister, yet I knew that my timeless appearance would eventually arouse suspicion. Like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger, I couldn’t allow my identity to become subject to investigation. So I moved from city to city, and country to country, influencing the fashionista and reinventing the rules of style worldwide.

Unfortunately, I was in New York City on that tragic day that Marc Jacobs debuted his infamous “Grunge” collection for the Perry Ellis label in 1992. I had never met Mr. Jacobs before, so there was no reason for me to be concerned. However, when the designer was taking his final bow, he looked over to the front row where I was sitting. Our eyes met and in an instant the spirit of Zob fled my body. Marc Jacobs was the Kryptonite to my Zobliness: The antithesis of everything gorgeous in the universe.

Since that fateful day, I have been living a clandestine life as a mere mortal. As a child, I was warned of the existence of an evil AntiZob. Yet I never imagined that the menacing force would infiltrate the fashion world in the guise of a second-rate designer. Now all I can do is await the return of the goddess, and pray that she finds a human vessel with more fortitude than I displayed at that tragic moment when I had the Zob scared out of me.

Until the next incarnation of Zob arrives to save the world from Marc Jacobs and all that is abhorrent, I have chosen to compose this blog under the pseudonym Auntie Fashion. The name suits me ideally, since I tend to dote on the style-impaired like a caring, old aunt. It also describes how I feel about the current state of the world. I would never describe myself as anti fashion – I live for fashion – but what currently passes for fashion isn’t fashion. Until the AntiZob is defeated, I will work tirelessly to spread this message. The existence of beauty itself depends upon it.

The evil AntiZob with one of his minions.