Auntie Fashion

Incomprehensible Gorgeousness

2011 wasn’t the greatest year for your dear, old Auntie Fashion, but it was better than the few years that preceded it.  I feel as if I’m gaining momentum.  Along with that momentum, I also feel as if I’m moving toward a new era in my life when I’ll be able to reclaim what was once mine: some genuine respect in the fashion industry.

Maybe I’m delusional, or perhaps I’m already drunk.  Nevertheless, I’m going to forecast that this is my breakthrough year.  You can either believe me and start worshipping at my altar of incomprehensible gorgeousness now, or you can be left behind once the Zobpocalypse arrives.  It’s me or the Evil AntiZob.  It’s me or BeelZoeBub™.  There’s no Heaven and there’s no Hell, but there is a place in-between.  It’s sort of like Purgatory, only it’s called Vulgarity — and we’re already there.

So if there’s any trend you’re going to follow like sheep this year, let it be me.  I’m the second coming of style, and you’re either with me or you’re against me.

Now where’s my drink?

Vogue Paris

Why are all the editorials that make me roll my eyes back and cry “Dear Zob in heaven!” in “Vogue Paris” lately.  I didn’t care much for Carine Roitfeld’s version of the magazine, and Emmanuelle Alt’s take on the title isn’t impressing me much either.

Take this latest layout, for example.  Here’s Anja Rubik looking like she needs someone to buy her a sandwich in a spread called “Hippie Living.”  Your old Auntie is old enough to remember that hippies didn’t wear Balmain, Cartier, Chopard and Oscar de la Renta.  Some of them did carry their belongings in bindles, though, and it looks like Anja might have one on the end of that stick.  Wait a minute!  I have hippies and hobos confused again.  I’ve never claimed to be an expert on people who stink . . .

Yet I do claim to be someone who senses trends before they happen!  As I’ve mentioned in a few recent posts, fashion is about to eat itself alive again.  You can’t raise an entire generation to worship luxury the way we have over the last twenty years and then expect the next generation to follow suit.  Editorials like this are a sign of the Zobpocalypse, and if you ask me, it can’t come soon enough.

Miss Tawdry Hepburn of Portland, Oregon sent me this snaphot she took of the word Zob written in the cement outside an apartment building.  Although she believes that the apartment building was built in the 20s, she figures that the cement was poured in the 50s.

I’m a little surprised that Zob had disciples in the Pacific Northwest during that era.  While the name Zob was on the lips of beautiful people worldwide by the middle of the century, most Oregon natives were still clad in burlap sacks and homemade Birkenstocks crafted from sinew and driftwood.  Until the Seattle-inspired grunge era of the early 90s arrived — paving the way for the opening of several Value Village stores – Oregonians didn’t have anywhere to shop.  As a result, fashion was not their primary concern.

So it’s strange to know that someone in Portland would even know me back then – never mind knowing me well enough to scratch my name into the sidewalk!  Perhaps there is a secret Order of Zob based in Portland, laying in wait until they are needed.  With the Zobpocalypse looming, it’s a mystery I will need to investigate.