The Chapel of the Dormition

I was seven years old thighs numbing on the church pew, swinging my legs feet strapped into black patent Mary Janes and frilled ankle socks, pressing a wad of spearmint gum to the side of my mouth in a show of respect before the rows of red jar candles flickering beneath a gilded icon of the Holy Mother on her deathbed tendrils of incense intertwining with whispers of They need to move it and they told me Elizabeth stay where you are don’t move as they filed out the door in their black tweed black linen black pumps sheer-to-waist black stockings with a run on the left calf Stay in the chapel, Elizabeth as my legs thrashed ever more violently on the ancient polished wood spotted with candle wax and greased with orange oil Just wait in the chapel as I scraped at the grime on the pew till the undersides of my fingernails turned black and I desperately clawed beneath them to scratch out the tar until they started bleeding and the icon of Saint John’s head bleeding onto a silver platter was staring at me from the east wall and Saint Barbara’s disembodied eyes bored holes into my forehead with every choking breath of smoke thick with resins I gasped for outside air Stay in the chapel, Elizabeth and staggering towards the ancient double doors I tried to shove it open but the lock held fast until one door slid half an inch forward and one eye strained through the crack spying dirt stray grass blurred sky fading to slategray haze of upturned earth streaked with grassblades thudding of footsteps my father’s coffin caked with dirt being hoisted to a new plot by ruddy sweating men in linen shirts with their sleeves rolled up sweat rolling down my forehead stinging my eyes Saint Barbara’s eyes Stay in the chapel Elizabeth choking on frankincense smoke on the silver platter boring holes into my skull slate dirt stained mahogany swirled with beeswax incense blood of St. John blinding as I stumbled back to the pew digging fingers into grime and candlewax panting when my mother in her sheer-to-waists and the black linen brigade returned they found me on the pew swinging my legs spearmint gum mixing with metallic bloodtaste— Good girl they said.

Samhainophobia

Trick-or-treating in grade school,
we hunted the houses with the most
polyester cobwebs, strobe lights, bedsheet ghosts,
rubber-masked grim reapers with flashing eyes
that cackled and snapped their jaws;
the more obscured by tangles of twisted oaks
and brambles and shrubs the house was,
the faster we tore across its lawn.

Sophomore year of high school we ventured into
the deepest shadows of surburbia, costumes for armor:
a prom-queen ghost, a hanging victim, a zombie nun.
The firehouse siren blasted nine. We tramped across asphalt littered with toilet paper streamers, shaving cream spatters and dried leaves that crackled beneath the rubber soles of our sneakers
in the post-curfew silence. It was at the junction of Westwood
and Terbell Ave. that the prom queen's arm shot out,
fingers gripping plastic scepter until her knuckles turned white,
as her drooping jaw cracked the white foundation caked on her face
and her melting eyeballs streaked her mascara.

She prodded the rest of us with her scepter until
a rustle sounded in the distance; she shrieked and bolted,
and we followed suit, sprinting half a mile
straight to her house.

In between bites of bonbons and caramel chews
we learned from the prom queen sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
crown cocked to one angle and scepter on the piano stool,
that the two-story gray colonial with the unfinished driveway
at the end of Terbell, abandoned since the summer of sixth grade,
was home to a convicted rapist who had just been released
on parole the week before.

Inspired by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's perfume blend of the same name

A Murder of Crows

In a gauzy dusk pierced by the screech of a murder of crows stray petals from funeral swags swirl in icy gusts scattering them across the headstones;
With lips chapped raw, bluish feet upon the granite, I trample bruised petals and dead leaves on your sepulcher.
Naked branches rattle a disjointed rhythm and crows cackle, all oilslick wings and marble eyes glinting in a shaft of moonlight as the edges of a vindictive smile curl upon Luna’s spectral face.
With every crack and chap of salty lips every stream of blood streaking my nightshirt clotting in the crevices of the engraving; every crimson blotch upon scentless petals blown over from a spray that was not even yours sends your poison seeping through cracks in the stone through six feet of packed earth to its source in a pine box.
When even shadows tremble in the chill and dead leaves are embalmed with frost is when I finally leave the sepulcher and your memory to the crows.

Aftermath of the 4th of July

Aftermath of the 4th of July

Lawns are bathed in
lurid prime-time television glow,
air saturated with anti-mosquito citronella.
Fireflies string together on azalea bushes,
garden lanterns bobbing in the breeze like glowing tangerines, stillness peppered with mutters from upstairs and the buzz and crack of moths and beetles exploding into sparks
in electric bug-zappers as cicadas hum to the tune of a crackling radio
playing in the background for teenagers
on the driveway lighting sparklers which explode into anemones that dissolve and fall gently down to earth in a shower of confetti shards.

Chiroptera

I
By blacklight they flit
through darkness splotched with violet;
electirc veins the skeletons of their wings,
webbed with pitch and rubber.

II
They gnaw the lightbulb filaments
and the dreamcatcher to shreds.

III
Swirling into a cloud
of white vapor and moonshine
pierced by crystalline drops
of glass and snow and ether,
they shriek unholy hymns
into the night.

IV
A wasteland.
Vast expanse of blue earth.
Under a tin-can moon
shadows dance around a bonfire,
weaving and reeling as its flames
curl into dragons that seethe and fade
with a hiss into smoke wisps.
A chariot of umbrella frames
rattles down through the fire
and explodes into copper sparks.
Beating of wings;
they fly on.

V
A grand ballroom.
Swirls of gilded opulence.
She clutches his bloody eyes
In her hand as he blindly twirls her
over the marble floor at her command,
grasping for them and every time
losing a finger. She laughs and
the chandelier echoes her.
Candlesticks glide across the ceiling
To the rhythm of a black waltz.
Beating of wings;
they fly on.

VI
A deserted asylum.
Lurid fluorescent corridors.
Wind up dentures chatter into a phone
on the reception desk. Doors
flap open and shut to the cough
of a congested radio. Wheels grind
over vomit-green vinyl tiling
with a clatter of metal; walls tremble.
Moans issue from the abyss
past the exit sign. Blackout.
Beating of wings
into oblivion—

VII
White light. Halogen.
They vanish.

Inspired by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's perfume blend of the same name.

Batwings and Pumpkin Magic

Forgive my cliché’d opinion, but there really is something magical, almost otherworldly, about the Halloween season. Some people pin this on the changing leaves (which spell death for my sinuses once they fall to the ground and accumulate mold) or the license to throw on a costume and make a visual ass of yourself once a year, but for me there doesn’t seem to be one exact pinpoint. It could be personal nostalgia; I’ve hoarded in my memory bank everything from apple-picking and trick-or-treating to nearly shitting myself on a haunted hayride (more on that later). It could also possibly be a part of my character that identifies with the season. Whatever this unknown element is, it never fails to cast its eerie and captivating spell.
For starters, let’s just say I was not one of those kids you could easily scare the begeezus out of. If anything, I probably scared the begeezus out of everyone around me. Other kids had teddy bears; I dragged a black rubber bat dubbed Bat-O-Lantern everywhere I went. The other girls in my kindergarten class masqueraded as Disney princesses on October 31st; I showed up as a bat. Speaking of Disney, if there was one thing that frightened the living daylights out of me at that age it was The Little Mermaid, which had come out on video pretty recently. I’d immediately stuff my face in the sofa pillows whenever Ursula flashed on the screen. And Sleeping Beauty was something I couldn’t even bring myself to pop in the VCR (ah, the good old days) thanks to Malificent. Of course, now I’m entertaining the thought of being Malificent for Halloween one of these days.
As a kid I always got excited for Halloween way too early. I remember cutting out paper pumpkins as early as May or June and going spooky décor-shopping with my aunt in August, much to my horrified mother’s chagrin. I’d mark up the Halloween section of the OTC catalog when it came in the mail and beg for my catalog-phobic mom to order plastic skeletons and strings of pumpkin lights. I even had Halloween-themed dreams during the summer. The one that stands out the most is one from the third grade where I dreamt my teacher took the entire class to an underground Halloween party held beneath an ancient barn with pumpkin-faced scarecrows and rattling skeletons coming to life and square-dancing with us. Phantom farmers and townspeople also joined in. Unlike the smiling skulls, grinning ghosts and jolly jack-o-lanterns Hallmark conjures up every year, these images were eerily real. For the life of me I can’t remember the music exactly, but I can tell you that it was bizarre and haunting and resonated in my head the entire day. At the end of the dream, we emerged from a trapdoor onto a vast field studded with bales of hay and illuminated by the full moon, with the wind still carrying riffs of the faint music reeling in the distance.
Another trite-sounding but truly magical adventure for me while I was still learning long division and how to spell onomatopoeia (is that right?) was our annual apple-picking outing in Warwick. My best friend and I ran up the hills, chucked fallen apples like softballs and arranged them strategically on the road to hear the crrrrrunch from unwary cars. Basically it was an excuse for unbridled mayhem with no detention attached. Not to mention an excuse for scarfing so much fruit that you were guaranteed to be regular at least the next two weeks. And of course, after picking enough bags of apples to jam the trunk and devouring a tree’s worth apiece, we headed down the hill and gorged on cider and donuts. Dunkin’ Donuts might be a convenient one-stop shop for all your fried-and-frosted pastry needs, but they had nothing on these guys. You haven’t really had a donut till you’ve tasted a good old-fashioned homemade farm donut somewhere out in the boondocks. Same goes for apple cider. And just about anything else that came out of that kitchen. Of course, by the time we’d made it all the way back home to north Jersey we were starving again so we’d always go out to dinner at the end of the day. I still marvel at how I never vomited once.
Perhaps the crowning glory of all festivities leading up to Halloween was the haunted hayride. I went to quite a few at local farms that have long since been toppled for shopping centers and corporate buildings, but my favorite by far remains the one at Van Riper’s Farm in Chestnut Ridge, which eventually morphed into an enormous A&P. The line was eternal and stretched all the way into the barn, but I was so fascinated by the graveyard display in there I barely took note of that. Of course, if you ever got bored with the graveyard there were gigantic mounds of hay to jump into until you came out resembling a walking scarecrow. I guess when you pass the time wreaking havoc, the waiting period doesn’t seem that long. Anyway, when we got on the thing I wasn’t really expecting much, so you can imagine how high my rear end flew off the seat when some gnarly rubber-masked creature came lunging at me from outside. They kept jumping on with such random timing that you never really knew when the next one was going to fly in your face. Then the tractor stopped in a barren open field and let everyone off into what looked like another still-life of a graveyard display. At least it looked, pardon the pun, pretty stiff until someone touched something and sprinted off screaming when it leaped up. Of course, smartass that I was I was hellbent on proving that a certain witch in what appeared to be an old outhouse sawn in half was actually stuffed. She appeared completely inanimate; there wasn’t even a rustle from the wind that could have given me the slightest suspicion of life. So I tiptoed over there, determined to snatch one of the hag’s limp arms and wave it in front of everyone like “Look! You’re all chickenshit! It’s not alive!” when with a scream that could have deafened someone on a cliff in Mongolia, I took off. The thing hadn’t just moved, no, this thing sprang from the outhouse and would have toppled me over if I hadn’t sprinted for dear life in the opposite direction. Of course, I picked the wrong direction, because what did I nearly collide with but the telltale hockey-masked figure of Jason hoisting a blasting chainsaw in my face. I must have zoomed about a quarter-mile from the entire scene, afterwards panting in a cold sweat as I watched people laughing and daring others to touch seemingly stuffed creatures lodged against bales of hay. Apparently, they enjoyed being scared stupid. Meanwhile, I’d been scared completely senseless.
Flipping through this mental album I’ve realized I still can’t pinpoint the exact thing that makes Halloween so, bear with the pun, bewitching. Maybe it’s the eerie flicker of candles in all the jack ‘o lanterns that survived Cabbage Night; maybe the glow of the harvest moon and the smell of woodsmoke riding on the air; maybe the fleeting thought that there really might be some disembodied wraiths floating around, waiting suck your soul out (okay, that last one might not qualify). Whatever is responsible for my romance with October 31st is something elusive and intangible that lingers just long enough for the first frost to bleach everyone’s lawn white in the morning. I’ve tired to put a finger on it, but that’s come up inconclusive. Which leads me to another conclusion: it is the spirit of Halloween, after all. Maybe it doesn’t want to be seen.

Welcome to my Nightmare

...and it isn't just an Alice Cooper song anymore. I am interning in the corporate office of a huge company; what it is and what I do I can’t say on pain of my head being shoved in the guillotine. But I can tell you one thing, which is that nobody around here has an inkling of fashion sense whatsoever.
Fashion really only holds one around this place, and that’s distinguishing status. You can easily tell the businessmen from the common schlubs from the way they dress. The latter are usually outfitted in Permatuck shirts and a pair of worn-in slacks as opposed to the starched and bleached businessmen. Case in point: sometimes I wonder how some of them are actually able to bend a limb in their impeccably dry-cleaned getups. Color is also a decisive factor: you rarely see actual businessmen deviating from the achingly stereotypical blacks, grays, browns, navy and the occasional pale blue when the schlubs wear all manner of colors and prints and those horrible check patterns that remind me of the scene from Fathers’ Day when Billy Crystal bluntly snaps at a gingham-clad Robin Williams that he’s a dead ringer for Howdy Doody. The barriers aren’t too different for women; not an ounce of actual color seems to touch the bona fide businesswomen, while the secretaries float around in pastel, bold and (often tacky) patterned ensembles that scream Dress Barn clearance rack!
And then you have me.
Take one glance at my wardrobe and it’s obvious I’m out of my element. I’ve adhered to the dress code in the most technical sense possible, but to date (is that month-to-date?)I must have broken every unwritten law of corporate dressing that possibly exists. In the past three weeks I’ve dared to parade studs, platforms, chains, dark nails, knee-high boots, leather, denim (outside of Fridays) smoky eyes, skinny jeans, animal prints, bold shadow, red lips, and even skulls around this place without being axed (the skulls belong to a prized Tarina Tarantino necklace and appear to be nothing more than innocuous Lucite beads from far away). Of course, it isn’t like I decked myself out in all of these at once; forget merely being axed, I probably wouldn’t even be allowed within 500 feet of the building. And if you’re asking how the hell I even got past security with denim on between Monday and Thursday, the answer is that in the absence of an electron microscope, black, white, or gray herringbone denim can be very deceptive to the human eye. But as far as fashion goes I’m an anomaly nonetheless. The secretaries glare at me in disgust and the businesswomen in sheer confusion. Each must be thinking, Is she one of us? Is she one of them? Is she one of anything? So you basically have the former in all their gaudiness, the latter in all their monotony and whatthefuckisthat in her studded leather boots.

Welcome to my nightmare.

Sex, Drugs and Rockin' Clothes

I can’t quite remember the point I became enamored with all things rock ‘n roll. Maybe it was in 1989 when my cousin Joanne and her then-boyfriend picked me up to take me for a joyride in her red convertible blasting Winger from the speakers. It could have been when I staged imaginary shows with leftover Halloween pumpkins imagining they were Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders. Or it could have been the moment when, en route to church with a friend, her mother asked what kind of music we wanted to hear and I instantly belted out, “Rock ‘n roll!” I’d just barely entered the first grade.

Nearly if not equally as influential as its music, the fashion of rock ‘n roll has been iconic throughout the decades. From Elvis’ rhinestone-studded leather getups to David Bowie’s acid rainbow of Ziggy Stardust costumes to Axl Rose’s kilts, the clothes worn by rockers over the decades have defined them almost as much as their riffs. Even styles that weren’t initially accepted—glam rock bands such as Poison were often slammed by critics at the dawn of that genre, and Joan Jett herself was dubbed “Diamond Dog” in high school—ended up going platinum. It should be no surprise, then, how giddy with excitement I was when I opened up to the First Look page of Elle to discover their own special tribute to Axl in his Welcome to the Jungle days, fingerless gloves and all.

By the time fall rolls around, most are ready to stash their sundresses and indulge in some darker fall fashion. And it seems that every year many of the fall collections are somehow influenced by rock ‘n roll style. This season’s offerings, however, look especially tantalizing. I was never a big fan of Justin Timberlake; far from being a boy-band groupie in junior high, I was one of those rebel chicks who blasted the Offspring and (what is now considered) old-school Green Day and mocked N’Sync as “N’Stink”. However, a certain leather jacket from his William Rast line has succeeded in making me salivate as much as some of the girls in my seventh-grade class did when his golden ‘fro graced the cover of YM magazine. This is no ordinary leather jacket: both fringed and studded, it picks up right where the King’s signature embellished capes left off. It’s one of those things that you will wear eternally and will never fail to make your mother grimace. But then again, much like rebel music, that’s the point of rebel fashion, isn’t it?

Clothes aren’t the only part of a rocker’s wardrobe that bask in the limelight.I have a pair of suede double-platform boots that the same cousin who took me for a spin in her red convertible twenty years ago calls my “Paul Stanley boots”. Not surprisingly, I was honored. And if he took a gander at the fall ’09 shoes that have just begun to emerge, I think Paul Stanley himself would do a double take. Giuseppe Zanotti has created an amazing set of ankle boots for Balmain that just rock hard; made of soft black leather, they are positively screaming for Sid Vicious with their myriad zippers. Catherine Malandrino has created an over-the-knee style with a biker-esque wing Bret Michaels would possibly go gaga over. Juicy Couture has just released a style with a gold-studded strap slung around the ankle, and both Michael Kors and Loeffler Randall boast multi-buckle booties. And Christian Louboutin has just released a piece of studded leather deliciousness that would have all four members of KISS bolting to Neiman Marcus to snap up their own pair.

So does the look reflect the genre, or vice versa? I’d say it’s a bit of both. After all, hair bands only received their moniker from untamed (and Aqua-netted) manes such as Bon Jovi’s, and the word “grunge” was interchangeable in referring to either the music or the fashion trend. I also find it more than a tad poseurish when many of today’s pop tarts belt out sugary Top-40 singles in heavy-metal studs and leather. Same with fashionistas who don’t have a clue about rock ‘n roll but just want in on the trend because some magazine editor said so. So yes, if you see me around on the street you’d admit I do take my style cues from Axl Rose sometimes. But chances also are that I don’t see you because I’m zoning out to his heavenly screaming.

The Perils of Holiday Dressing

The Fourth of July is a day when I steer clear of anything remotely patriotic. Unfortunately, I got an eyeful of a woman about my mother’s age (and please note my mother is pushing seventy) outfitted in a red-white-and-blue getup from head to toe. It was something like a skintight tank top with a glittering flag transfer and denim short-shorts. A red sequined scrunchie and screaming red lipstick capped off the look. There is really only one day on the calendar that should be tolerated, and it’s October 31st.

At a young age I was like any other kid who took dressing for the occasion literally on holidays. For Halloween, I had a haunted house sweater and plenty of plastic pumpkin jewelry, including one battery-powered necklace that flashed on and off (and probably annoyed the hell out of passersby). There were a few occasions I dressed up like my interpretation of pilgrim on Thanksgiving. For Christmas, I had the works—printed turtlenecks, festive socks, a Santa snowglobe necklace, even a feathered sweater with matching gold leggings which I considered my “holiday outfit”. I had plenty of heart-themed crap for Valentine’s Day and a cropped lavender jacket that I wore every Easter until I outgrew it. And I always decorated the house, albeit sometimes to the point of tackiness.

I still love holidays and always enjoy getting into the spirit, but as sentient adults I think we need to be able to draw the line fashionwise. Though it would be generally agreed minishorts and a Lycra tank shouldn’t be seen on any seventy-year-old woman outside the confines of a trailer park, it isn’t really fit that’s the biggest concern in this case. I have seen plenty of women (and men!) publicly decked out in the most gagworthy clothes that seem to fit just fine: head boppers, flashing ties, oversized theme jewelry, prints that make you need a dose of antacid every time you set eyes on them. Some people must think that any holiday besides Halloween is an excuse to waltz into the office just short of being in full-on costume. And no, just because Grandma made you that Santa sweater doesn’t give you the right to parade it around in full view. The way I see it, suiting up as Santa in the workplace or morphing into a walking American flag on Independence Day is actually more of an insult than a salute to the occasion. Never mind that no one really needed an eyeful of Trailer Trash Lady’s cottage-cheese-on-steroids thighs on display, her flagrant outfit made the dimples even more obvious than they would be under normal circumstances. But I’m thinking she still could have given a nod to patriotism in a navy sundress or red sandals.

Generally, any type of accessorizing that revolves around a theme should be approached with caution. After about age 12, holiday dressing begins to change meaning from a color-coded dress-up game to a bit of extra glitz that shouldn’t go overkill. Unsure about guidelines? If you find yourself looking like a walking Christmas tree on Christmas or a living, breathing American flag on Independence day, you’re clearly missing the mark.

Steve Madden is a Fraud: The War Against Poseurs

I was absentmindedly clicking through the shoe selection on Nordstrom.com when I thought I saw a pair of Stuart Weitzmans I wanted. I nearly clicked the picture when I suddenly veered the arrow away; beneath the picture it read “Steve Madden”. I thought I was seeing a pair of Coach suede flats, but the description again read “Steve Madden”—they were literally missing nothing but the Coach insignia on the gold button. Christian Louboutin? Marc Jacobs? Jimmy Choo? Steve Madden, Steve Madden, Steve Madden.

It’s already common knowledge that designer fakes—as in, “Chanel” bags patched together by underage sweatshop laborers in China—are illegal, but how far can a brand go before crossing the line for stealing intellectual property? I know that to some out there I might sound like an elitist snob, but that isn’t my goal. Everyone has a threshold as to what they can afford, and for different reasons. I’m not saying that resorting to bargain buys out of necessity is a crime against fashion. The real crime against fashion that I’m attacking here is poseurism. I’ve been hoodwinked so many times into believing –by sight alone, of course—that Steve Madden’s shoes were some higher-up designer’s “real thing” that I sought to investigate exactly to what degree he’s willing to go in order to keep expanding his multimillion-dollar designer copycat shoe empire. What strikes a nerve with me is that often, Madden isn’t just making a trend or a general idea of a design financially accessible to the masses but actually carbon-copying another designer’s idea with cheaper materials.

Even the most high-end designers constantly play off of trends and even each other; the tartan phenomenon seems to pass from runway to runway each fall, and rock ‘n roll inspiration has run a consistent current through a number of the fall ’09 shows. However, it seems that more often than not, Madden isn’t just running with a trend like most other more affordable brands do, he downright copies it. And not only are many of his shoes shameless imitations, but cheap imitations, and it’s pretty obvious too. Often photos posted on internet shops may be deceiving; lighting and positioning can work wonders for crap materials and shoddy construction (believe me, that’s been proven one too many times with a couple of Target’s GO International collections. It’s not even that they appeared at all luxe on the site, but what might have received a passable grade online draped like my aunt’s old aprons in person). One of Madden’s shoes on the Nordstrom site was such a dead ringer for a Juicy Couture platform sandal with leather flowers down the center strap that I nearly clicked it till I read the fine print. In real life, however, I can spot a fake from the Sears Tower. I love playing those “guess the bargain” games they sometimes have in magazines because I get it right 9.998 times out of 10. Those shoes may appear to be bona fide Weitzmans or Choos or Louboutins to the naked eye, but closer inspection reveals a lack of intricate craftsmanship and detailing in the lookalikes. Never mind that from trial runs I can attest to them being nothing short of murder on your feet. Wondering exactly how many designers Madden is guilty of posing as and how far he’s willing to go with his facsimile footwear, I sucked in my breath and logged onto his website.

When I was a teenager, and a quite stupid one at that, Steve Madden shoes were all the rage. They were on the feet of all the most popular girls in junior high, and at the bar and bat mitzvah parties of my Jewish friends, 9 out of 10 pairs that were lining the dance floor by the end of the night bore that signature white tag. We were young and naïve to the fact that what was on our feet was actually some higher-end designer’s work of art redone in mass-market synthetics. Take, for example, the Stuart Weitzman “Timber”, the black version of which Carrie Underwood famously wore on a live TV performance, and its Madden doppelganger the “ZoeII”. From twenty feet away the inexperienced eye would have trouble telling them apart, save the slight color variation in the heel (Weitzman’s is degrade; Madden’s is monochrome). Both heels, however, are about 4 inches and conical. Both platforms are slightly tapered towards the front. Both have a center strap with straps running perpendicularly across, and both have ankle straps. Now here are the minor adjustments; as opposed to Weitzman, Madden chose to make all the straps buckle straps and place only one instead of two at the top. His center strap is also considerably narrower. But all this is virtually negligible from a couple of car lengths away. It’s only when you zoom into the shots of both shoes that you really begin to see the difference. Even precision lighting can’t camouflage the fact that Madden’s leather is dull without being soft (alright, I know this may sound extreme, but with all that I’ve absorbed on fashion over the years I have trained myself to distinguish things like this). Truly fine leather, Christian Louboutin’s use of which is a good example, has a certain soft shine to it that cheaper incarnations just can’t match. And Madden’s equally dull heels just can’t match the polish and fine grain of Weitzman’s.

Now I see how Madden gets away with it. He’ll tweak some minor details but keep the rest of the design virtually identical to the original so he can’t technically be accused of stealing intellectual property. The main difference between this and higher-end designers bouncing off of each other’s ideas is that in the latter scenario, no one would be able to mistake one model from another if presented with the two side by side, even from a considerable distance. Madden isn’t just being inspired by an aesthetic; he’s cheapifying models that already exist. Another thing I’ve come to notice over several months of following his counterfeiting ways is that he’s likely to work with styles that are a season or two old, so no one can, again, technically attack him for swiping their design right off the runway. Take, for example, the “Mandyy” (what is it with these ghetto monikers?). It’s nearly the mirror image of a Fall ’08 Christian Louboutin platform Mary Jane, but was just released as part of Madden’s summer collection. Now that the season for Louboutin’s model is over, Louboutin himself can’t legally balk. The “Marrvel” is an exact synthetic replica of a Gucci fall ’08 ankle boot, studs and all, only differing in that the original wasn’t a peeptoe. The “Caged” is basically the YSL spring ’09 cage bootie that fashion editors went wild over, save that Madden’s hits lower on the ankle. The “Layyla” is Louboutin’s spring ’09 platform gladiator with a bit of skewing of the straps. There is a fall ’09 patent pump of Louboutin’s that has been Maddenized, but the slight variation in shade and lack of Louboutin’s peeptoe cushion the retail giant from any lawsuits. Same with Louboutin’s spanking new Lady Page, which has been shamelessly redubbed the Madden “Regaal” (even the choice of name seems like blatant mockery here) that only differs in color choices. Never mind that I can tell Madden’s are both synthetics while Louboutin’s are genuine leather. Madden’s price for the latter? $99.95. Louboutin’s? Closer to $1200.

After all this bashing, it really comes down to one hard fact of fashion: you’re not going to get a decent pair of heels for 99 bucks. These days you’re not going to get a decent pair of anything for 99 bucks, let alone double-stack platform gladiator sandals. Buying vintage shoes is in an entirely different league and in many cases may actually be a better bet than resorting to cheapo knockoffs like Steve Madden’s. And for those who still think Madden is giving them high fashion at for superlow coin, think again. You may notice that among other defects the uppers will probably not conform to your foot or move with it, the bottoms don’t have adequate heel or bridge support and that will probably need to invest in an economy-size pack of blister bandages. You may also notice signs of fading, chafing and general wear showing up way sooner than they would on a more expensive pair. But as that old cliché goes, you get what you pay for, which perhaps most relevantly applies to poseurs like Madden who desperately try to masquerade their crap as designer kicks.

Casual Day

Casual Day

When I heard a new restaurant was opening nearby I was ready to snatch the opportunity. No, not for a date with Bret Michaels (though I do wish that was on the agenda). It was the chance to finally wear the Nanette Lepore dress and matching coat I’d hoarded in my closet since the New Year’s blowout sale at Lord & Taylor. With high school and college behind me, I can forget about any more proms and formals as excuses to play grown-up dress-up. But this was just the place: candlelight, marble floors, baroque wall moldings outside and in. I pushed the doors open with one hand, perfectly Chanel Vamp- lacquered fingers and all—and stood cemented there. I was stranded in a blizzard of loungewear.

It seems that, in the last half-century, dress standards have done a complete 180. The slobification of America probably stemmed from several different factors. Maybe it’s all about the “cool” quotient. History tells us the younger crowd has always rebelled against the “stuffed shirts”, but it’s clear by now that even the stuffed shirts themselves have thrown in their (monogrammed) towels. More culprits for our increasingly disheveled appearance could be laziness or the sheer practicality of not having to unzip one’s fly in public after a five-course meal at some Zagat-rated haunt on the Upper East Side. Whatever the case, it seems that the concept of formality is rapidly headed the way of T.Rex. Dresses feel overdressed. Ties are disappearing faster than last season’s tan. Saunter into a restaurant dressed up and patrons in leisure suits flash you stares that sneer you’re out of place. But I have a (sort of rhetorical) question. What really is more out of place in a restaurant where you can barely pronounce half the items on the menu—my Nanette Lepore dress or holey paint-splattered sweats emblazoned with Class of ’85?

I wouldn’t say I have as much contempt toward casual attire itself as I do towards disheveled dressing. A century ago it was not uncommon for women to shed outfits three or four times a day, with men not far behind. Even though we’re not living in the Victorian age anymore, common sense says it would still be a bit more visually appealing for people to set the bar a little higher. I’m not saying that a trip to the local supermarket calls for suicide heels. But for once I’d like to not feel over-the-top at what is supposed to be a formal or quasi-formal setting to begin with. At places as supposedly formal as the Metropolitan Opera I’ve seen ripped jeans, tracksuits, UGGs, Crocs, flip-flops, sneakers of every variety (and degree of whiteness), cutoffs, tanks, and visible underpants. Not to mention baseball caps turned at every conceivable angle. It looked more like a roadside burger joint than an opera house.

Informal dressing has not always been over-the-top (or is that under-the-bottom?) deconstructed. Casual Fridays began in the 50’s as a morale booster for the new white-collar office. The Beaver Cleaver era was rather slow to digest them, but with the onset of the 70’s, a wave of foreign mass-market clothing gushing into the U.S. made Casual Fridays increasingly popular. The number of companies relaxing their dress codes boomed. Ironically enough, today it seems that the workplace is one of those rare remaining territories where dressing up isn’t ogled with contempt. In the short stint I had as an intern some years ago, I felt more in my element. There were skirts! Heels! Ties! Not a battered sneaker in sight! For once I didn’t feel like every pair of eyes in the room was scrutinizing me for not wearing something ripped, stained, or 8 sizes too big with a gargantuan logo. For once I wasn’t being sneered at as being overly tricked out. To give an idea of how far we’ve fallen, the Halloween of my junior year of college, I wore a skirt to class and people were constantly stopping to ask me what my costume was.

It was there in that office that I realized the advent of Casual Fridays must have spurred a reverse trend. Other environments that once called for extra polish have stretched “casual” guidelines to the point where, far from filtering out what was included, count almost nothing as excluded. If that’s true then there might as well be no distinction between dress pants and cutoff Wranglers. Once I decided to burn time in during a college lecture by tallying the other girls’ shoes. The UGG count was 9. The total number of girls in the room was 12. And that doesn’t count the guys, who were either swimming in x-x-x-large sweats or jeans wide enough to rival M.C. Hammer's and belted strategically halfway down their buttocks. And I thought, aren’t you all gearing up to be young professionals here? Because if they were, Mr. Trump was hopefully donning his blinders.

Alright, so I do admit that maybe I’m a tad too enamored with dressing up. After all, I was the kid waddling around in my mother’s old heels and Aunt Fifi’s vintage costume jewelry. But when you see sweats and sneaks at the opera or some Le Chateau Bleu of a restaurant, it should be cause for alarm. So is the lady in a nylon leisure suit who throws on a couple of baubles to “formalize” it. Not only is our population forgetting where to dress appropriately, they’re forgetting how. Which is why I feel my crusade to de-slobify the people of America is far from over. Until then, expect me to wear that exact same dress to that exact same restaurant again. Just to piss off the peanut gallery.

A Dusty Rose by any Other Name...

Two summers ago, I’d been eyeing one particular eyeshadow duo by NARS. As August gradually melted away I was trying to decide what to add to my fall palette; this eggplant and iridescent periwinkle seemed to promise a sultry smoky eye. The fall runways are usually teeming with purple lids, but I was torn between at least fifteen shades. I must have tried on every plum on in Sephora when I finally came full circle. I’d known it all along; I had to have that shade. After all, it was called Demon Lover.

Ecstasy. Sexual Healing. Bad Education. Night Rider. Only some of the imaginative titles the contents of my makeup drawer can boast of. Of course I’ve bought colors with names barely half as appealing (pink #234535 anyone?) because the color itself was downright hot. But there’s something to be said for a great shade with an equally genius name. Not only does putting it on transform my face, but in a way it’s the equivalent of all those third-grade dress-up sessions in that it seems to transform a part of me into the character spelled out on the label. Which is precisely why, in my quest for purples, I knew I'd found the perfect one even before I proceeded with smearing enough different shades on the backs of both hands to make onlookers suspicious I'd contracted the Plague. Medieval diseases aside, Demon Lover was not just a number or an “eggplant” or a “dusky purple”. It had a persona of its own. It was a vampiress prowling in the alley, lying in wait for the next mortal specimen to sink her fangs into. Each swipe seemed to morph me further into a queen of the Nosferatu a la Anne Rice. I ended up spending over an hour snapping fierce digicam shots of myself at every possible angle, striving desperately to capture the essence of this thing. Along with a blush called Sin and a lipstick called Catfight.

It’s a given that some part of human nature pushes us to gravitate toward a brand name. Usually the key culprits are trust, nostalgia, or plain familiarity, as the eternal Coke vs. Pepsi feud can attest to. At the supermarket we’re surrounded by names hailing from mid-sitcom commercials: Lay’s potato chips, Tide detergent, Tropicana orange juice. Designer labels are a whole other phenomenon in themselves. But makeup names? Unlike a pair of Chanel sunglasses flashing those interlocking C’s on the arms, no one can tell that the Chanel lipstick you’re wearing is called “Libertine” as opposed to “Coral Pink” (yes, I do own both the shade and the Johnny Depp movie). The minerals used in modern cosmetics may reflect light to the point of blinding a couple hapless passersby, but shades haven’t yet been engineered to the point of displaying a marquee their titles across your mouth. To everyone else the stuff you slick on your lips and lids might as well be glitter glue. Which is why the concept of color names confuses some people—what does it matter if my lipstick was christened Libertine or the comparatively vanilla Coral Pink? Because Libertine isn’t just any coral-pink. It’s 18th-century Paris in a tub, a world of decadence and frivolity to be had consequence-free. It's towers of madeleines and macarons and a court full of courtesans waving silk fans. It’s a walk in Marie Antoinette's bejeweled shoes. With a couple swipes I’m one of those fan-fluttering courtesans, sans syphilis. Needless to say I’m still on the lookout for when Chanel releases a tube of Courtesane.

Now that I've confessed the lure of a name, which monikers exactly qualify? Some tags have been recycled several times over--sometimes within the same brand--to the point of going stale. I believe a name should evoke not just the appearance of a color—e.g. “Vibrant Pink”—but its character. Another color cliché is sounding straight out of the crayon box. I can’t tell you how many “Dusty Rose” or “Burnt Sienna” lipsticks and blushes I’ve come across years after passing the first grade. Fruit and flower species also top the list; it makes little difference to me if some other word is tacked onto them, such as “Splashy Strawberry” or “Mango Madness”. Fine for a cocktail, trite for a lipstick. Unless the spring collection’s theme is fruit cocktails, which is another story in itself entirely. Otherwise, the names of lip, eye and cheek shades need as much personality as the faces they animate daily.

Even the unnamed and not-aptly-named shades among us ought to be given a story. Some seem to just implore us for one. Back in junior high I barely knew designer makeup existed, let alone had the pocket change for it. I was lucky if I could get my hands on some random discontinued shade at the local Harmon. One of these was a metallic aubergine called “Iced Plum,” a name with all the inventiveness of a sheet of cardboard. A step forward from the typical I usually excavated from the sale bins, but still not enough to suit its sinister depths. So I took one of the many fine-point pens my mother regularly filched from her office, crossed out Iced Plum from the sticker and wrote “Misdeed”. Right then I started to feel the color like I hadn’t fishing it out of the 99 cent bin. It had identity. It had panache. It had character. Painting it on, I was a 20’s bobbed bombshell with a gun akin to the Merry Murdresses of Chicago. In actuality I must be the most law-abiding person in the world. I adhere to speed limits religiously and never default on any payments. But I’ve always fantasized about playing the Colt-wielding, ball-busting Velma Kelly, even if it was just to slip into her persona (and black bustier) for 24 hours one Halloween. And then I realized displaying a badass streak wasn't necessarily reserved for the last day of October. I could be Velma sans the arrest warrant any time of year, even when the neighbors were once again wrestling with a plastic Santa on thier roof or the Easter bunny was supposedly hopping around. All courtesy of a 99-cent bottle of purple polish.

Unfortunately, a gorgeous color and a name just as fetching don’t always collide. The color might just not do justice to the name, or vice versa, especially if it doesn’t compliment your complexion. Last year I tried on a certain nude lipstick called Promiscuous a handful of times before I finally (and reluctantly) concluded that it appeared muddy against my pale skin. Ironically, it might Pink #234535 the next counter over that snags the day's trophy. For some hues whose beauty lies in everything but the title, we need to dream up our own. But whether that tube of lipstick comes with a story already attached or you fashion your own fantasy, the color spectrum is endless. The only part left is choosing your own adventure.

Luminol

Luminol
I saw your blood streaked across a billboard last night
when the splatter flashed ultraviolet and I realized in the uplighting that
my hands were slick with it.

Second Monday After Easter

Second Monday After Easter


The sky clears its throat.

Asphalt yawns with grass
and dandelions trampled by rubber hi-top soles
inked with initials that were scratched out twice.

Ragged fog lifts from a vestige of playground
half devoured by woods. The lot fills with sedans and minivans dusted in
fluo-green tree pollen and the afternoon influx of grade-schoolers
rushes forth, chased by stroller-wheeling mothers in tracksuits
shouting after them not to eat the wild mushrooms or play
near the river where she threw the song she’d written two days ago in seventh period on a tissue crumpled in her back jeans pocket
and leaned over the railing of the bridge watching it dissolve.

She clicks her gum a final time and spits it out to mingle with
clover leaves and candy wrappers floating in curbside pools of
last night’s rain. Somebody’s toddler attempts to climb and
somebody’s mutt lifts its leg and pisses against a
wooden telephone pole carved with massacred hearts.

She scratches his initials off the sole of her shoe for the third time before beating the storm home.

rant: mandatory calorie listings

Several years ago the state of New York implemented a policy that would require all fast-food chains to list the calories contained in every item on the menu. However, while mandatory calorie counts are having an effect, it isn’t necessarily the one the legislators may have hoped for. On my routine visits to Starbucks for my usual skinny latte I find myself in line among plenty of saddlebags and muffin tops who still order what obesity watchdog Meme Roth referred to in an Elle interview as “milkshakes” drenched in syrup and capped off with mounds of whipped cream. Ironically, I find my size-4 self scrutinizing everything on the menu and in the display, mentally attempting to calculate what would and wouldn’t safely fit with the rest of the day’s consumption. At 5 foot 7 with a 27-inch waist, it would seem that someone like me should be the last person agonizing over how many calories are in a slab of reduced-fat cinnamon swirl cake (more than you think). As what I’ve witnessed from the corner of my eye proves, however, I’m evidently not stranded alone in a sea of chocolate syrup. Curious as to whether I just might be hallucinating, I’ve started taking note of who orders what. It seems that those obviously in need of shedding some poundage are sticking to their creamy Frap blends and caramel macchiatos while in-shape customers generally veer toward slimmer options. This can lead to only one conclusion that should have been obvious to these bonehead legislators to begin with: people are going to choose for themselves regardless of the numbers glaring down at them from behind the counter. And their diet poilicing isn’t necessarily hitting the right targets. It may just be a personal hangup, but even as a reasonably slim person with an active lifestyle, being faced with cold hard numbers on a menu sends me into a panic. Nearly everything is suddenly off-limits. Facing the three digits to the right, I immediately switch into how-many-minutes-of-what-do-I-need-to-burn-this-off mode. Maybe some of this is residual instinct from the calorie-slashing I inflicted on myself for the six months I wasn’t medically allowed to exercise because of significant head and neck trauma. Which is healthy to a degree, especially since I often relapse. But obsessive pondering of caloric consequences benefits no one, from those already at a healthy weight who may unintentionally end up hovering just above underweight due to fear of flab to those whose weight-loss ambitions collapse because of all the frustration brought on by number-crunching. My point: losing weight is hard enough. I have an aunt who has been fighting the battle of the bulge for years but just can’t resist the siren song of all-you-can-eat buffets. The last thing someone between a rock and a hard candy (er, place) needs is state legislators monitoring what doctors and family members are already keeping tabs on round the clock. Having the added burden of numbers being flashed in your face wherever you go in public, far from being encouraging, may more readily turn losing weight into a losing battle. Many chains, including Starbucks, offer online nutrition information, which can help consumers calmly sort out their choices in private instead of publicly causing a nervous breakdown. Ultimately, while the obesity epidemic is a national and even global concern, precise calorie-counting should be left to the individual and not the government. Don’t get me wrong, despite its 300-some-odd calories I swear I’ll get around to trying a truffle espresso one day—but I’ll have it for dessert rather than with.

The Gospel According to Liz Rayne

So now that I’ve already played Triumph the Insult Comic Dog to fashion’s worst,
I will sing my hallelujahs to the best.
*I'm going to keep adding to this, so check back often!
A
acid wash: There are some styles from the 80’s (power suits, anyone?) that are better off as kindling for your fireplace. And then there are some styles from the 80’s which make you wonder why they ever burned out to begin with, even if it was only temporarily. My old roommate on acid? Not so great. My jeans on acid? Excellent.

Agyness Deyn: The personal style of Henry Holland’s best friend and muse is one huge Sex Pistols-meets-raver kid-meets-Sailor Moon acid rainbow. Now that’s far out.

Alexander McQueen: The high-necked Victorian lace frocks! The armor-inspired bustiers! The dresses comprised of entire exotic birds (alright, being a parrot owner I wasn’t a huge fan of that one)! This season’s collection had me lusting after a white skull-emblazoned shroud dress that only McQueen could make more fit for a fancy bash than a funeral. Do you McQ?

Alice Cooper: We owe it to one of the pioneers of guyliner to model the original perfectly smudged raccoon eye.

Anna Sui: Her inimitable rocker meets 70’s hipster style is one of my closet staples. Among my favorite pieces are a silver belted dress with matching rhinestone-collared jacket and a gauzy, very Gothic Lolita flocked black dress with silver threads running through it. I wore the latter to the opera a while back. I couldn’t tell if the looks flashed in my general direction were more along the lines of shock or awe, but either way it made a definite statement.

Ashish: If you find someone who makes better use of sequins than Ashih (sequin plaid! sequin houndstooth!), then please notify me so I can build an even more spectacular (sequined) shrine to that hallowed being.

B
babydoll dresses: We all need one in our closet. Because we all suffer from PMS. And on those days where you feel your middle has its own zip code, better to cheat with an empire waist and not accentuate it at all. At least the cut also draws attention to other (ahem) features that seem to inflate for the better around that time of the month.

Betsey Johnson: Show me a hundred women who don’t have the balls to wear neon past the age of 30 and I’ll show you one perennial rock chick twice that age who defies them all. When your grandma is Betsey Johnson, you don’t just accept the dresses she makes you for Christmas, you can’t wait to strut the town in them. Ladies, just grow a pair already.

black: It’s dark. It’s mysterious. It’s chic. It’s timeless. It’s slimming. It’s my natural hair color, though I started resorting to dye (in a shade called Starry Night, no less) after starting to go gray at the venerable age of 19. Taupe and charcoal and navy blue may intermittently have their day, but mark my words, nothing will ever be the new black.

black eyeliner: You simply can’t call yourself remotely edgy if you don’t own one of these. It’s an edgy staple. You can wear it straight up, smudged, thick or thin, night or day, on the top lashline or along both for more drama. I personally like dotting it along the middle of my upper lashline and smudging both ways to get that sexy morning-after effect.

boots: Knee-high, midthigh, buckle, lace-up, ankle, biker or combat (whether your mama wears them or not), they’re made for walking—or more accurately, stomping the city pavement while giving the sketchballs ogling you from the alleys a silent message that you mean business.

C
Cabaret: The razored bob, fringed minidresses, peacock shadow and maryjane heels Liza Minelli rocked as Sally Bowles on her doomed quest for fame pack major star power.

Cacharel: This whimsical French brand is hard to find stateside, which only had me bewailing it all the more when I actually found a gorgeous silvered pink damask dress of theirs, but it was several sizes too big.

chains: Even the simplest of these is a potential style savior, capable of adding edge to a shift more bland than yesterday's oatmeal. Make that steel-cut.

Chanel: My emo-chic square black frames are Chanel, complete with black enamel camellias at the hinges. As one of the most genius designers in history, Karl Lagerfeld reserves the right to wear his sunglasses after dark whenever and wherever he damn well pleases.

D
dark lips: I remember Allure magazine once daring to call them “vampiric”, and I’m all about vampires. Once phobic of publicly swiping on anything that could have been considered Morticia’s daily bread, I now frequently rock dark lips like they’re my natural color, from deep bloodred to forbidden berry. And I’m proud to say I have the courage to flaunt them in broad daylight.

David Bowie: Not only have I had an insane crush on the man for eternity, but you might as well call it a double crush because after ravaging him I would ransack his closet in an instant. From the glittery bodysuits and disco platforms of his Ziggy Stardust days to his unforgettably hot goth-goblin getups in Labyrinth, this is one fashion chameleon who has stood the test of time—and I’m not even saying this under pressure.

drainpipe jeans: A legal way to scream sexy without the risk of a citation for indecent exposure a la Lady GaGa (whose wardrobe of Bedazzled bras and day-glo leotards is quite enviable, may I add). Plus, I’m a sucker for anything that emphasizes your ass quite as well as the right pair of these do.

E
eating: Attention ladies: Men find it attractive when a woman takes care of her body. Men do not find it attractive when a woman starves herself to the point of being a walking xylophone. Unless, of course, you’re dating Jack Skellington.

Ed Hardy: I’m too fickle to get a real tattoo. A design I could see myself married to one week becomes stale in my mind’s eye the next. Thankfully we have Christian Audiger to ink everything from hi-tops to hoodies, which require no lasers to change on a whim.

Eighties redux: Like it or not, the Era of Excess is back and here to stay. While some of its trademarks—think pleated pants, shoulder pads, mom jeans, Aqua Net hair—should stay in the vault, current designers’ take on the likes of Debbie Harry and Pat Benatar make you want to dust off your wayfarers.

emo bangs: Otherwise known as the most convenient way to camouflage a black eye sans the patch and bandanna (peg leg optional). Also useful as cover for those days when you feel like falling off the face of the earth. I performed an Edward Scissorhands on myself, but taken that I’ve been snipping my own hair since high school (and gained experience through mortifying slipups like the time I tried for Velma Kelly and ended up looking more like Janet Reno), I recommend getting it done at a salon for an even fringe.

F
faux fur: a former rat owner, I know how painful it was to give up Moony and Padfoot to another family because of my fur allergies, let alone the thought of using soft furry creatures for no other purpose but to slap their hides on our back. Thankfully, labels such as Juicy Couture have made the synthetic stuff look and feel so real, an outside would never guess there was no mink massacre involved.

G
Gareth Pugh: Never mind that his designs aren’t exactly 9-to-5 material, the man is a fucking visionary. Who else would dream up neo-goth glittering black frocks whose sleeves end in a flutter of streamers?

Gerard Way: Give me black and shaggy or bleached and spiky, give me tight pants, give me black and red and a generous dose of guyliner—Gerard Way is sex on legs. And not a bad fashion icon either.

Giles Deacon: The man who put spikes on Mulberry bags and turned Swarovski crystals into pixilated mouse faces definitely gets my vote.

Gothic & Lolita: Japanese street style is the epitome of fearless cool (rainbow socks and moon boots, anyone?) but this subgenre, is my personal favorite. Best described as a sort of Bronte novel gone manga, the style of Gothic Lolitas is rife with frills, corsets, cameos and plenty of black, perfect for a jaunt around Wuthering Heights.

H
Hearts: You scribbled them on construction paper as a kid. As a teenager you carved them into tree trunks with your initials and those of some random loser who would eventually end up dealing weed and working the night shift flipping Whoppers at Burger King. Whether you like yours with wings, chains, daggers, thorns or the timeless giant crack down the middle, hearts have my heart.

House of Holland: Henry Holland first burst onto the scene with daring slogan shirts screaming innuendo like Cause Me Pain Hedi Slimane or Let's Play Naked Twister Linda Evangelista. Several years (and yards of electric-blue plaid) later, every girl brave enough to strut around in monster polka dots paired with floral chiffon is pining to be his fag hag.

J
Jean-Charles de Castelbajac: His collections are best described as your child sticker book from the 80’s on steroids: an explosion of giant smiley faces, hearts, and rainbows. Which is exactly why I adore him to no end.

Jeremy Scott: by breaking every fashion rule imaginable, this wunderkind has succeeded in completely reinventing the rules (if anything was ever really set in stone to begin with). Would you like fries with that cheeseburger dress?

John Galliano: I applaud this man for being brave enough to sometimes pile on more makeup himself than has even been painted on his models (and when the models in question are sporting neon cat eyes or rhinestone-studded lids, that’s saying a lot). I also applaud the outrageous design genius evident in his approach to everything from his graduate collection at Central St. Martins that made the French-Revolution-Era sans-culottes en vogue all the way to his glamazon Dior shows and latest eponymous collection whose opening segment was one part raincoat, two parts British redcoat.

Juergen Teller: The ethereal, otherworldly quality of his photography is just unbeatable. Gazing at one of his pictures is like feeling privileged enough to have a Through the Looking Glass moment of peering into another realm--except this time, you're guaranteed not to fall in.

K
KISS: I have a pair of platform ankle boots that my cousin refers to as my “Paul Stanley boots”: black suede uppers with a 5-inch heel done up in gunmetal and silver faux snakeskin. Those boots make me want to rock ‘n roll all night and party every day. Despite many opinions to the contrary anything that elicits visions of screaming guitars and Kabuki makeup is definitely cool in my book. And for those craving something saucier than Starbucks, Gene Simmons owns his own chain of coffeehouses boasting a giant plaster boot outside.

L
leggings: growing up in the late 80’s/early 90/s, I must have had 2039483 pairs of these in every color of the rainbow and—here’s the killer—long versions and shorts. Hey, back then even Barbie was doing it! Now they’ve returned with a vengeance , in metallic and plasticized versions to boot, and while the invisible wear with caution tag still persists, they’re beyond gnarly when done right.

liquid liner: Reminiscent of the Bangles’ Walk Like an Egyptian, this stuff is notoriously difficult to master. Done correctly with a steady hand and a gallon of patience, the winged cat-eye which was the fabled trademark of Cleopatra will make all the boys want to sink their fangs in your neck.

London: There’s a reason the Clash felt London calling: it’s a mecca of style where anything goes, from quirky prep to nu-rave to neo-goth. Where such a hodgepodge of fashion is as commonplace as the afternoon cuppa tea, there is no such thing as a misfit if one thing’s for sure.

Luella: Her irreverent take on Brit chic made me a fan from day one. Relatively rare on this side of the pond, I did manage to snap up a floral-print raincoat at her flagship store (whose Pepto-pink walls are hung with kitschy knickknacks and a framed print of Queen Victoria with the eyes scratched out) during a visit to London last year.

Lulu Guinness: her tongue-in-chic handbag designs are so adorable, you’ll be debating whether to carry them or just display them on your mantle as works of art.

Lurex: The lure of Lurex is that it’s bling without the heft—let’s see Fortunoff try that.

M
Marc Jacobs: You can’t help but worship the man responsible for mouse ballerina flats. It’s one case of rodents in the house that won’t have Mom screaming for an exterminator.

Metallics: Since I was a little girl, my mother would always roll her eyes and declare how I was always drawn to “anything shiny” that was hanging on the racks. 15 years down the road, let’s just say that once bitten has equaled twice smitten.

Morticia Addams: Some little girls consider Barbie their fashion idol. My generation stuffed their moms’ bras and ran across the yard in slo-mo emulating Baywatch babes. Meanwhile I was slinking around in a raggedy black dress and secretly shellacking my lips in my mom’s Rum Raisin, imagining myself as that glorious gothic female.

N
neon: Because while we definitely don’t want to give off radioactive vibes, a shot of it here and there keeps life interesting—and the neighbors awake.

P
Plaid: I know that I assaulted the overuse of this print in my insult list, but a nod to Sid Vicious in the right doses is rockin’.

Pretty In Pink: Molly Ringwald’s Andie was the queen of DIY and an icon for all those attempting to make their own prom dress. And admit it, we all secretly thought Duckie’s madcap wardrobe—and dance moves—were pretty damn hot.

Punk: Every season it seems like Sid and Nancy are resurrected on someone’s runway, whether it be through plaids or zippers or safety pins or strategically slashed fabrics. And every season I can’t stop drooling after whatever particular designer had the balls to do it. Now that’s being a rebel with a cause.

R
Rei Kawakubo: Whether it’s giant mouse ears for Comme de Garcons or liberally safety-pinned body wraps for Undercover, the woman has secured her place in my book as a certified genius.

rhinestones: I love bling. You love bling. We all love bling. Even those polo-and-khakis girls who steadfastly refuse to fess up love bling. I recently spotted a pair of Rock & Republic jeans with ROCK in pink rhinestones on the back pockets and nearly passed out from sugar shock.

rock ‘n roll: The music on its own is legendary, but combine it with leather, studs, chains, boots, skulls, tattoos (okay, tattoo prints for those of us who don’t wish to commit) and plenty of bling, and you’ve got
something immortal.

S
scented body care: They haven’t yet come up with zero-calorie cheesecake, but lathering a dead ringer for it all over your bod is pretty damn close. I’m a huge fan of Philosophy, whose 3-in-one’s I use as shampoo (current obsession: Pink Frosted Layer Cake). Their scented and flavored lip shines are great moisturizers, though I wear the Red Licorice out because it imparts the perfect flush of wearable sparkly fucshia on the lips. Herbs and flowers? Yawn. Cotton-candy-coconut-blueberry-marshmallow? Sign me right up.

Sephora: Hi. My name is Lady Aramis and I am an addict. In fact, I am so addicted to this place, guess what I attempted to sacrifice for Lent. And you can also pretty much guess in what direction that’s going.

sequins: Your grandmother wore them in the Roaring 20’s, your mother wore them in the Swinging 60’s and your painfully cool older cousin wore them in the Extravagant 80’s. Now it’s your turn to bust a move under that mirrorball—in a mirrorball dress.

snakes: How I got my nickname “snake” is a long story—let me just say I was supposedly tempting my roommate away from her dusty Medieval texts, not unlike the one in the Garden of Gethsemene, by dragging her into Sephora. Now I’m positively seeing serpents, from Robbert Lee Morris’ pendants and rings to an adder-embellished LaRok tee which I still don’t forgive myself for passing up even though it was a size too big. At least I managed to sink my fangs into a black Lucite ring with a diamante diamondback to satisfy my scaly self.

splatter: I’m one of those people who starts a project involving paint and ends up being the project after a couple hours. So you an imagine my how ecstatic it makes me to see a slew of splattered hoodies and jeans on the market. Worst case scenario: I manage to get something on it, that will only add to the artistic value.

studs: If I could go around with a Bedazzler and stud the whole world I would. I don’t know where to begin gushing about my love affair with studs, whether it was those unforgettable Burberry sandals that I lusted after a couple of years ago but couldn’t afford at the time, my plasticized black jeans with gold studs around the waist and on the back pockets, my studded gladiators or the LaRok skirt with an entire waistband of silver hardware (which my mother gave the requisite baby-boomer gasp of horror). Either way, even if Harper’s Bazaar ever puts them on its monthly Stash list, I will never stash my studs.

T
Tarina Tarantino: The reigning queen of jewelry that is kitschy, edgy and adorable allatonce. Who else churns out candy-pink skulls and puts Hello Kitty on a cameo?

Tim Gunn: sometimes you need the bluntest fashion guru in the business to just give it to you straight when you’re habitually leaving the house looking like a slutbag or superfrump.


U
Urban Decay: With colors ranging from double platinum to fluorescent pink to shimmering eggplant an names like Sin, Mildew and Perversion, this brand has been a makeup staple of mine for years. Recently having been devirginized by dark lipstick, I now count the shades Gash (a cool burgundy) and Trainwreck (a deep magenta) among my favorites.

V
Vampires: Coming from me, they should have been expected to make an appearance here sometime. Not only are Nosferatu like Lestat (the namesake for my parrot) and Edward Cullen so gorgeous I just want them to sink their fangs into my neck now, but vampire style is here in a big way. The dark lips, sweeping capes and abundance of black and red—like the suckers themselves would say of human blood, I simply can’t slake my thirst.

Victorian: Take a cue from the deliciously decadent world of Percy Shelley, Oscar Wilde and Edgar Allen Poe and lace up that corset already.

Vivienne Westwood: God save the Queen of Anglomania.

W
Worst Dressed: I applaud all those out there who have knowingly taken fashion risks because their hearts led them toward that dress or those shoes. I’m not talking about Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction” or Lindsay Lohan flashing her cootch. Rather, I’m throwing out accolades to celebs like Chloe Sevigny, Tilda Swinton, Zooey Deschanel and Lily Allen, who frequently end up on entertainment Weekly’s Worst Dressed list because they were only guilty of staying true to their own individual style. And I’m sorry, but that goth dress Gwyneth Paltrow wore to the Oscars several years ago was hands down the best outfit of her life, never mind what Ryan Seacrest might say. He shouldn’t talk.

Z
Zippers: no longer just for keeping your form catching pneumonia in the dead of winter (thanks, Mom) they’re showing up everywhere, from pins to pants to Mac Jacobs’ quintuple-zipper boots from Fall ’07 that I couldn’t find anywhere to save my life. Maybe he’ll take note and do a reissue.

Firstborn

You named me for the red queen
and I became her effigy in black, all
red eyes and chipping black nail polish that I never wore to your funeral because at the time I was too young for nail polish or funerals and Chanel hadn’t yet come out with #40 Noir Céramic in 1989 but when my mother cried Metallic Vamp all over the kitchen tile there was no way of scrubbing it off
without acetone and 2x bleach that she polished all your bowling trophies with before stashing them in a bookshelf at the corner of the basement to collect dust and cobwebs next to a lampshade and half-empty cans of paint thinner leaning against your tarnished five-iron that I’d brandish like the scepter of the Queen of Hearts in paper jewelry and a counterfeit crown since I never became the royal you conceived or unfurled wet wings emerging as your monarch dream, letting the chrysalis ashes scatter from black-red wings— forgive me Father.

Sugar

Bottle blonde twirls behind circus trains,
glaze-eyed, on the L.A. boulevard;
neo-grunge tablecloth skirt glides past
burger joints, tattoo parlors, sundae shops
TVs blasting reality smackdowns
from some tech store window. Too steep
for a glossy hi-def plasma flatscreen
if she keeps lusting after stardust.
A locket grazes her collarbone scars;
neon ballerina flats and clashing prints
defect eyes from scars. Chipped polish, scars
veiled by fingerless gloves, double-stacked rings
and a wristwatch clutch a recycled-paper
coffee cup and grainy tabloid photos.
She ransacks her replica Vuitton:
cell phone, Chapstick, syringes, pamphlets,
Danielle Steel paperback, smack sugar.
razor for a quill. Smack. Cuffs for bracelets;
Blue-red kaleidoscope whisks her away,
cruising over gum wads and glitter,
still chasing the circus from the backseat.

Valse Melancolique

Bloodred sky rains
redhots bleeding
scarlet ooze
tainted sugar swirled with
asphalt and gasoline
heart-shaped oilslick
iridescent with
tears

trail the hemorrhage
into the gutter

free marshmallow cunt
whipped into a confection
doused in aphrodisiac
and commercial innuendo
lust and plastic locked
in a danse macabre

read between the lace and
past the garter

barely above delusion
however much saccharine
sugars it over
romance always tastes better
taken with a dose of
arsenic

all a tarnished ring and
never after

Rhapsody in Bitter

Rhapsody in Bitter

Bloodred sky rains
redhots bleeding
scarlet ooze
tainted sugar swirled with
asphalt and gasoline
heart-shaped oilslick
iridescent with
tears

trail the hemorrhage
into the gutter

free skin free cunt
whipped into a confection
doused in aphrodisiac
and commercial innuendo
lust and plastic locked
in a danse macabre



read between the lace and
past the garter

barely above delusion
however much saccharine
sugars it over
romance always tastes better
taken with a dose of
arsenic

all a tarnished ring and
never after

Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria

Nine-thirty-seven p.m.
gazing from the backseat
at layer-cake buildings
swathed in buttercream marble
that oozes filthy lucre;
wondering what lies behind
the flourishes the engravings
behind the verandas
and brass room numbers:
men in Valentino seducing
lushes with lips like kir royale
clutching sleek goldtone vibrators
behind their backs.
I want to blossom into
one of those bitches
with the eight-hundred dollar
haircuts and jutting hipbones,
rocks like grapefruits
on their index fingers;
never loaded or
anorexic enough; and
they’ll call me Queen Bitch
with a rhinestone collar.
I will slather myself
with body shots of Chambord ,
want to be ravaged on satin sheets
and bleed rose petals,
want trash couture
tainted fame in the social circus
from swinging on a chandelier—
Nine-thirty-eight.
The light flashes green and it all
Rushes past in a neon blur.

Gothic and Lolita

Strike of eleven-fifty-nine.
The phantom at the gate glitters her lips in bloodred and bites a snowcake. Her face is spangled in constellations.

Nails lacquered with licorice beckon through candlesmoke.

Clouds of skulls and sugarplums rain peppermints. As I glide past fountains gushing peppermints a grandfather clock winks midnight and waltzing dolls flash doubletone hair in shades of sighs and sex and irony. On a dancefloor of sugarglass exquisite corpses swirl alongside teacups in the shadow lace, all glitter and wings and cupcakes and witch boots. As the piano switches tunes from blush to fuchsia the moon grins at me and I
grin back.

Mirrorball

Shadows drink from the flash of a strobe
pulsing with oilslick swirls flashing in
freezeframe. Rainbow ghosts. The Mad Hatter nods, tipping his tophat:
hydrangea cakes with moon jam tonight,
and a drop of bleeding love in my tea.
I noticed through the iridescence that
radioactive looks smashing on you,
at least in the blacklight. It tastes of
rapture and tinfoil and colorgasm,
like bloodsugar raining down on the tiles;
the kind that moves me to crying opals
or screaming disco canon, only
when the dancefloor isn't looking.

Is That a Chainsaw or Your Shoe: Fashion Trends That Should Be Wiped Off the Face of the Earth

Trends are shining from glossy mags nowadays with more glare than Dick Cheney's bald spot. However, just because it happens to appear in the pages of Vogue doesn't necessarily mean that it should be en vogue in the first place. Even Harper's Bazaar blatantly admits their errors monthly in their Buy, Keep, Store and In/Out sections, which are often filled with shots from past issues where the same things now being decimated were looked upon as the holy grail of fashion. Here, a list of trends whose status as merely acceptable, let alone fashionable, I could never figure out to begin with:

Tent Dresses: better left as performing spaces for fire-eaters and dancing bears. Unless there really is a three-ring circus in full swing around your waist, leave the big top to Barnum & Bailey.

Peasant Shirts: funny how an item of clothing that historically worked the fields of Europe is now seen on women who have never picked up a garden trowel, let alone worked a manual plow. I know the economy is plummeting, but it’s still no excuse to dress the part of a street urchin.

Maxi Dress: If you live in a chronically dry clime where your floors keep repeatedly getting caked with dust, I can see how one of these would save you considerable elbow grease. Otherwise, not only do these wearable salon curtains sweep the grime off your floor, they also take inches off your frame.

Plaid Overload:Some is acceptable when we start heading towards the colder months. But when it's piled on in the form of jackets, shirts, skirts and even tights allatonce, you risk a throwback to 1992. This once again goes to show that there is a fine line between high fashion and Howdy Doody.

Boyfriend Jeans: There’s a reason they’re called “boyfriend”, meaning that’s whose ass these should be covering. Men require extra space in their pants to prevent overheating their undercarriage so their fertility stays intact. Women do not. Leave the grunge aesthetic in the 90’s and find a more flattering style.

Vertigo Hair: clearly drugs and booze were responsible for shipping Amy Winehouse off to rehab, but the hallucinogenic influence on her coif is also highly debatable. After shelling out good cash for all sorts of concoctions to make your hair behave, the last thing you'd want to do is reverse all that and make it beehive.

Mod: Like Dr. Evil, this is one comeback that should have been left in the cryogenic vault. Tarantula lashes, chalky pastels and hair-up-to-there put any normal woman’s face in league with Dame Edna. And the exaggerated geometric silhouettes may still do something for IKEA furniture, but not the female form.

Gargantuan earrings: I’ve seen some pretty bizarre notions of pet carriers but none so obnoxious as dangling an entire birdcage from your ear. Why not stick a canary in there and call it an outfit?

UGGs: For anyone who’s ever been in denial, you now have my confirmation that this hybrid of the mukluk and the moccasin was indeed named for the word “ugly”. And pairing these with miniskirts also adds to the eyesore factor—I have yet to see any Eskimos roaming around California.

Fake lashes: I know we all want to channel Liz Taylor, but we must come to the sad realization that none of us will in fact morph into her any time soon. Sparingly adding a few falsies for a special evening won’t arouse any suspicion that you thought it was Halloween, but an entire inch-long fringe weighing down your eyelids will. And in case no one has really clarified it before, the only time neon or metallic fakes are acceptable is Halloween.

Ultrawide trousers: while the form that the memorial for the Twin Towers should take is hotly debated, manifesting itself in a pair of pantaloons hasn’t yet been thrown out as an option. A moderately wide leg is one thing. One that could easily accommodate a space heater is quite another.

Safari:Alright, I get it: the muddy colors and jungle prints give you a better viewing experience in the Serengeti. You don’t spook the animals because you blend into their natural habitat. Which is fine in Africa. Stateside, despite the fact that the city streets can indeed be a jungle of sorts, it just looks ridiculous.

Jumpsuits: I’m not sure which designer it was who tapped the local auto mechanic for inspiration, but he’d possibly been a little too affected by the gasoline fumes. This is one style that needs an emergency trip to the repair shop.

Sculptural Heels: Is it a chainsaw? A hamster wheel? The Chrysler building? I know that the genre of wearable art is always trying to push the boundaries, but sometimes it just shouldn’t venture past the walls of MOMA.

Reflectively Shiny Lips: I know a mirror is required to apply lipgloss, but whoever decided the gloss itself should be the mirror? Obviously someone who doesn’t own a mirror, because if anybody wearing this stuff stares into one the light will refract straight to her eyeballs and instantly render her blind.

Grandma Florals: Our grandmothers may be bottomless receptacles of wisdom, but donning wallpaper patterns from 1965 doesn't exactly qualify.Take this advice to heart instead: just because Nicole Richie does it, doesn't necessarily mean it's kosher.

Bug-Eyed Sunglasses: Oversized frames are one thing. Oversized frames that take up 90% of the total surface area of your face are quite another. I don’t know when looking like a giant housefly ever became chic, but I’d feel safe to conjecture it never was.

Supersize Bags: A bag that fashionably contains a portable version of your life in it is practical. A bag that can fit your life, a refrigerator, two Rottweilers and an Olsen twin is not.