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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 6, 2009
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.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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