17 February 2009

Not MJ of course

I'd like to redact my earlier statement on American fashion...I obviously had some kind of brain glitch which made me temporarily forget my obsession with Marc Jacobs. I don't really know what the hell that was about...I mean how does one forget Marc Jacobs??? You don't unless you've hit your head several times in the past two months (check) OR you simply don't think of Marc as being all that "American" (check). He's up there in my top five and, really, those five are dimension-less amalgamation's of my wildest fashion dreams and therefore live like the gods; we shall call it Mount ValenMcQueenJacobiGallianWestenwoodenhaven. Or something like that.

Anystilleto, I've just gotten in from French class and am about sixty seconds from sleep typing so I'll make this fast. I love you Marc Jacobs. I love you for all your saucy strangeness and fiery rational. I love that (from what I've caught up with from the shows) you seem to be the only designer that did not take us back to bread lines and cloth rations...you did the extreme opposite and took us back to the '80's, quite specifically NYC in the 80's. Towards the end of that decade, my sister moved to Hell's Kitchen (when Hell's Kitchen was not interesting) and I was ridiculously envious. NYC in the 80's embodied everything I thought to be chic, edgy, and the epitome of cool. People were flashy, clothes were loud, torn and bordered obnoxious and I loved that. It was perfectly acceptable to wear red, yellow and blue together with black leggings. I had blue pumps, orange, pink and purple. Now I have brown, red, black and cream. Wooeffinghoo.

Screw playing by the rules and donning the gray cloud that hangs over America. I'm listening to this man:

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