My thoughts on fashion in the absence of style
Zul Andra, Editor-in-chief
the facecrime that is about to be committed as you read my monoideal on fashun. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. I’ve poppysmiced through Alan Sokal and Jean Bricmont’s Fashionable Nonsense: Postmodern Intellectuals’ Abuse of Science (1998) and I agree that its “reckless verbosity” has nothing to do with fashion (2016). Beat.
My bellyfeel requires that I put on them otchkies handshovelled from my yarbles. Firstly, to see better. Secondly, to see better. Thirdly, to see better as the fashionistas attempt to cloud—clout?—my judgement by waving a Toile de Jouystyled flag. Trompe-l’oeil, or deceive the eye, they might. Herman Snellen would have failed his eponymous eye test after this experience. He. Would. Fail. It.
It looks something like, but not quite, when: the common cormorant or shag, (that) lays eggs inside a paper bag. The reason you will see no doubt, it is to keep the lightning out. Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! The skies erupt. What is fashion, if isn’t styled after doubt?
Have you slooshed of the term “recessionista”? They are fashionistas attempting to stay fashionable in the face of a recession. They offer a herringbone-shaped V-sign to the world. Up yours. Frumious at their Instagram followers for not giving a doubleplusdamn about their Jabberwock, they look at their soft melting watch—in the persistence of memory—until a trend runs its course.
Lips curl like a seersucker. Their body itch for a Rick Owens-inspired art installation like a unitard prank well played. For what it’s worth, all talk and no trousers makes fashion an expert texpert choking smoker. Don’t you think the joker laughs at you? Goo goo g’joob.
This is a product of a product of a product of fashion. Hashtag: wardrobed. #femiman. #normcore. #soapdodger. #treschic. #takeapillchic. #mfw, #nyfw, #nsfw. Such couture.
Appy polly loggies; don’t be upsad. Smilesmirk.