NYFW: I Love a Good BJ | VICE

(read l’article at VICE)

A couple of seasons ago a friend of mine posted a photo from a Betsey Johnson runway show and offered up a one-word review: STOP. I get it—the clothes haven’t been memorable for about a decade, and the only items of hers I’ve wanted to purchase in recent memory have all been punk label archive reissues. That said, she was the first designer I identified with as a weirdo punk rocker in high school, and for that reason she’s kind of sacred to me. At this point, the designs are all pretty much the same from one season to the next, but who cares? A world without Betsey would be a world without glittery pink cupcake dresses, skull sweaters, neon floral peplum skirts, and cabbage rose-printed leggings.

Reviews of the new Betsey Johnson line? I know about this because I once dated somebody who could afford her clothes, and of course cuz of the John Cale angle.

I expected more from the woman who married John Cale at City Hall in 1965 wearing only a velvet tunic so short it showed her crotch because they refused to let her get married in pants. But, at this point, the label is a well-oiled machine and no one but me probably cares about her old paraphernalia patterns.

I don’t understand what’s so bad about this coat/leggings/hat vibe except for the furry ends of the sleeves of the coat.  I think my long-running hatred of hat-wearing is now exclusive to the dudes.  For instance I almost bought my wife a hat to go with a foxy dress I secured in honor of St. Valentine, before realizing that dress-buying was itself way over my head, and that my wife was not, and shouldn’t be, the Maria Schneider character in Last Tango in Paris.

The only thing weirder than fashion blogging has been the last weeks’ dalliances with what could almost be called sex blogging? I mean, who am I, somebody else? Severe depression and desperate chemical countermeasures can stimulate art consumption and hopefully critical opinion such that it’s necessary to operate all three blogs of mine at once.  It’s bound to end in tears, or just regress comfortably back to indie rock wonk, so just hold your horses, and hold the phone. That way you’ll occupy your hands.

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