Fashion
Keith Sullivan
"Accepting the demands of elegance is one way to acquire
self-discipline. It's also a way to be in harmony with the outside
world of other people and things. However, we mustn't forget the more
personal, touching side of Fashion, which is the desire to please, to
renew one's appearance in order to sustain and breathe new life into
relationships." --Christian Dior, from a 1955 talk at the Sorbonne.
Terry Labach
Quote of the Day <qo...@ensu.ucalgary.ca>
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE FALL OF MODERNISM
"I think I lost faith in my generation when 'modernism' started to refer
to aluminum jump suits." --Pat Haney, on Helmut Lang's fall 1999
fashion show
T Shandro
Quote of the Day <qo...@ensu.ucalgary.ca>
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
FASHION MISSTATEMENT
Two young sexy singers were sipping stingers at Chasen's in Hollywood.
"You remember that backless, frontless, sideless evening gown I wore to
the awards last week?"
"Sure!" replied the other. "It was a sensation."
"Well... I just found out it's a belt."
Jim Moore Jr. <http://www.geocities.com/BourbonStreet/6293>
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
NO ROOM FOR HIPS IN TODAY'S FASHION SKIRMISHES
by P.S. Wall (Off the Wall), July 12, 1998
"Not every woman can wear this," the Column to salesgirl says, as she
slips the dress out of my hands and hangs it back on the rack. If this
chick ate a grape, she'd look like a pregnant thermometer. I figure I
can take her.
"Look," I say, lifting the dress back off the rack, "this ain't 'Pretty
Woman' and I'm not Julia Roberts."
"Too bad," the salesgirl says, as she jerks the dress out of my hand and
welds it back on the rack. "Because Julia Roberts is a size 4, and so
is this dress."
I can't tell you what a thrill it is to discover that I was exactly the
same size as Julia Roberts -- during my first week of fetal formation.
"The main problem is your hips," the salesgirl notes as she scans me up
and down using a wide-angle lens. "The rest of you seems fairly
normal."
According to Cosmopolitan, the scientific journal for women with
shoulder pads for brains, I am a "pear." In layman's terms, this means
I'm shaped like a wide-body travel mug.
Based on today's fashions, women with hips are an endangered species.
Someday, schoolchildren will gather around my skeleton while a teacher
describes that time in history when women with giant hips walked the
Earth.
"Maybe we could camouflage them somehow," the salesgirl says, tapping
her pouty lips with her finger.
Flipping through a rack of "comfort-wear," she pulls out a pair of
trousers and holds them up to me. The waist is exactly the same
diameter as the hips.
"Excuse me," I say. "Do I look like a boa constrictor to you?" I have
an hour-glass figure. My waist is 15 inches smaller than my hips, and
my breasts are ... OK, so I have a three-minute egg-timer figure.
My point is, if I buy pants that fit my hips, you could park a
Volkswagen in the waistband. If I buy pants that fit my waist, I have
to buy two pairs -- one for each thigh.
"Look," I sigh, "surely there is something in this store I can wear."
Coming together in a Halston huddle, all the salesgirls stare at my hips
like doctors conferring on how best to separate Siamese twins.
"Not a thing," they finally say in unison.
"You're telling me that I'm the only woman left in this world with
hips?!" I demand.
"You know, they have surgery that can fix that now," the woman at the
rack next to me says knowingly. So this is what it's come to. I'm
expected to have the meat sucked off my bones in order to attract men
who are attracted to women who look like boys.
"Gimme me that dress!" I growl through gritted teeth. Grabbing the
hanger off the rack, I make a dash toward the dressing room. Weaving
and ducking, I knock emaciated shoppers out of the way like "Night of
the Living Dead."
Finding an open stall, I run inside, slam the door and slide the latch.
On the wall is a little sign that says, YOU STRETCH IT, YOU BUY IT.
Kicking off my Reeboks, I drop my jeans to the floor and toss my T-shirt
on the hook. Stepping into the dress, I wiggle it into position, suck
my belly button to my backbone and zip. Holding my breath, I take a
long, hard look at myself in the mirror.
I'd say it was a perfect fit -- if I was an Oscar Mayer wiener. Not
only can you see my panty lines, you can identify most of my major
organs.
Of course, none of this matters anyway. I just caught a glimpse of the
price tag. I can't afford the hanger, much less the dress.
Copyright 1998 P.S. Wall. All rights reserved.
http://www.uexpress.com/ups/funandgames/ow/archive/ow19980712.html