Wednesday, October 13, 2010

On the cover of a magazine..just Vogue

If I go out I’m perfectly happy to toss on one of my many graphic tee-shirts & some denim pants but back in the late 80s and early 90s I considered myself one tough little shit.
My hair was dyed black (and then purple, blue, shades of blonde that turned green from chlorine at the school sanctioned mandatory swimming), wearing my dad’s WWII trench coat and had some Doc Martin’s.
I had my hair cut super short all around except for my bangs which hung long and heavy over my eyes, leaving my face in mystery and I could give everyone this angry brooding attitude.

“No one understands me, no one loves me”

Locking myself in my room I’d play The Smiths, Cure and R.E.M and feel sorry for myself.

Funny how back in the day when “The Breakfast Club” was released, girls like me could SO relate to Ally Sheedy’s character Allison Reynolds but today in my prime I look down on the same PUNK kids.

C’mon, they aren’t trying to be INDIVIDUALS speaking out, trying to impact the world by being unique. You can’t be unique if you run in packs, like rabid dogs, snarling and jostling everywhere you go in order to gain attention.

Last week while in my daily search for free WiFi I found a comfortable seat in the center of one of the shopping malls. Right outside of the MajorNameBrandComputerGiantandIconographicImage there was a quadrant of pleather settees in fall colors, they were very inviting and I found my tush fit perfectly.

A few seats away from me sat a good looking gentleman probably 10-12 years older than myself. He was very sharply dressed in camel coloured light weight pleated wool slacks, a button down long sleeved dress shirt and gorgeous square toe snakeskin boots.

He was a real put together package; he managed it without excessive man-bling and looked great.

We nod to one another with a polite smile and then return our attention to the electronic devices exiting briefcases only looking up now and then to see the parade pass by.

The punk & goth kids noisily colliding into one another as they skitter about the aisles, pushing each other and making a racket. Definitely they are trying to get as much attention as possible, considering themselves anarchists, distinctive because they express themselves through the black hair and gothic clothes yet they were all mirrors of one another.

Little do they realize that they are a cliché unto themselves, a parody of what used to be real expression? Instead they are little more than angry, confused Emo without any real imagination.

Good Looking and I see these kids and both purse our lips in distaste but say nothing.
Return to the tapping of keys.

All sorts of people are streaming by and I’m getting an eyeful and it occurs to me, this is the perfect fodder for one of my rants. Just how much I want to blather on about it remains to be seen.

The muscle-heads with hulking shoulders and tiny waists and itty bitty asses ((we all know that their repeated use of synthetic enhancers have grown the wrong muscles “if you ask me”)) are sauntering around, throwing poses now and then if they catch the eye of a pretty girl (OR GUY!)
I’d rather have a slightly flabby man with a rock-hard cock than a beefy brute.
HA! I just heard you gasp!

You know who really cracks me up the most though?

Bitches. Bitches that just don’t realize that they are so fake that they deserve a good slap upside the head to help them shake the shit off their faces and the bullshit ideas out of their heads.

You are not better than the rest of us bitches.
Not long ago when I was in the cat exhibition hobby I had a saying about uppity bitches involved in the upper echelons of the fancy, “at the end of the day we all go home and have to scoop shit, you aren’t any better than me – we all have shit on our hands.”

Same goes for fake ass bitches you see in shopping malls, restaurants, driving over-priced cars with sunglasses that cost more than my monthly grocery bills.
You are still human like the rest of us. You get up, have smelly breath, get ingrown toenails, your nose-hair grows long and needs trimming and no one is going to wipe your ass if you get the shits.
If they do AND you want them to, then you are one sick fucker.

Fashion is funny, it’s wonderful to see the creativity involved but let’s face it, it isn’t for Joe Blow or Mary Smith-Jones either.

Ya’ll look as out of place wearing high fashion to the department stores as I would wearing a wetsuit and snorkel to play on a Slip N Slide.

My companion and I look up to witness a pair of young ladies strolling, arms laden down with bags and you could hear peals of laughter and tittering coming from them.

The temperature that day was 90F without a cloud in the sky and the mall has wide open ceilings of glass letting in the days sunlight come pouring in.
These girls were dressed all in body hugging black. Off the shoulder blouses with glints of faux jewels, big fat gold chains dripping from their scrawny necks and leather skinny leggings that squeezed every inch of their emaciated body.

If they had any body fat, it would have been puckered up and dimpled through the fabric. They had to have greased their asses and made a running leap into these in order to get into on.
Without help from the Jaws of Life I couldn’t see how they’d get back out of those.

Both had hair that had been teased, combed, teased, sprayed, flat ironed, curled and then sprayed into gigantic nests which were too perfectly messy to have been by accident.

What really brought our attention to this particular pair of dingdongs was the footwear.
Black hair, black shirts, black belts cinching waspish waists, black pants gripping skinny buns and the leggings ending abruptly to these enormous pristine snow white furry-wooly boots.

I think they call them UUGs which is exactly my response (and his) when we got a gander of this pair of bitches. It was as if they’d been on a hunting expedition in a cryptozoological reserve and bagged a couple of Yeti.

Maybe they went to the Himalayas and came face to face with the Abominable Snowmen and instead of showing fear; they yanked out of their Prada backpacks some blinged out scimitars and cleanly beheaded them.

After ceremoniously dancing around the bleeding carcasses, dropping it like it’s hot (‘cuz it’s cold as a mother there), they gutted the poor creatures and took the pelts off to a cave where a rogue Sherpa awaited them in order to sew them this awful footwear.

Maybe I can roll up my Levi’s to expose my calves and ankles (that I haven’t shaved in a very long time) and it would it pass for fashion?