nogoodforme superlatives: Most Sartorially Inspiring Works of Fiction

Girl by Blake Nelson

Oh, how I love Girl! I can't even tell you how many times I've read this book; I could probably quote whole passages completely perfectly at this point in my life. It's got everything you'd want in a Young Adult novel: high school angst, minor drug usage, losing of virginities, breathless sentence construction and confusing identity crises, all set amidst a local music scene that smacks of the intersection of grunge and riot grrrl in the early 1990s. I find Girl sartorially inspiring less for its grunge aesthetic and more for its musings on fashion itself, delivered mostly through the main character of Andrea Marr, who finds herself navigating complicated friendships and high school loyalties, not to mention a wickedly fierce crush and affair with local rocker Todd Sparrow. (Todd Sparrow! How I wish you were real, because you are incredibly hot and Sean Patrick Flannery's portrayal of you in the iffy movie adaptation does not come close to rendering that at all!) In a quest to beef up her college app, Andrea starts working on the school newspaper, where she manages to write a fashion column that mostly documents her musings on style and the style of her best friend, the mysterious, enigmatic Cybil, the lead singer of local band Sins of Our Fathers. (I always envisioned Cybil a bit like Tobi Vail of Bikini Kill, actually.) There's tons of fun little fashion details, like how cool girl Carla wears saddle shoes, and Andrea's cow dress, and discussing the "cycles of cool," and going to the "right" vintage stores as opposed to the wrong ones. (It's those kind of details that make me marvel that Girl was written by a boy and not a girl.) The long and the short of it, though, is that I read something in Girl that encapsulates my entire understanding of fashion, which I always draw upon to explain the intensity of fashion to straight indie rock dudes, and which is this: And I realized the whole thing about fashion or writing about fashion or even thinking about fashion was confidence. You had to be confident and other people had to have confidence in you. Because it was all about intimidation and having the nerve to pull things off and daring to say, "This is cool and this is not." Fashion was sports for girls and that's why Cybil was so good at it because she was always confident and she always wanted to compete and she always won. It's enough to make me wonder if I'm channelling the voice of Andrea Marr when I'm writing this blog. Which I probably am. Her and Chuck Klosterman. (Kat)








The Dangerous Angels books by Francesca Lia Block

Yesterday at a newsstand by the beach I was reading Rolling Stone's review of a record you really need to buy right now, and the first line said something about how Los Angeles is supposedly the "center of plastic glamour." (This from a magazine with Heidi "Poster Girl for Natural Beauty" Montag on the cover - what hogwash!) Hackneyed though it may be, that shit always takes me aback - partly because I live in a part of town that's not so very plastic, and partly because some of my earliest and most enduring perceptions of L.A. glamour were largely informed by the books of Miss Francesca Lia Block.

In my late teens/early 20s I ate up Weetzie Bat and Witch Baby and imagined Los Angeles to be this magical land crawling with beach hippies and surf rats and old-school punks and Sunset Strip rock-and-rollers and "Lankas in spandy wear," all existing in the same space and getting their beautiful freakishness all mixed up together. I fell for it so hard, in fact, I ended up moving here from all the way across the country. (And I know I credit my L.A. move to someone different practically every week on this blog, but if I were actually capable of computer-generating a pie chart, the breakdown of cultural influences on the relocation of my life would probably go something like this: 66 percent to various testosterone-abundant rock bands fronted by surfers, 30 percent to Francesca Lia Block, and 4 percent to - of course - the movie Point Break.) Having lived here almost five years now and consumed at least one pastrami burrito at Oki Dog, I'm happy to report that, even though that plastic glamour is very much alive and kicking, so is that crazy mish-mash of beautiful freakishness. Sometimes you've got to look real close to pick up on it, but that just makes it all the more special for me. And so I'd never ever trade it for some other far less plastically glamorous city, or even for all the world.

And I was just about to clarify that FLB's no longer much of a straight-up influence on my personal fashion sense, but then I looked down and realized I'm wearing a half-grunge/half-garish green-striped hooded sweater over a Billabong tank top, with seriously beat-up secondhand jeans and glitter-covered Converse slip-on sneakers - so nevermind to that. I did give up wearing Crayola glitter glue on my eyelids sometime in 1997, however. (Liz)

The Group by Mary McCarthy

I devoured this 500-pager in a week last week; by the time I'd finished the first page, I was spellbound- hook, line and sinker. What a grand feeling it is! To read but one page of a novel and know, already, that you're reading one of your favorite things you've ever read. I recommend The Group to everyone in the world. This novel candidly discusses "things that happen to women" with a stark but objective accuracy and complete lack of pretense. I wish somebody had told me to read The Group when I was twelve or thirteen; it would've made the past ten years of my life considerably less stressful. Mary McCarthy's voice and style reminds me of a sassier J.D Salinger: her ability to capture the idiosyncratic beauty of daily minutae definitely parallels, say, Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters, but without the bitter, melancholic undertones that plague old Jerome David Sal. McCarthy's prose and narratives are celebratory. Her writing is light as bubbles blown from soap, buzzing along and off the page, like a flute of the rose champagne her "girls" would down at one of Libby MacAusland's famous soirees. There is no plot-driving device more appealing to me than "a bunch of women with constrasting personalities doing things": it's like a cerebral/feminist version of the Babysitters Club or Sex and the City. That sounds terrible, but really- the fact that I love Elinor "Lakey" Eastlake the best of all The Group is driven by the same part of me that encouraged my childhood adoration of Claudia Kishi and/or my teenage preoccupation with transforming myself into a regular Carrie Bradshaw (ew, barf- I can't believe I just owned up to that in a public forum).

The Group has taken over nearly every aspect of my life in this latter half of April 2008. Over the course of my reading it, the following has happened:

1) I've decided to put out a zine called Group Reduxion, which will be a collection of short stories loosely based on the members of McCarthy's Group, only based upon experiences from mine and all my best friends' lives.

2) I wrote a song completely ripped from The Group's dialogue; it's a Village Green-y ode to Depression-era New York, chock-full of references to the Astors and Rockefellers, The Boston School Cookbook and Lucy Stonerism.

3) I have successfully incorporated the phrase "Like it or lump it" into my vocabulary.

4) I've decided that if I ever get married in New York City, the whole wedding party is boarding the F-train to Coney Island in celebration, just like Kay Strong and Harald Peterson. Except for that in crappy 2000-and-whenever-the-hell, Coney Island is gone daddy gone for the most part, but whatever, so long as I've got the Wonder Wheel, I can cope. But seriously: an impromptu post-espousal jaunt to Coney? Could anything be more charming?

5) I watched Sidney Lumet's 1966 film adaptation of the novel:

It was pretty great, though I was pretty miffed by how Candice Bergen played Lakey, but they DIDN'T DYE HER HAIR BROWN. Now, Candice Bergen circa 1966 is, no exaggerations, the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I am 100% in support of her being cast as Lakey: nobody does East Coast upper-coast ice queen quite like the young Murphy Brown. But OKAY: Lakey is a BRUNETTE. That is SO IMPORTANT. Actually, she's not even a brunette; she's the brunette. Casting a blonde as Elinor "Lakey" Eastlike is about as dumb as casting a blonde as Veronica Lodge. NOT COOL.

6) Luckily for the world, I re-cast myself as Lakey about a week ago. I star in my own little adaptation of The Group every single day: smoking 100s, bothering to put lipstick on, forgoing Diet Coke in favor of soda water cut with vanilla syrup, which seems like something a Group member would drink. Doesn't it? In fact, I am so committed to looking like a legitimate member of Vassar's Class of '33 that a couple days ago, I actually TRAVELLED BACK IN TIME to 1934. The proof's in the pudding:

I bought my jaunty little beret, seen at left, at Mr. Macy's after a lovely tea service with Dottie Renfrew over at the Plaza. At right, I am sporting a genuine letterman sweater, which can barely be seen, because, I'll have you know, these photographs were taken long before the days of Photoshop contrast adjustments. My letter is "L," as in Lakey. And you will also notice the presence of my locket, which holds a picture of my beau, a fair-haired Nick Carraway type.

Time Travel-- if that's not devotion, I don't know what is. (Laura)

Posted by Kat, Liz and Laura in Superlatives
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