HEY YOU! NOGOODFORME.COM is now found at...NOGOODFORME.COM! You've stumbled upon our old mirror site instead. Please point your browsers to NOGOODFORME.COM instead and update your newsfeed to http://feeds.feedburner.com/nogoodforme/tYOS. Thanks and we shall see you at NOGOODFORME.COM!
Tuesday , December 14, 2010
Laura Jane's Ultimate Fashion Challenge: Week Seven- the DEADLIEST Week
Day 43 (09.15.08)- ENVY: greyey-green stockings; ruffle-front Topshop minidress; green little boys' Polo sweater
To kick off my first attempt at hella-conceptualizing a UFC week, I've decided to keep Monday fairly low-concept; you know, ease myself into my new life as a sinner. HA! That's a hilarious joke. All I ever do in this life is sin. Sinning, in my proud, greedy and wrathful opinion, is what makes life worth living. I HOPE THEY SERVE WHITE WINE SANGRIA IN HELL, Mister Sisters!
I say low-concept because I am depending wholly on the idiom of "green with envy" to express an idea considerably more complex than what I've come up with. Really, my outfit would be exactly the same if I'd chosen to aesthetically realize ROY G. BIV in place of the Seven Deadlies. Nevertheless, happenstance has done right by me thanks to the following:
1) I wore this dress on Liverpool Day. Liverpool Day was the day of my life when I took the Magical Mystery Tour thru ol' Merseyside, and life sparkled and shone with the insane cosmick energy of OH MY GOD BEING WHERE THEY WERE. There are no words to express how jealous I am of my Liverpool Day self, except "there are no words to express how jealous I am of my Liverpool Day self."
2) I wore this dress the last time I made out with a dude. There are no words to express how jealous I am of my "making out with a dude" self.
Well, that's really it. I would, however, like to get the major-est lesson I've learned on Envy Day off my chest, which is: Kermit the Frog is totally a wussy little complaino-baby. It's not easy being green? Huh? Why? What the Helen Keller is that even supposed to mean?
It is exactly as easy being green as it is being any other color, color combination, pattern or textile.
I went to prep school as a kid. I always kind of dug my school uniform (black Oxfords; grey stockings; grey pleated skirt; white collared shirt; burgundy sweatervest; burgundy blazer)- actually, I think my overexposure to the Etonian aesthetic at such an early age has informed my approach to getting dressed than anything else, except the Beatles. But that's a given, isn't it?
As fly as I knew my lil' uniform was, baby-Laura's prep-school life certainly had its painful moments. My uniform had an evil counterpart known as Thee Glenburnie School Tracksuit, which was decidedly the bane of my privileged and underdeveloped adolescent esse. Thee Glenburnie Tracksuit consisted only of crested burgundy sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, but as far as I was concerned, being seen sporting it outside the barriers of the Glenburnie compound was the most horrifying and humiliating situation I could possibly experience.
Can you imagine: four-eyed, tangly-haired, Awkward Phase-era Laura Jane shopping for Yin Yang-adorned baubles at her local Claire's Accessories franchise, daydreaming of a future wherein she's dating Damon Albarn, best friends with Geri Halliwell, wearing a Smashing Grandpa halter top with a silkscreen of Sir Mick Jagger on the front, and is the lead singer of a band that is pretty much exactly Republica. A group of dead sexy fifteen-year-old Kurt and/or Courtney wannabes walk past her, and she remembers: OH YEAH. I am wearing my GLENBURNIE TRACKSUIT.
That's sort of how I felt wearing this outfit in public today. A bit more intense, yes, but still: I felt lame, Man! My spirit animal is NOT a sloth.
In conclusion: I should probably get CHRONIC YOUTH tattooed on my knuckles. Either that, or start an X-Ray Spex-inspired Ver Sacrum side project called Chronic Youth. We'll be the Ciccone youth of 2008! Any takers???
Day 45 (09.17.08)- WRATH: yellow Eugenia Kim beret; burgundy paisley French Connection top; South of France-patterned scarf; sanguine F-print skirt
FIRST THINGS FIRST:
Out of all the wacky little bon mots I like to pepper my conversations with new people with so they'll think I'm a great wit, my favorite- and the one that best sums up what I require from human behavior generally- is: REAL MEN DRINK SAZERACS.
In the scheme of my general opinions towards life, which are highly subjective, R.M.D.S. is an objective fact.
The Sazerac, referred to by many a licensed mixologist as The Original Cocktail, consists of whiskey (or absinthe, if you're nasty), bitters, simple syrup, ice, and a lemon peel. If I was ever having a datey-drink with a dude and he ordered one, that's it- the deal would be done. I would be his bride. A dude who drinks a Sazerac is a dude who cares.
On the whole, I'm pretty stoked I live in 2008. Clearly I am benefitting from the exciting new communication channels (!!!) that the Information Age has graced me with. Being an opportunist and all, I am more than grateful for my cool little iLife. What I just can't take is all this business about convenience. Yes, okay, fine. Being able to call somebody when/wherever, paying bills online, and Starbuxxx drive-thrus do help cut down on the multitudinous stresses stemming from life in our overblown cutthroat Sarah Paliniverse (even though they obviously also create them, but that's fodder for Media Studies grad students to discourse upon, not nutty fashion bloggers). But, when it comes to the attainment of actual pleasure or joy, insta-anything is mostly just INCONVENIENT.
This outfit is my Sazerac of Outfits. On Day 31, I wondered how or why wearing any given garment could contribute to real well-being. And now I know. Nothing easy is ever really satisfying. This outfit is weird, and took me ages to configure, and out of every single look I've worn over the course of the UFC thus far, it is the only one I know I NEVER, EVER in a million years would have put together without it. It took skill to put this outfit together (well, mad skill, actually). It takes skill to make the perfect Sazerac, or to put the needle on the 45 at the exact right second, to drive a stick shift, balance a checkbook, or roll your own cigarettes. Life minus skill is a dronefest. It's LSU sweats and a Gap hoody. It's middle-management, Brooke Knows Best, and the Baconator, and I don't want or need a single second of it. I WANT TO CARE!
Who woulda thunk it? Wrath turned into pride. Sinning really is the best thing ever! It's so versatile! The moral of the story: life can only suck if you never care, and I'm pretty sure that's an objective fact, Jack.
Real Men Drink Sazeracs, and the real Laura Jane wears a yellow beret.
Day 46 (09.18.08)- GREED/"BLAIR WALDORF AFTER DARK": black Michael Kors boots; argyle thigh-highs; navy-and-goldenrod-striped polo; J.Crew soiree-print cardi; giant faux-topaz ring; crown/fleur-de-lys crest pin; diet Rockstar energy drink
Maybe I might have enjoyed wearing this outfit more if I hadn't've had to devote the better half of my day to suppressing my urge to vomit. Thanks, Rockstar Burner! There is seriously no way on Earth, or in hell, that it is okay for humans to drink that stuff! I sincerely believe that railing crushed-up caffeine pills must be healthier for you than drinking a can of that bullshit death-juice.
Do prep-schooled Upper East Side seventeen-year-olds feel like puking all the time? Are they cool with it because it facilitates their half-assed struggles with bulimia? Am I "in character"? Or do I just have a particularly low tolerance to whatever-the-hell taurine is?
I find it minorly interesting how just two days ago I was talking about how connected I feel to the idea of School Uniform Chic, and now am wearing this. I've been existing in these clothes for about ten hours now, and my relationship with them has been entirely unremarkable to date; maybe that's because, for me, a school uniform is my neutral. It makes some sense, considering I wore one every day of my childhood minus weekends, holidays, track meets, and Pizza Days (We "got" to wear our tracksuits on Pizza Days- Quel Horreur!). I am also wondering if the comfort I derive from wearing these clothes has something to do with my severe case of Peter Pan Syndrome, or maybe nothing> I don't care. Greed. Whatever. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
Another thing I find minorly interesting is the extreme relevance that comes along with dressing like Leighton Meester as Blair Waldorf these days- why??? Another thing I find minorly interesting is the linguistic oddity that is the name "Leighton Meester"- seriously, why??? Meester? What? Huh? Meest-whaaaa??? I'm kind of obsessed with saying it aloud. I say it every chance I get. I am chanting it to myself right now. Cool!
PS: Yes, the argyle thigh-highs are indeed a nod to Cher Horowitz, who one may argue is the original Blair Waldorf.
Day 47 (09.18.08)- PRIDE: black leotard; yellow jumpsuit
Pride is by far and away my sin of choice: always has been, always will be. I'm proud of that. Few things in life (except death, John Lennon's death, and the fact that Michael Showalter won't go on a date with me) suck more than encountering the boring shitbox sort of people who try to make you feel guilty about your pride. That garbage makes me wrathful; it's so obvs they're only envious. They really need to go take a chill pill (smoke weed) and sloth the Helter Skelter out.
So: yellow and black. Oddly enough, every time I, or anybody else, wear(s) yellow and black, I am above all else reminded of how once upon a time in 197something, a young Englishman named Gordon Sumner performed in a band called the Phoenix Jazzmen and had to wear a yellow and black striped sweater. His "mates" thereby christened him "Sting" (4 LYFE) and the rest, my dears, is history. That's an aside.
Pride. I have a lot of it, apparently too much (according to shitboxes). However, after today, I can safely state, not just for the record but for The Record, that you cannot know pride until you have walked through a suburban shopping mall on a Friday evening whilst wearing, I mean rocking, a yellow jumpsuit. It is most likely a surplus of pride in my character that explains why I feel so much awesome-er on days when I wear some avant-wack piece of nonsense as opposed to an LJ Classick. I'm sure any psychotherapist worth her salt could think of a squillion theories about how I feel validated by igniting controversy, am debilitated by my "me vs. the world" compex, have awkward taste in jumpsuits, etc.
Oh, go to Hell, Hypothetical Psychotherapist and the Drells! Go psychoanalyze someone your own size. I am more than satisfied using my wardrobe as a tool towards social "out-castration". I'm PROUD to be a cocky little shit- JEALOUS????
Day 48 (09.20.08)- LUST: ecruey-pink negligee top; white wifebeater (2 wifebeaters left!!!); True Religion cut-offs; knee-high lace-up Frye boots; wishbone necklace
Unless you are a crack addict, it is categorically impossible to look slutty and scrappy at the same time.
I wrote that sentence about seven hours ago, and ever since, have been paranoiacally obsessing over whether or not I look like a crack addict. Do I? DO I???
Well, I'm not. Okay?
Today was an Indian Summer day. I changed from gluttony into lust midday, capitalizing on the warmth. I am scrawling this into the last pages of my notebook with the goat on the cover (my "goatbook") while sitting with two of my all-time best friends who I have known for TEN YEARS!!! I just realized that. Who the fuck gives a fucking fuck what the fuck I'm fucking wearing?
PS: I am wearing my wishbone necklace because it has the word BONE in it. Just kidding! I'm wearing it because my grandmother gave it to me, and I saw her today. Aren't I weird???
PPS: I initially wanted Lust Day to fall upon a Sunday so I could name the day Sunday Slutty Sunday, then I realized I could say it either way- best of both worlds!
Day 49 (09.21.08)- GLUTTONY (kind of): grey American Eagle Awesome longjohns; red American Apparel longsleeve; Chicago Cubs t-shirt
Take it from me, the only person on Earth who knows it: gluttony is a really tough concept to embody. I worked really hard on the UFC this week; too hard, some might say. Get a life, some might say. Either way: fuck it. Gluttoning out is all about indulgence, so I indulged myself today. I indulged myself in slacking off about perfectionistically articulating Gluttony through the "media" of two t-shirts and a pair of jeans. There. That's what I did. I guess I'm just a big, lazy, gluttony galoof.
I guess this outfit, I mean non-outfit, is sort of along the lines of something some grotty Midwestern dude would wear whilst watching the game and binge-eating a bucket of KFC. Speaking of nasty dudes, I really need to put this out there:
It is incredibly annoying how every single time I ever wear a t-shirt advertising a sports team, some red-faced Normie dude in his mid-forties will inevitably come up to me in line at the grocery store or whatever and challenge me about the goodness of the team. God, red-faced Normie dudes! Don't you understand the concept of scrappy-chic? EUUGHHH!!!
I thought that the UFC might motivate me to clean up my act and cool it on the pack-ratting tip, maybe even- gasp!- get rid of some stuff! But nope. I love my dumb shitty clothes more than ever.
They are all my babies.
7 AND 7 IS.
Tags: American Eagle Awesome, avant-wack, Cher Horowitz, hella conceptual, Hieronymus Bosch, I hate my generation, Kermit the Frog is a baby, Laura loves The Beatles, Leighton Meester, Liverpool, Michael Showalter, objectivity, ornithophobia, Real Men Drink Sazeracs, school uniforms, Seven Deadly Sins, sinning, Sting, taurine troubles, The Sazerac of Outfits, Ultimate Fashion Challenge
Share | | | |