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Fresh off my informal writing sabbatical in which I 1) quit my day job and 2) reformulated my life, I present an informal relaunch, plus recap on the self-effacing, cynical fashion criticism we left off on, because I missed initial contribution to both #normcore and that Kimye Vogue cover, and I’ve really genuinely pined after that unique self-employed opportunity to brush Uncle Eddy’s vegan cookie crumbs off my keyboard while sifting through eBay “research.” So without further ado, a recap on my recent freelance gigs: a taste of sheep-loathing, from “On Dressing Like a Blacksmith and Losing My Head“:

“So why do we give in to the illusion, to the mask, the magic of it all, when we know it’s all a game of smoke and mirrors? At the end of the day, let’s be real: they’re clothes, and they’re replaceable, and, hello, they’re clothes. Most fashion is ultimately ridiculous, like most art, because we’re all biased hypocrites with bones to chew and nothing is not up for interpretation. The danger, then, lies in our own disability to separate the allure of a designer’s vision from what the clothes really are, attempting to fit into someone else’s box, no matter how rebellious a visionary or obscure a creator. An eye singular to the glory of one designer, regardless of their brilliance, still denotes conformity, and more often then not, is blind loyalty disguised as vision. A sheep is a sheep, sometimes just more expensively- and foolishly- outfitted.”

And, pop quiz, because Dover Street Market, ie Mecca, opened in Kips Bay and New York retail will never be the same:

“Do you fetishize childhood? Further, does that childhood fetishize you, by which you then follow up with literal fetish wear? Do you value your remarkable knack for dressing like the antagonist in a Japanese horror film above the need to budget for food every month?”

Also, a word on mom jeans, which was then reprinted at xoJane, where one commenter’s attempt at an insult was that I write like David Foster Wallace circa high school, and another’s that their cat could write better than I- to whom I ask, apparently I need another editor, so send her my way?

“Unconventional, off-putting, and universally despised, mom jeans–as they are colloquially known–are actually not, in fact, your mother’s jeans. They are Miss Understood, the gluten of the denim world, the loner babe who spends prom without a date, but with her Bonnebell and a cherry-flavored lollipop, underage at the neighborhood bar.”

Catch up on all my work for the Style Con here.

[Photo 1] Bjork, Spaghetti Nero, Venice 2007, by Juergen Teller [2] President Obama by paparazzi.