Showing posts with label Fashion Fads. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fashion Fads. Show all posts

Monday, April 20, 2009

Doc Martens

Who wouldn't get in line to purchase overpriced footwear once associated with skinheads and gangs of the 1960s and 70s? There's nothing like taking a ripe piece of subculture and mainstreaming it to the popular kids. How exactly the Doc Martens people ever convinced hordes of Abercrombie-wearing, gum-chewing, Backstreet Boy CD-purchasing teenyboppers that these grungy workboots were the height of cool is a mystery best left to professionals. There was clearly a force bigger than all of us urging all of these head cheerleaders and lacrosse team captains to beg their parents to shell out for these pricey shoes.

It may be fair to theorize that the rise of Doc Martens fell somewhat in step with the rise of grunge culture, but it's also relatively safe to say that many of the middle schoolers sporting Doc Martens in the mid-90s didn't know Kurt Cobain from Adam. It would be easy to shove the blame for this trend onto a reputable cultural phenomenon, but the horrifying truth was that these clunky shoes had a following entirely separate from their initial 90s grunge roots. No, many of these kids actually had the gall to like these shoes on alleged merit alone. To many of us, there was nothing sexier than seeing a potential mate clomping around in a charming pair of 12-pound clunky rubber-soled boots or sandals.

Truthfully, Doc Martens' popularity crested at the point of contact between grunge chic and preppy Clueless-style fashion. Lost and confused, we were eager to fit in but perplexed by the wide range of wardrobe trends to which we could feasibly subscribe. Like a deer in the headlights, many were so blinded to fit in that they were willing to forsake principles in their fashion choices and don a mishmosh of incongruous trends. Thankfully, Doc Martens were also available in styles I like to refer to as "Doc Marten Lite." This set of equally cumbersome but less counter-culture-esque footwear included sandals, mary janes, and ordinary-model shoes in lieu of the more in-your-face, take-that-authority style boots. It was as if kids were saying, I like the idea of these badass shoes but I also am concerned about completing homework assignments in full and not arriving tardy to homeroom.

In a time where name brands were king and no brand emblazonment was too brazen or tasteless, Doc Martens neatly filled a void in the shoe department with its easily recognizable signature stitching. The truly punk-rock or grunge among us liked these shoes for what they stood for, but the more shallower (read: the majority) of teens wore these because they were hopelessly lemming-like and wanted everyone to know exactly what brands they were sporting. There were countless imitation DMs on the market, but none of them could achieve that glorious undeserved sense of self-worth achieved by having a pair of shoes with thick yellow stitching just above the soles. Mainstream kids could breathe a sigh of relief that their yellow-stitched stompers would not go unnoticed.


These shoes weren't exactly cheap, either. Many of us were forced to deliver formal presentations to our parents convincing them of the merits of shelling out over a hundred bucks a pop for these babies*. Our in vogue classmates often had more than one pair so as to give their loud foot-stepping some visual variety, so parents came to know these shoes as a steep monetary endeavor. You could claim all you wanted that this was an investment and that you would wear them forever, but I challenge you to find more than a handful of 90s children who can recall the fate of their once-beloved Doc Martens.

Doc Martens weren't just iconic in the 90s for their presence, but for the inexplicable ways in which their bizarre trend was manifest on adolescent feet nationwide. One of the most curious exhibitions of Doc Martenry was the odddly sought-after socks-and-DM-sandals look. While just a few years ago we may have chastised our fathers on vacation for sporting a similar look to match their fanny pack and passport holder necklace, this look was suddenly all the rage. We're not just talking any socks here, either. No, the fashion-conscious knew it was specifically white socks--that is to say, those most closely tied to the dreaded tourist-father-with-straight-bill-baseball-cap look--that made you a genuine style maven.

While the shoes were certainly comfortable and functional (aside from the inevitable drag associated with carrying the equivalent of two-ton bricks on each foot), they could not remain in the fashion spotlight forever. Much to the I-told-you-so style castigations of our parents, so too did this trend eventually end up lost somewhere in the back of our closets next to the piles of plaid skorts and convenient 43-pocket cargo shorts. For those of you lucky enough to have preserved your shoes properly (if like me, your shoe store threw in a free tin of Doc Marten shoe shine balm!) there is still hope yet that these shoes will live to see another day outside the circle of gardeners and neo-Nazis who favor them today.

Quirky-styled supermodel Agyness Deyn has been seen all about town sporting these old standards, poising them for a comeback. For those of you who have been eagerly anticipating the second coming of these shoes (in your lifetime, at least), you may just be in luck.



Then again, she's also sporting white leggings, a sweater miniskirt, giant blue hair bow, and leather-and-shearling coat complete with multiple non-functional belts, so this trend may not quite be ready for the masses yet. Lucky for you, there may still be time for you yet to recover your old Docs.

But this time, let's lose the socks.





*Was this really just me? Because I must say I had some pretty penetrating pie charts.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Body Glitter


Many people are slaves to fashion. They will blindly follow the trends presented to them as the height of attractiveness, regardless of the actual appeal. Or at least, one can only assume they do it blindly. There's not much of an excuse for those of us with fully functional vision to jump on the bandwagon.

Body Glitter is a prime example of this lemming-style following. We sheepishly (yes, sheepishly) look back at our complete lack of individuality and low sense of self as we wince and grimace over old photos of us sporting the most absurd of fashion statements. It was so obviously unbecoming, unsubtle, and unsightly, but we begged our parents to buy us great pots of the glittery goop nonetheless. We weren't picky about its form; it could be semi-gelatinous or congealed, liquid or solid, roll-on or spray mist, lip gloss or nail polish. If it sparkled, we were desperate to get our hands on it.

Not even top 90s teen celebrities were immune to the allure of slathering their stomachs in glitter

For young girls growing up in the 1990s, glitter was like a broad-point neon highlighter. We assumed that if there was something we wanted to call attention to, the only viable solution was to douse it in sparkles. How were middle school boys ever going to notice your stunningly feminine clavicle bones if not for carefully calculated application of glitter to that area? How, I ask you?

The glitter was ubiquitous. If there was some appreciably visible surface on our bodies, it was subsequently slathered in glitter. No bodily territory was sacred. We didn't so much treat our bodies as temples but as fun-houses. Cosmetic companies produced all fathomable forms of the stuff. You could paint it on your nails, gloss it on your lips, smear it across your chest and shoulders, or even spray or comb it into your hair. If there was an area you wanted glittered, cosmetic companies were eager to oblige and feed our frenzied desire to ensparkle every inch of ourselves.

Makeup companies like Hard Candy and Urban Decay capitalized on our vulnerability to sweeping trends and presented us with an unending array of glitterizers. They knew we were eager to indiscriminately smear glitter all over our faces, and they were properly prepared with plenty of sparkly ammunition.

Hard Candy supplied us with sugary-sweet candy-colored glittery nail polishes with names like Sunshine and Sky.


In contrast, Urban Decay provided us with an endless palette of of shimmery eye shadows with such charming designations as Asphyxia and Acid Rain.


Oddly, these companies marketed to the same demographic and we consumed them both with little thought of subscribing to two absolutely incongruous cosmetic-producing forces. As middle schoolers, we weren't much for irony. It is pertinent to mention that these companies are now owned by the same parent corporation, presumably stuck together with all the remaining mucilaginous glitter residue in their respective R & D departments.

With respect to our aimless glitter consumption, the problem was not so much in the shimmering. Sure, it can be nice to bring focus to some key areas through the subtle use of mainstream cosmetics. However, as sixth graders, we lacked this global perspective on socially acceptable makeup and instead sought out more age-appropriate incarnations of our earlier childhood EZ-2-do bedazzlers. It seemed harmless enough. What was the worst that could happen? So we sparkled for a few hours, and then we could rinse it off.

Or so we thought.

There's one serious problem with glitter that middle school girls of the 90s failed to foresee.

It. Never. Washes. Off.

Seriously. Never. If you don't believe me, consult Demetri Martin and/or this t-shirt (available here):


It never washes off.

It does, however, behave in some other notably unfortunate ways. I'm not sure if you're aware, but bodies tend to sweat, especially when thrust into a mid-90s rave-type setting (before they were all busted by Dateline NBC, that is.) While 250 young girls are out in some abandoned warehouse taking ecstasy, listening to techno music, and waving glow sticks, the carefully preapplied sparkles at the corners of their eyes and on their shoulders are beginning to gelatinize. There was no more disgusting visual as curdled, clumpy body glitter. Fortunately for the precendent ravers, they were fortuitously swathed in the incessant flash of strobe lights. Less lucky for us girls caught in such a dilemma at say, a bar mitzvah party or a junior high dance, where we were decidedly SOL under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the synagogue auditorium or school cafeteria.

Despite our knowledge of the semi-permanent consequences, we pressed on in our quests to out-sparkle our peers. While "body glitter" is a fairly unobjectionable blanket term, some of the products housed under that broad umbrella were downright revolting. Those of us with the most minor of flairs for subtlety would opt for a tub of glitter gel or a misting glitter body spray, but the major attention seekers in our 7th grade classes were blatantly envelope-pushing. They would paint it on their nails, only to realize they would remain in that fossilized form for years to come. These girls weren't content with shimmering Bonne Bell Lipsmackers like the rest of us; they had to resort to full on chunks-of-glitter in their lipsticks. They were also the targets of one of the more loathsome and confusing products to be launched by mid-90s cosmetic corporations.

Say it with me now: glitter hair mascara.


But wait, you say. Isn't mascara for eyelashes? What on earth is it doing in your hair?

Well, we were wondering the same thing. Unfortunately for us, our impressionability to peer pressure at that age left us powerless to stop this force. Yes, we dutifully combed glitter into our hair, only to find ourselves completely and utterly cemented to our pillows the next morning. But dammit, did our hair sparkle.

Whether you were a glitter dabbler or devotee, one thing was for certain: if you chose to apply it to your body, you were in for the long haul. As chemists project the glitter to have a 10 year half-life*, you're probably still scrubbing yourself raw in an effort to remove it.

Of course you're not alone. You can seek help here, here, or here, though there are no guarantees.

And if that doesn't work, well, you'll always have your sparkling memories firmly adhered to your cheekbones.


*This scientific fact is completely made up. Get it? Made-up? Makeup? Okay, fine, don't come along with me for that one. Either way, it's not true.




Check it out:

A website fully devoted to the sale of all things body glitter
The ultimate horror: a make your own body glitter kit

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Zubaz



Some fashion trends are enigmatic. They are not particularly attractive or flattering, nor do they serve out their calculated functionality in any reasonable capacity. In fact, these trends conceivably exist with the sole goal of making the wearer a walking target of unmericful mockery and public shaming.

Zubaz were one of these trends. Was one of these trends? What's the grammatical status of Zubaz? I assume by sound alone that the word Zubaz is plural, but I could be wrong. The mere thought that anyone would want to refer to this god-awful alleged fashion statement in the plural is beyond me. Owning one pair was bad enough.

In short (or long, both versions were pretty bad), Zubaz were ridiculous. In their inception, they were potentially in some way tied to a plausibly justifiable function. A group of steroid-crazed (I have no evidence, but this must be the only explanation) Minnesota bodybuilders got together and pondered to one another about the stretchability and breathability of the current athletic shorts on the market. Nothing quite seemed to give them that certain something that they were looking for. "These seem rather quiet," They thought. "They need to make more of a statement. Something that says, I drink a pallet of Mountain Dew 2-liters a day and take my old lady to monster truck shows for our anniversary. Oh yeah, and that my excessive commitment to weight training has made me and my anterior thigh muscles too physically robust to keep from bursting from any available sports pant."

These were, of course, semi-legitimate concerns. The weight lifting one, at least. The original intention of Zubaz was to capture a niche market of bodybuilders whose propensity for squat thrusts led to innumerable pants-splitting incidents. I will cede this point to the Zubaz guys and give them at least a marginal window of light in the dark shadow of doubt that these pants were originally produced with good intentions.

Little did they know what was to come.

Have I gotten to the part yet about how these pants were designed in outlandish patterns and flamboyant colors? I should probably have mentioned that earlier on, but I was distracted from the acidic ocular reaction from viewing the above photo. Yes, Zubaz wearers weren't content with their clothes merely being comfortable; they had to be resplendent in neon green zebra print as well. The shape of the pants was sort of a toned-down Hammer Pant, but what they lost in volume they compensated for in pattern and color selection. In the likely case that your mental picture remains hazy from damage done to your brain's visual receptors in trying to recapture the image of these pants, here is a little refresher in the form of a Zubaz fashion show:



That's right, nothing says manly like strutting your stuff to a Suzanne Vega song while wearing a purple windbreaker. For some reason beyond probable explanation, these pants caught on in a big way. This ostentatious legwear still held its athletic appeal, however, and mainly catered to a sports crowd. The sadists at Zubaz manufactured licensed sports team merchandise complete with wild patterns and flashy logos:



The brand even had a brief stint in the professional athletic team uniform arena, though it was thankfully short-lived. Teams like the Tampa Bay Storm were forced to go out onto the field looking a little something like this:


Or worse, this:


(Okay, so maybe that last one isn't an actual professional sports team, but it was a 90s Zubaz ad)

Embarrassing, yes. But that's not all! The Zubaz brand story does not die with the crest and fall of a great (though questionably zebra-striped fashioned) decade. Just when we thought it was safe to leave the house without running into someone dressed suspiciously identical to a stick of Fruit Stripe gum, things took a turn. I'm not quite sure how to break it to you, so I guess I should just come out with it.

I regret to inform you that I bring you this blog in the wake of a terrible tragedy. An announcement has been made, and nothing we can do can stop these people. They're unrelenting in their quest for global zebra-striped pant domination. They are clearly out of their minds, and they are on an inexplicable mission to refill the world with loud, clamoring neon patterns and unflattering tapered elastic-banded legs. Yes, that's right. I said refill.

Zubaz are back.




For a company whose slogan was once "Dare to be Different", this new line seems suspiciously familiar. I think I speak for the majority when I say that we wish the people at Zubaz were a bit better at taking their own advice for this second go-round. Their new slogan may be one of the more frightening and untimely statements I've heard in a long time.

"We're Back."



Venture if you dare:
The new Zubaz website

Monday, March 16, 2009

JNCO Jeans


What could possibly be more flattering than looking like you were standing in two giant logo-emblazoned, hem-dragging overturned denim buckets? No one seemed to bat an eye over the fact that each pant leg could easily house a family of four. JNCO jeans epitomized the rise of the pseudo-"street" poseur movement so beloved by 1990s middle class white kids. Their idea of the mean streets may have been a lemonade stand that refused to accept credit cards, but they could rock a mean pair of ultra wide-leg jeans.

With charming style names like "Mammoth" and "Fatboy," who could resist these grotesquely wide dungarees? The most offending specimens featured a whopping 50'' leg opening measurement, compared to the average 20-some inch leg openings on men's pants today. JNCO jeans also featured mutantly large back pockets that engulfed nearly the entire length of the pants:

JNCO jeans were a prime example of middle-aged marketing teams capitalizing on the 1990s-era growth of youth consumer buying power. With (oversized) pocket money to spare, kids of the 90s were a rapidly growing demographic over whose newfound purchasing power hungry marketers fought viciously. Ad executives spent a great deal of money convincing young people that JNCO jeans were emblematic of their unique sense of youth countercultural rebellion. In the mid-to-late 1990s, the JNCO brand claimed to "deliver[...] the hippest denim jeans and phat styles to satisfy the demands of even the most hardcore hip-hop, skater and music oriented sub-cultures." What, are you trying to telling me this wasn't written by real, live 1990s youths? But they spelled phat with a p-h! And they know of our desire to be "hardcore!" How did the JNCO ad team ever crack our cryptic youth slang code?

The brand epitomized the rising awareness amongst marketers of poseur skater culture. Suddenly, all it took was a pair of obscenely wide-leg jeans to brand oneself to a supposed teen subculture. Parents hated the tacky embroidered logos and the inevitable ratty,ragged hems resultant of the pant legs constantly dragging on the ground; their insistent disapproval encouraged young people that these pants were indeed an affront to the Man, despite the fact that He was the one producing them. The JNCO brand struck a chord with young clothing consumers, particularly with the company's comic-book magazine ad spreads featuring real-life JNCO jeans-wearing models in cartoon settings. Though the brand was originally formulated as a men's and boy's line, JNCO later added a women's line featuring similarly unfortunate wide-legged styles. These were equal opportunity jeans: determined to unflatter any and every type of figure, male or female.

The immense popularity of JNCOs proves that the 1990s were less about looking good and more about fitting in. Never before had an alleged subculture been so carefully calculated by the Man. No longer were our counter-culture trends originating from idealistic hippies or bitter Generation-X musicians. Rather, children of the 1990s unknowingly began to increasingly rely on grown-ups to dictate their trends. The definition of "cool" was more and more frequently prescribed by a group of adult business professionals sitting around a boardroom table. Young people seemed oblivious to the fact that badges of counterculture by definition should not cost $60 a pop. The tide of trend-setting was changing, and the Man was at the helm.

Nevertheless, JNCO jeans represented a paradigmatic shift in the way young people defined themselves. Suddenly, you did not have to believe in or even particularly care about anything particular to associate yourself with alternative youth culture. You could actually buy your way into tween-age rebellion in a way that was antithetical to all past counter-cultural norms. All it took was a willingness to be engulfed by enormous pants.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Slap Bracelets


Violence as fashion. It's a novel concept, or at least it was in the early nineties. Imagine, never again having to deal with the insurmountable challenges of securing a traditional bracelet to your wrist! Despite the fact that slap bracelets served no practical purpose and actually caused a moderately tragic number of injuries, we consumed them all the same. Slap bracelets were beloved by children and teenagers not just for their fashion credentials but also for the perceived danger we were warned of by parents and teachers. Slap bracelets may have seemed like the most minor type of rebellion, but they possessed the unmatchable allure of the forbidden fruit.

School principals sent strongly-worded letters home with students, urging parents to restrain their children from coming to school armed with these spring-loaded metal-lined deathtraps. The cheap cloth cover often strained under the force of the metal beneath it, poking out in an admittedly dangerous fashion. However, we weren't about to side with The Man and agree to the ban. We were passionate about our right to wear our day-glo green and zebra-striped wrist weapons, regardless of rampant urban legend-based rumors warning of slit wrists and burst arteries.

Slap bracelets were so much more than tacky arm candy. They worked as catapults, slingshots, and all-purpose weapons. And how cool to slap on a bracelet with a satisfying smack! There were endless ways to work these babies. Four at a time! Long-distance slapping! We just couldn't resist. Sitting there in class, how could you just leave this mind-bogglingly entertaining device to lay dormant? So it would be crack (flatten), smack! (slap on), over and over again until you'd earned yourself a trip to the time-out corner.

Slap bracelets have made a few minor comebacks in the last decade, but nothing on par with their original popularity. Stripping these delightful devices of their contraband qualities, slap bracelets became plastic-spring laden, pvc coated advertising devices. Sure, we were willing to acquiesce a bit in our day...give us a dinosaur slap bracelet with ruler markings down the side and we'll concede to its minor educational value. These days, slap bracelets are being used as cheap ploys to encourage kids to wear some company's logo around like a walking (gesturing?) wrist billboard. There's even been word of physics teachers using slap bracelets to teach functions of potential energy curves and states of stability, but it's almost too frightening to verify.

So let us remember slap bracelets as they were, before the world insisted on infusing some sort of subliminality to their existence: violent, neon-hued, and pure wrist-smacking fun.

Check it out:
The dark side of a slap-happy fad
US consumer panel warns of injury from slap bracelets

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