Fashion Canada

Chèr M. Arnault,

You strike me as a rational person, yet a story I read today in WWD (sorry, no link as they are stingy with their internet presence) regarding the rumors involving Marc Jacobs and the House of Dior leave me wondering if I have given you too much in the doubt-benefit department.  You can’t possibly be seriously thinking of handing the label over to Captain Lucky.

I believe that someone switched your morning Wheaties for a pot cookie.  It’s really the only explanation I can come up with.

If I could think of the equivalent of saying that I was moving to Canada when whichever Presidential candidate I was backing lost in a landslide, then that is exactly what I will do if you let Marc Jacobs take over Dior.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept of talent?  Allow me to reassure you that Mr. Jacobs possesses none.  Mr. Galliano, flawed human though he may be, is a genius worthy of designing for the house of Dior.  Mr. Jacobs will send me and many others with eyeballs to fashion Canada, which, come to think of it, is probably located in Canada.

So, please, I beg you.  Do not hire Marc Jacobs to ruin Dior.  Because you know that’s what he’ll do.  He will bring in the frump and if Dior is about anything, it does not rhyme with Donald Trump.

Thanks and have a great rest of your summer.

Your friend,



Wherein I Discover the Existence of the Humilitard

I have never watched even a minute of Big Brother, but before you go commending me for my highbrow tastes please do not forget that I have watched every single second of Jersey Shore so I probably shouldn’t start bragging anytime soon about how erudite I am.

So yesterday when my old pal Mike Funes, he of 5th grade fan club fame (several of us future Gloria Steinems had a fan club for him complete with theme song sung to the Oscar Mayer Weiner tune.  Take that, feminism!) informed me of the existence of the “humilitard” to say my curiosity was piqued would be the understatement of yesterday and possibly even today.

Mike knows I like a onesie.  I mean I don’t keep it on the DL or anything—I will wear a jumpsuit over just about any other clothing choice and even found myself wondering where the blonde girl on Celebrity Rehab gets all of those weird teletubby rompers she wears every single day.  See—I watch lots of crap, just apparently not Big Brother.

But back to the humilitard.  From what I can tell, a blonde girl on the show must have done something stupid which warranted her being sentenced to wearing something dubbed the humilitard.  The name held lots of promise for me.  I was envisioning something like Borat wore to the beach or maybe some sort of modest cut flesh toned Danskin.  Instead when I googled the shit out of humilitard I found something a little closer to Will Ferrell’s costume from Elf.  Elf is a seriously awesome movie, btw and placing it in the context of the humilitard makes me feel dirty.

So anywhosit, rather than make me want to actually watch Big Brother and find out what happens to the Kewpie Doll in the “I’m Stupid/Kick Me/Propeller Hat” outfit, the humilitard has instead propelled (ha! see what I did there?) me to imagine some humilitards of my own.

In fact, I’m thinking of designing one for each original member of the Mike Funes Fan Club.  Anyone know where I can find Lynn Furst or Lisa Youngquist?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  You’re only as good as your Facebook connections, Doran.  So in the absence of all original members of MFFC I will, I suppose, have to wear the humilitard myself.

The nice people from Pajama Jeans sent me a pair of those…maybe I’ll start there and sew a bedazzled bodysuit into them.  Oh, man.  I’m gonna be rich!  I’ll call it the PajamaTard®.

Red Sole Blues

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues, so sayeth St. Bowie.  What of today’s ruling by the big bad judge in New York, which says that Louboutin can’t prevent the rest of the world from making their shoes with red soles?  Seriously?  This is a topic of discussion for anyone in a world where the stock market has just wiped out all disposable income that would have been spent on shoes, red soled or otherwise?

Priorities, people.  Depression chic.  It’s a coming.  Get used to it.

I understand trying to protect your big ideas, but red soles are a big idea?  If anything, the red sole is ingrained in a certain shallow mind as standing for Christian Louboutin (the same sort of shallow mind that likes SATC and those horrible cupcakes from Magnolia).  So I would figure the more shoes out there with red soles, the more people will think that everyone is wearing your shoes, Chris.  Do you mind if I call you Chris?

I’m going to let you in on one of the really big secrets of branding.  You WANT everyone to use your name as a default.  Here’s an example or two.  Say you have a copy machine in your office and it’s made by Ricoh.  Do you call it the Ricoh machine?  You certainly do not.  You call it the Xerox machine.  Or let’s say you need to blow your nose.  Do you reach for a Puffs?  No, you do not.  You clear your nasal passages on a Kleenex regardless if the box says Costco or Hermes on the outside.  Now, I get that people aren’t going to start calling all shoes Louboutins, but the red sole is going to have them thinking “Louboutin” in their mind when they see them.  And that is not a bad thing.

So Chris, for the love of Pete, will you stop wasting the good court’s time with your frivolousness and get to work making J Lo some new shoes sturdy enough to support that enormous wig she’s got on her head?  She’s got to look pretty for the karaoke contest she’s judging on the telly. Plus now that’s she’s kicked the Latin Steve Buscemi to the curb, she’s more than likely going to be out on the prowl wearing…you guessed it—her red soled Payless pumps.

All the J Lo chitter aside, now that no one save the richest of the rich will ever be able to afford a pair of designer shoes again, I’m kind of looking forward to faking it in a pair of red soled Cobbie Cuddlers while I watch the rest of my money vanish into thin air.  Maybe I’ll get me a cupcake to ease my pain.