I know I’m late but the Exegesis must go on, so here we go. As usual, the show was a boring waste of time but let me say that the ONLY thing I wanted was for Lady Gaga not to win. Sometimes a negative wish is enough to encourage a sense of involvement, right? And I stand before you a happy camper.

Why the animosity toward Lady Gaga? I just can’t stand her. But I think I have crystallized my revulsion for her with this insight: She is too needy. Her neediness makes me anxious, and it reminds me (subconsciously) of my own neediness, which I can’t face. Okay?

Anyway, her loss was my gain. Likewise, I enjoyed (i.e., hated) the sight of Bradley Cooper as Colonel Sanders, with his girlfriend du jour, a Russian prostitute/model.  I liked Nicole Kidman‘s fillers, while I disliked whatever Charlize has done with her face.

Taylor Swift‘s surprise appearance was like the Wicked Witch in Show White. When Idris “Please have sex with me!” Elba told Taylor that she was looking good, she replied “Thank you.” WHAT ABOUT “YOU TOO,” TAYLOR? ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? Maybe she just has no manners.

Olivia Coleman was by far the most charming winner, just as she is the best actress alive. She can do no wrong. Go and watch all her movies and British dramas if you don’t believe me. Alfonso Cuarón was another deserving winner who exhibited unusual modesty in a sea of gushy idiots still telling Liam and Isabella to go to sleep.

Catherine Zeta-Jones was the winner of my Most Well-Preserved award, with Jamie Leigh Curtis taking the coveted Most Badly Aging prize. Patricia Arquette was amazing in her role of a lowlife prison guard in Escape at Dannemora, but her boobs were truly disturbing as they tried to explode in her face.

Regina King looked gorgeous and gave a delightfully joyous acceptance speech. Mahershala Ali looked inexplicably sad. Don’t be sad, Mahershala, we love you!

Why did the Versace series keep winning when it was such a trashy piece of shit? Anyone?

Most incandescently beautiful was Saoirse Ronan in a Gucci dress that revealed her perfect satiny skin. I will be her in my next life.

That cute guy whatsisname who everyone loves. Chalmet or something? He took the prize for most daringly queer beaded halter over a black on black outfit. But Billy Porter was by far the most glamorous man on the red carpet or anywhere else.

God, just kill me. It’s too boring to relive. The show ended on a high note, with Gaga getting snubbed beyond my wildest dreams. Yay! Let me know what I left out. xoxo

Like every fashion-conscious consumer, I spend time every day scrolling through the latest arrivals at Matches, Net-a-Porter, ssense, Neiman Marcus, LL-CC and websites I’m too embarrassed to mention.  I consider the scrolling a duty, and a big success if I don’t want anything.

The trends I’m seeing lately fall into four categories. Logomania is by far the most offensive. We expect declarative logos from Gucci and Chanel, but now they’re everywhere, on everything. Fendi has gone all out, with it’s logo defacing nearly every item. Those Fendi F’s were never exactly eye candy; now they’re a genuine blight.

Balenciaga, Lowe, Off-White, Kenzo, Helmut Lang, Martine Rose, Valentino, Vetements, even the famously nondescript A.P.C. is getting in on this. You won’t have to wait till next year for people to feel sorry for you if you invest now in an ugly Balenciaga bag with the word BALENCIAGA slapped across it in block letters.

Remember how at one point, we all agreed it was stupid to be a human billboard for brands? Sports brands were the exception, like Adidas crowns and stripes. Fashionable people shunned logos as vulgar, while the aspirational (i.e., middle class) shopper continued to long for a real or fake Louis Vuitton bag to prove their social standing and discretionary income.

Today, according to Emily Gordon-Smith, head of fashion at research consultancy Stylus, the key word behind the Logomania craze is “irreverence.” She thinks that people who buy into this trend are doing it ironically. On the other hand, designer Martine Rose insists her use of logos is “post-ironic.” Whatever the excuse is, this trend needs to stop. I think I speak for every non-It-Girl when I say that if I need to know what brand you’re wearing, I’ll ask you.

Also having a long moment is the Sisterwife look, sometimes described as a “prairie” look by style editors trying to persuade you to buy cowboy boots. High necks, long skirts, and ruffles add up to a self-conscious schoolmarm effect that would be cute at a butter-churning party but has no place on a city street. I mean, fine, it’s your choice, but it’s the opposite of chic, if that matters to you.  Just take it away for fucksake!

Saint Laurent is pushing its signature prostitute look, but even more aggressively than usual in its leather hotpants worn with thigh-high boots. Attico is climbing on board the hooker wagon with some feathered mini dresses that barely cover the butt. Balmain is sticking with garish leopard print and sequined mini’s whose plunging necklines drive home the sex-for-sale aesthetic. Even Christopher Kane has succumbed with trashy-looking velvet mini’s for evening-wear.

Finally, we have those big shaggy coats that keep coming back to haunt us, but this year it’s less groupie than Bigfoot. “Fun” colors and raggedy textures seem to be saying, “Just kidding!” and to signify faux fur to the vegans among us. But some brands are sticking with fur, like oversized shearling jackets with quirky buttons or trimmings to counter the old-school glamour of  wearing dead animals. Look for Givenchy‘s “voluminous” chevron-pattern fake fur to be knocked off by Topshop et al. in the next ten minutes.

Other trends like menswear suits and plaid mash-ups will be asserting themselves, and luxury brand street-wear will be ever-present until someone makes it illegal, but the four fads I’ve focused on are the ones to avoid (or indulge in, as the case may be) as you consider your style options. Remember: More is more except when it’s already too much.

Let’s say you’re going out and you put on a long coat. You know how you always wish that somehow people could see through it? Even if it was just a window to show your waist and hips? This denim coat by Bless is the answer!!! A vinyl section all around the middle will make you glad you skipped breakfast and lunch. $1,050 and available only in size small.

For warmer weather, how about some shorts?

Why wear regular denim cut-offs when for just a bit more money, you can get a pair of shorts that have been chewed by teething babies in Sri Lanka? All your friends will think you’ve had these for years and years, and they will fucking love you for it.  $365 by R13.

Boots are really In now, especially high ones.

Don’t laugh.

These Balmain boots cost $2,950 even if they look like something you would turn down for $20 at Prostitutes ‘R Us. They have all the bells and whistles, including the sexy and practical open-toe. Pleeeeeeeeease get them, somebody.

How great would it be to wear the boots with this skirt???

Why choose between denim and leather when you can have both? Alexander Wang is so desperate, I mean inventive, that he’s created a hybrid for just $995. Size large and X-large are sold out,  because who could rock this better than a full figured gal?

I know you’d rather have an Oscars Exegesis but I don’t want to think about it tonight. I will get to it, and the key word will be *intersectional*.

There is no joy like the joy of awful denim, so let me joy in peace, alright?

Relax, this isn’t about Harvey Weinstein. I’ve already dealt with him here.

But since he’s still the Outrage du Jour, I commented on a Facebook thread about him by saying, “Why don’t these fat pigs just pay prostitutes instead of going around ruining people’s lives?” It was a rhetorical question but someone came back at me with something like, “Why do you want sex-workers to be mistreated? And what does body size have to do with this?”

Jesus! I will leave it to you to evaluate the self-righteous absurdity of that response.

I now realize that I will never, ever, be able to keep up with progressives. This makes me sad. Have they just gone too far or is it an age thing? Maybe I’m too old to learn the new rules. I think I even call my mailman “the mailman” instead of “the mail-carrier.”

I certainly think that Weinstein is a fat pig. So many predators and bullies are fat pigs! Here’s a collage that Max made for me, for a post I wrote in 2009.

I don’t see why we have to worry about fat-shaming our cultural villains, if they’re fat. We need to have some leeway with language or we won’t be able to speak at all. We old people especially have trouble with retrieving words and we shouldn’t be penalized for calling prostitutes prostitutes, for example.

Words are still a joy for me, even though they are evaporating from my memory bank in huge quantities. Today, when Obama staffer Alyssa Mastromonaco called Donald Trump a deranged animal, I felt a spark of joy, literally. I could feel my neural synapses light up and go ping.

Good call! I thought. And later, back to Facebook, I couldn’t stop laughing when a friend wrote:

My favorite pants right now are Eileen Fisher. Who even am I?

As long as I can still use and enjoy words, I will probably be able to put up with everything, including Harvey Weinstein. I’m just hoping we can quickly move on to the question of why that beautiful Marchesa woman married him, even if it’s gold-digger shaming.

I’ve noticed a new trend in shoes, and it’s perfect for these maddening times. Heels that make walking dangerous if not impossible are kind of Trumpian somehow. Stupid, irrational, and mean-spirited….they are everything but fat and psychotic, right??

The Saint Laurent pumps above are a good case in point. Notice that even though the brand has dropped the Yves from its company name, they’re using it for these heels. Like Trump, they’re flip-flopping on their stated ideals. How dumb would you need to be to buy these shoes?

What about these elephant heels? Why? Just tell me why. Stupid and awful JUST BECAUSE! No one needs to walk on an  elephant, just like no one needs to marry a Slovenian prostitute. To anyone who does either, I remind you that you get what you pay for.

This design isn’t new, but we haven’t had to see it in a while. I remember that Daphne Guinness knew how to walk in shoes like this. But I still don’t get it. Do you have to hop? Is there a thrill in feeling unstable? Again, notice the Trump metaphor.

All roads lead to Trump, I’m afraid. And by afraid, I mean afraid.

If I confessed to buying this Gucci jacket for $3,500 you might be horrified, but you might also feel envious and a little impressed.

It’s so cute! It’s sporty but luxurious, classic but quirky, it’s ineffably Gucci.

Actually it’s a cheap $35 fake that’s available at my local mall, in a shop that appears to cater to prostitutes and would-be prostitutes. Everything is sparkly and hideous, in a good way.

So now you’re probably disgusted by this jacket because, ew, it’s not real Gucci, it’s just worthless crap.

See how you are?

Here’s the real Gucci:

Why is it worth $3,465 more?

You could say it’s the quality but we know that’s not true.

In order to gain and to hold the esteem of men it is not sufficient merely to possess wealth or power. The wealth or power must be put in evidence, for esteem is awarded only on evidence.

—?Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class (1934 ed.), p. 36

Our clothes are still signifiers of wealth and class, even though any idiot with a credit card can own high-end consumer goods. And yet Gucci continues to exert its allure even though I know intellectually it’s just an overpriced brand with a brilliant ‘aspirational’ marketing campaign.

A million street-style pictures of girls decked out in Gucci have not been sufficient to ruin the allure, but it could happen.

I once longed for Chanel, and now it’s dead to me.

Is it better to want Gucci than to want Yeezy? Do brands have to matter? Don’t we know better?

Let me put it another way: Would you rather carry your shit in a paper bag than a bag by Michael Kors?

I hope we can all agree on that one!

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Okay so I bought this skirt online because it was reduced from a billion dollars to just a fraction of its original price, and because I loved its shimmery quality.

In real life, it’s even more shimmery, the thinnest silk lame but lined with cotton. Really, it’s the shit, you will just have to trust me on this.

The problem is, I love the way it’s styled here but I don’t have a sleeveless shirt like this and I have no imagination. None. I can’t think of one single way to wear the skirt and make it look casual and tomboyish instead of trashy or hookerish.

I don’t want to look like a prostitute, as I’ve noted here several times over the years.  I know this because I made a cyber-friend who pointed this out and told me all about his pathological girlfriends before disappearing back into the ethernet. ( Hi, Donald!)

If I don’t want to look like a prostitute, why do I keep buying clothes that warrant this caveat??

I have no idea, alright? Just help me figure out a top to wear. I already have pointy oxfords so I’m good in the shoe department. I even have them in silver!

If I wear the silver skirt with the silver shoes, will I look like a prostitute? Only answer that one after you find me a top.

Be specific and include links if you have em.

Thanks!

I’m not happy with mine either, and here’s why: The model above.

Just look at how skinny those legs are! Hmph, bad photoshopping, right? That’s what I told myself. But then, I accidentally started a video, and the skinny legs marched toward me confidently, even though their owner looks like a polio victim.

Now, we all know that our culture has screwed up our body image, and we know intellectually that legs this skinny aren’t desirable (or for most of us, attainable.) But after seeing enough images of bone-thin models, a normal-sized woman looks hefty.  Hefty and meaty.  Hefty and meaty and unworthy.

How are we supposed to even know what a normal leg looks like?  Personally, I only wear shorts at home, no matter how hot it gets. I may have run out in shorts to walk the dog, but in general, I don’t want to impose my legs on innocent bystanders. I wear a size 4, which is fairly small, but no way will I get my legs out and submit them to judgement. And I’m not thrilled about my lack of a waist.

No matter how many magazines print sanctimonious, preachy articles about eating disorders and the pressure to be unnaturally thin,  these images aren’t going anywhere. A couple of beautiful plump models will appear every so often, as if to prove there’s no bias in the fashion industry. But the ideal of a size-nothing body remains entrenched.

If you have a daughter, your work is cut out for you. Not only do you have all those pop singers writhing around like desperate prostitutes, you still have these fucking legs to deal with.

This year, it was all about Whitney Houston and Adele.

Poor Whitney, her death is a tragedy and a lesson in Don’t Do Drugs, but her version of “I Will always Love You” is still an abomination. Each ascending refrain is like a dental drill in your ear canal. Rest in Peace, girl.

L.L. Cool J was a boring host but I’d have sex with him if necessary. Bruno Mars gave a dynamic performance but the song was a mess. Rihanna writhed around like a prostitute, as usual. The Foo Fighters won an award for their bombastic rock anthem. Katy Perry looked crazy and sang a bitter break-up song. She did some kind of acrobatic thing, but all I can say is, She’s no Pink.

Fergie looked hideous beyond belief in a see-through day-glow dress. The guy who punched Rihanna won an award and thanked god most of all.   Nicki Minaj did a long  histrionic  act that made no sense and freaked me out. If you have any clue what it meant, let me know.

That awful Taylor Swift sang another song about a Mean Boyfriend and dressed like a farmgirl.

Lady Gaga was mercifully absent from the stage,   tricked out in a stupid pseudo-eccentric outfit with a veil and walking stick.   When Nicki Minag arrived with some guy in a Pope costume, she must have been furious.

Adele. Adele. Adele. Glorious in every way, she sang flawlessly and her hand motions killed it.   She is the most adorable person in the world. Karl Lagerfeld can kiss her ass.   She received a heartfelt standing ovation that seemed to say, Thank you so much for being a real singer and a class act!   Unlike Carrie Underwood, who ruined a duet with Tony Bennett.

Jennifer  Hudson had the job of paying tribute to Whitney Houston and ended her song when she couldn’t hit the high note.   Her skin was beautiful on my new Sony TV.

Paul McCartney proved that he won’t go away, ever. He ended his Beatles medley with a great guitar jam: Bruce Springsteen, Dave Grohl, and two other guys took turns on solos that reminded us of the days before auto-tune and pro-tools.

There it is! Did I forget anything?

On a rare night out with my husband, we drove to an independent bookshop where a guy we like was reading an excerpt from his new book. I felt tentatively hopeful. I almost never go out in the evening.  I was pleased to be doing something arty for a change.

We sat in the front row of chairs, since there weren’t many set up in the aisle at the back of the store. An affable guy read from his book about encounters on the bus. Then, the guy we came to see introduced himself and read a short chapter of a charming, offbeat memoir of his childhood in New York.

Another guy quickly replaced him and introduced himself. His name was Chris D. I should have been warned by that D.

He gazed at his shoes and began a rambling account of his various artistic endeavors:  He was involved in music for 20 years, he had written several unproduced screenplays, poems, and short stories. He noted that some of his stories were based on dreams. He introduced a story about a couple of  war veterans from Vietnam, describing their convoluted situation.

He began to read the worst piece of writing I have ever heard in my entire life. He read in a deep-voiced monotone. Some GI was shooting dope with a Vietnamese prostitute named “Lucky.” The dope-shooting was described in lurid, over-the-top detail.  Veins, blood, abscesses, verbs, more blood, adjectives, then sex. “They fell to the floor and fucked each others brains out.”

I stared at my hands and played with my hair. I wanted to kill that fucker. I imagined a question and answer period after the reading, where I would confront him with the question: “Are you a junkie or just a fucking idiot?”

He read for close to 30 minutes. No cliche escaped him: It was hackneyed melodrama, both dismal and pointless.

We left the second he stopped reading. Outside as we walked to the car, I exclaimed, “What a fucking motherfucker!” My husband agreed. He added that the guy had once been in a band called The Flesh Eaters.

Back home, I googled Chris D and saw how important he was to the L.A. punk scene.

Nothing is sacred, not even old punkers.

I am left with these two thoughts:

1. I am fucking Tolstoy compared to that bastard Chris D.
2. I can’t even enjoy a simple night out.