The Fashion Muse

UNDERWEAR FIRST, THEN PANTS. Throughout history, this has been the fundamental principle of good dressing Now, thanks to Miss Ciccone and others in her platinum-headed league of boy toys, even that gilded rule is rather flexible. Fashion is a silly thing. It actually matters very little whether chartreuse is indeed the new black or whether your pants have flare. Trying to capture the fashion of the moments can be like trying to catch a greased pig, only more expensive.

So should we give up? After all, we are intelligent types and should be judged on our gray matter, not our hot pink bustiers. It's legitimate to focus on more cerebral things and perhaps a bit impractical to trek off to the Science Center in a fluff of crepede-chine and sequins. But being smart means knowing a lot About a lot. And if you don't know Barneys from a purple dinosaur, you're ignoring something that matters.

According to Mr. Roy Blount Jr., "Fashion matters considerably more that horoscopes, rather more than dog shows and slightly more than hockey." Considering all the whoop-de-do over the commencement of the NHL season, one might wonder whether these are universal priorities.

If at this moment you must take pause to ask your neighbor what delayed the hockey season, or better yet, "What is hockey?", be my guest. Your questions indicate that you are either a bubbly Beau brummel, fluent in the vampy vernacular of the now, or you are an ignorant fool. Either way I want you on my team.

Perhaps you are not a fashion fan. Though I am loathe to argue with anyone for whom blood bouncing on ice is a constant conversation piece, in this case I persist. We are all strongly encouraged to wear clothes and to change them with some frequency. Even hockey players must shed those dreadfully unflattering costumes and don street clothes. It is natural for the rookie fashion fan to feel a bit uncomfortable, especially when normal "human" shoes seem so horribly flat and slow. But anyone can learn to embrace fashion, or at least press cheeks in the appropriate affected air kiss. After all, Couture, Shotongoal, it's all French to moi.

Even if you don't know the House of Chanel from the House of Buggin', you should recognize that clothes are an unusual opportunity to express your personal taste without mussing your lipstick (boys--think Ricky on My So-Called Life), to play make believe (boys--think Ricky on My So-Called Life) and to increase the aesthetic beauty of your surroundings (boys--stop thinking of Ricky on My So-Called Life!).

Fashion spins a wicked cycle. We tear through the decades at a frantic pace, referencing and rehashing at will. Entire decades go in and out of vogue in a matter of months. You have to be a nimble athlete (maybe I'll score some touchdowns with the hockey guys on this one) to tackle the style zeitgeist. So how does a mere mortal decide what to put on in the morning? I have no idea, darling.

Right now, the hot word in fashion journalism (Hey-you're the oxy-moron, buddy!) is Glamour with a capital G. We've waifed good-bye to those bird-boned, droopy-dressed, grunge girls. Good riddance! We've witnessed the fall of the ubiquitous slip dress, unshackled ourselves from those nasty crocheted chokers and beckoned a whole new era with a wiggle of our collective manicured finger. Polished, of course, with Vamp by Chanel, currently selling like it's going out of style. Maybe because it is.

So what garb defines this sassy salmagundi of decades, this wham, glam, thank you ma'am era? Get one of those NEW kneelength skirts, if you're too proud to snitch one out of your mother's closet. Pull on the tights of a Varga girl--How's that for fishnet worth? A tuxedo jacket--can you say Marlene Dietrich? (I can't.) Skinny belts are in. If not you, why not your belt?

The roar of the Twenties, the swishy Forties, the Fifties buzzing with the waisty WASP look, the disco beat Seventies and now even the Eighties chirp in with a chorus of "Me, me, me!" My Lord, what a ruckus. All this Retro can give a girl a headache. But before you get nostalgic about the future, remember that every morning you have the potential to broadcast something. No matter which decade you pilfer, you are announcing "I am of the now." You are playing a cosmic game of Whack-a-Mole.

Remember the urban legend in which the response "Why not?" to the philosophical query "Why?" earned some smart-ass an A? When someone attacks you with the ridiculous question, "Why fashion?", do as I do and quip back the correct three-word response: "Why not, darling?"