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Fashion/Style
by
Liza Van Horne
June 27, 2008
Dear readers, week in and week out I give you my
commentary upon all the fashions of Genoa City, but
sometimes--no matter HOW egregious they are, no
matter how ridiculous and unflattering and
mockworthy, no matter how skanky or dumpy or
clownish--sometimes I simply do not feel like
talking about fashion and this is one of those
times.
I mean, sure, I could go on and on about Nikki's
skin-tight gray skirt with that wide black belt that
made her ass look like an SUV. I could rant about
her stubby, stiff little whisk-broom of a ponytail
the other day, or the fact that she was wearing a
freaking French braid when she went riding on
Athena--as if this is 1983--but really, what I'd
rather talk about it the fact that Nikki is the
stupidest woman in Genoa City--in Wisconsin, in the
country, on the planet, in the universe. Without
knowing jack shit about David Chowderhead other than
the vague idea that he has relatives in Texas and
claims to have had a gambling problem that had since
been conquered, she went ahead and married the
buffoon without so much as a pre-nup. FAIL. She
believed every word he said about Gambler's
Anonymous and working the steps and having a
sponsor. FAIL. She agreed to joint bank accounts.
FAIL to the FAILth power. And then, THEN, once the
shit hit the fan and he told her he loves gambling
and doesn't want to give it up, THEN, knowing what
she knows and having him practically beg her to
write him off, she gave him another chance? What the
french, toast? EPIC, EPIC FAIL.
Okay, now that I've got that out of my system, I can
go on to talk style with you fine people. Oh, but
wait--I can't not talk about the birthday party! I
mean, I could mention that Chloe's fluorescent
yellow one-sleeved dress was arguably the ugliest
garment I've seen in Genoa City this year and that
she looked like she'd been dipped in radioactive
piss. I could comment upon the fact that Devon's
"beard"--Roxanne NoLastName--was wearing a
Vegas-worthy purple strappy top with gold sequined
trim that made me wonder if she's been working down
on the corner, and whether Devon pays her twenty
bucks to attend social engagements with him so he
won't look like the humorless asexual malcontent he
is. But I'd rather bitch about how Lily's 21st
birthday was celebrated much like an 8-year-old's,
with balloons and cheap party decorations and a
colorful little sign taped to the door that sadly
insisted "IT'S A PARTY!" Sure it is, Sad Little
Sign. Sure it is.
And then this pathetic little gathering was crashed
by Devon's long lost aunt and cousin, who couldn't
be bothered to either call or phone ahead and who
didn't have the money to stay anywhere, so what the
hell were they thinking--that they were just going
to move into Jack Abbott's rental refrigerator box
with Lily and Devon, and Chloe's abandoned giraffe?!
Boy, if Ana "Missing An N" Crackbaby is supposed to
be 11, then not only did Auntie Tyra "Banksless"
give birth at the ripe old age of 12 or 13, but how
would Devon recognize her since he hadn't seen her
in 10 years and anyway, what did Neil expect Auntie
"America's Next Top Moocher" to have done back when
Devon was in a group home? Unless we're to believe
that Tyra "No, Not The Famous One" is in her 30s or
something. But nobody's in their 30's in Genoa City.
You stay five years old for the first ten years of
your life and then you get shipped off to boarding
school or summer camp and fed magic beans that make
you suddenly arrive home at the age of 18, and then
you're in your twenties for the next two decades
until suddenly you're in the fifty-something crowd.
Okay, so whatever, I'm obsessing over this.
But anyway, Tyra "Never Modeled for Victoria's
Secret" has this 11-year-old daughter who is clearly
developmentally disabled, but everyone she meets
coos about how precocious and charming and sharp she
is? Because she sang a stupid song for Lily's
birthday despite the fact that nothing good can EVER
come of children singing on soaps and no 11 year old
in her right mind would volunteer to sing for a
roomful of adults? Or is it that they think she's
smart because she has a smart mouth? Or because she
can plunk out freakin' CHOPSTICKS on the piano?
Which, by the way, I'm sure the other IndiBlow
patrons really appreciated. I'll bet a few of them
wanted to complain to the--oh. Never mind.
Okay, okay! I'll get back to fashion. I'd like to
tell you that Sharon's outfit at the warehouse on
Thursday was a study in gender confusion, for sure.
Her blouse had elasticized, ruffled, puffed short
sleeves and a pointy collar buttoned up to her chin
with a white tie knotted around her neck, looking
much like the dresses Lisa Simpson wears to church.
But this tea-party top was paired with flat-front
black low-rise trousers, making her look like a
six-year-old girl on top and a teenaged emo-boy on
the bottom. Phyllis wasn't any better in a crazy
dress with a horrid motion-sickness-inducing pattern
of yellow, black and gray. I think her dress dropped
acid before it left her closet that morning.
The morning after the party, Auntie Tyra "Never Won
An Emmy" tried to impress upon Neil what a fine
upstanding person she was while decked out in a
white wife beater over a black bra with the straps
hanging out for all to see. No, that doesn't look
trashy at ALL, dear, not at ALL. Her stiff, greasy
hair was swished over to one side of her head with a
part on the far right side that barely cleared her
right ear. It was plastered across her forehead and
one stiff stray strand kept falling down across her
face, which was most distracting. Poor thing can't
afford shampoo or a comb, I guess.
Amber's "swedgy" outfit on Thursday was beyond
ridiculous, especially if you take into
consideration Amber's real age, which should be at
least thirty, yet here she came traipsing into
Useless Style with her hair in pigtails like a kooky
Japanese schoolgirl and with mid-calf-high strappy
gladiator boots, a short-short skirt that looked
like it was decorated with ink blots, and a retooled
twill pea coat with a HOOD attached to the back.
AMBER IS NOT A TEENAGER. Yet she speaks in a high,
breathy little-girl voice, squeals over the
slightest provocation, and displays the maturity of
a hyperactive seventh-grader. And now she's going to
be an animated character for the "web zine"? Just
kill me now. I do hope they remember to include
animated fleas buzzing around her cooter.
Cheers? Jeers? Fashion archives? See below. |
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Liza's
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