Under the Wear

Is it just me, or are a lot of TV shows these days capitalizing on a current fascination with the '60s?

Well, I hope it's not just me, because I'm banking on your reader support here, thank ya very much.

A lot of us watch these period TV shows because we're gaga over vintage 1960s fashions and latter-day styles. We've got Mad Men, the period drama about a New York ad agency and the darling of History professors and style gazers everywhere, along with new fall shows like Pan Am and The Playboy Club. I've only seen a couple of episodes of Mad Men, and some clips of Pan Am, which follows the glamorous lives of air hostesses (decade appropriate language, yo) working for the airline of the show's title.

Pan Am (with Christina Ricci, above): It's all about the air candy.

But I can tell you this, which may be so obvious it doesn't bear saying: These shows represent a romanticized 1960s aesthetic, one in which cigarettes, Bourbon, gloves, pillbox hats, suits and ties are fetishized images. The characters who wear these clothes and use these objects are attractive and exciting but often unhappy and - this is the big one - dissatisfied.

We're meant to understand that these characters are repressed, limited by their social categories in a world where gender and race roles are as rigid as Don Draper's slick hairdo. We're also intended to be encouraged by, say, early whiffs of female empowerment through professional careers. After all, these are shows about work -- with nods to the high-flying stewardesses in Pan Am and the ambitious secretaries in Mad Men.

At the same time, as viewers we're taken in by the glamor of the characters' ability to smoke and drink freely, toss off inappropriate language, and speak and act without the burden of our modern policy of political correctness. Shows like Pan Am and Mad Men indulge in these freedoms, making theater out of what smells like lust for bygone social norms.

It's a weird paradox -- on the one hand, these shows are critiquing the follies of the past, and on the other they're enamoured with them. Hey, modern television, your nostalgia for a (fictional) era of glamorized masculinity and femininity is showing.

Joan Harris (played by Christina Hendricks) vamps it up in Mad Men.

So, what does this mean? Are we living in conservative times? Check your underwear, ladies.

Yup. I think you can judge the climate of an era based on women's underwear.  The '20 witnessed the end of the corset. The '50s brought the corset back in the form of a girdle. The '70s saw the death of girdles. The '90s introduced thongs. Now it's all about the Spanx and ShapeWear. Could this be a '60s revival?

Oh yeah, it could be. Think about the crisp, gender-specific clothing styles and confining, body-shaping women's underwear of the '60s. If you start to see clothing as a representation of social moods, you start to wonder why we wear what we do, and why we like what others wear - or wore, in the case of vintage fashion nostalgia.

Clothes make the man and the woman in period TV dramas, but there's also what's underneath to consider. I remember teen flick 10 Things I Hate About You came out in 1999, when I was ten years old. There's a scene in the movie when the popular younger sister and her love interest (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) sneak into the bedroom of the rebellious older sister (Julia Stiles) to dig up some details on her. What do they find but a pair of black panties in a dresser drawer. The popular younger sister quips that owning black underwear is a universal sign that a girl wants to have sex.

This scene was a serious topic of discussion in the girls' locker room in my fifth grade gym class. Some girls were totally behind the movie truth that black panties indicate that you're down to have sex, while others were all, "Nah, girl."

Life lesson? Never doubt that movies and television can teach (and misinform) us about the power and meaning of clothes.

My, what a big book you have, 10 Things I Hate About You heroine! You thinking about sex or Sylvia Plath?

I'm glad I can re-hash my fifth grade locker room stories for you, and pretend they have some kinda intellectual context. Back to modern TV: Why do we like shows set during the '60s so much? Why are we so hot on the glamor of '60s clothing styles? Suffice it to say that history in TV shows and movies (and even our own memories) is mostly romanticization that is based on how we're feeling and thinking now. And I'm thinking that TV's current love for this decade tells us something about the present. After all, you can't escape the present in a period piece -- it comes through, whether in the dialogue or the make-up, or more interestingly in the tone.

We're informed by these pop culture re-writes of the past -- and sometimes we're just as naïve about what we're watching as a fifth-grader gleaning social truths from a teen comedy. I don't think most folks watch Mad Men to draw out social commentary or reflect on what the show expresses about the present day -- at least not consciously. We're following its exciting plotlines. And we're drawn in by the sex appeal, and smitten with the vintage fashions. And that's cool. But for me, it's all about the underwear. Sometimes it's what's under the clothes that's more fascinating than the clothes themselves. Especially when they tell you something about the times you're livin' in.

Are Kisses Out Of Fashion?

Ahem. Have you written your End of September Sartorial Resolutions yet? Well, I have:

1. Don't be shy about animal print. Bring those zebras and leopards out into the light of day.

2. Incorporate more leather and denim into outfits in integrative, upwardly mobile ways.

3. Expand boot collection.

4. Wear more yellow.

5. If it has animals on it but doesn't need animals on it in order to be the thing that it is, then buy it.

6. Pretend to understand fashion by making up fashion vocab. Refer to Resolution #2.

7. Don't just wear clothes like some kind of illiterate priss, read about them.

Sometimes you have to be tough with yourself. I've already gotten started on Resolution #7!

I am reading this book, Nylon: The Story of a Fashion Revolution by Susanna Handley.

It's about the wonder that is 20th century synthetic materials.

Super exciting, no? Plus I'm gonna study plastics in grad school.

Kidding.




PS. I found out that back in the '70s, I was on the cover of a German fashion magazine called Stern. I'm the girl on the far right in the red leather hot pants. (Yup. Just last year, I had that haircut, then I grew out my bangs and went blonde.)

My model past: magazine cover from Nylon: The Story of a Fashion Revolution

Babe, I'm So Low

What's better than well-dressed folk? Well-dressed folk who have been dressing well for more than six decades.

If you haven't taken taken this once in a lifetime opportunity already (okay, more like anytime you want opportunity), I advise you to type "advanced style dot blogspot dot com" into your Internet browser. I love me some sassy old people. Who doesn't? Ageists.

I'm taking these old ladies' sassy philosophies to heart. As soon as I qualify for AARP membership.

Things I've been into recently:

Just one earring & mismatched earrings.

Religious artifacts.

Lingerie tops as shirts + corduroy mini skirts.

Faded denim shirts + lingerie tops + mini skirts + religious artifacts + just one earring.

Solo dance parties.

This girl named Carol.

That about sums it up. One day, I will win you over with amazing photos from my film camera. Until then, I'll be relying on digital media. And dreaming of aging in style. I aim to be the type of lady who breaks hearts and rides fast cars well into her nineties, and that kind of lifestyle requires some swag. WHICH I GOT. I know you were real worried about my sartorial state of affairs for a second, but be cool. Everything's gonna be stylish.

Are You Riding Alone, Can I Be Your Date?

I don't know about cars. I don't care about cars.

In fact, I'm the last person to recognize a car's make or brand. But I know this: I've recently developed this enduring fantasy (enduring 'cause I'm gonna entertain it forevaaa) about driving a car that's a babe magnet.

The thing is, I live in the suburbs of Houston, a spit and a boot scoot away from cowboy country. And what do I see every day? I see buckin' bronco bros in their pimped-out F-150s with the monster tires and the oversized mufflers and the pro-hunting bumper stickers. And when I see one of them cheesin' at me out of his truck window with the stereo blasting Pearl Jam or what have you, I just yearn for some class.

Now, of course there have always been amorous country types cruisin' the hayfields for cowgirls. And I'm sure that strategy has worked out from time to time. I'm sure.

But man, you know in the old days when fellas could actually get girls by the glory of their wheels alone? Cars used to be cool. Cars didn't need to be pimped out back then. I'm talking old-style Cadillacs and Mercedes Benzes. How else did an ax-wielding hillbilly like Leo get himself a pretty waitress wife in Twin Peaks? With his cool car! How else did any studmuffin, hunk, cad, chump, or nerd in the auto-prime '50s through '80s get his mate? With his cool car!

So if lads can do this, why not ladies?

That's why I'm gonna own the classic babe magnet. Yup. The classic babe magnet.
You know, the kind of car where, if you so desired, you could justifiably be like, "D'you wanna go make out in my car?" I say justifiably, because the car is actually a gorgeous machine, not some sorry attempt at cool, like these ugly modern luxury vehicles. Yuck.

Now, is the classic babe magnet the kind of car that a respectable girl can take to go parking at a drive-in? Indeed! With pride. Because what else are you gonna do with a vintage car but indulge in vintage extracurriculars?

Have I convinced you yet that the lady-driven babe magnet is where it's at? If not, I recommend you go back and watch Grace Kelly boating around in her convertible in To Catch A Thief, or for a different feel, maybe Molly Ringwald putting about in her oldster roadster in Pretty in Pink. If a dame in a movie can drive a babe magnet, I can too, right? Right!

I'm all about this:

Cadillac ad from Life, 1963.

Look at this appeal to the femininity of the female consumer. Hey there, ad-men, don't talk down to me, I just wanna ride.

So, am I teasing or talking real investment? Your guess, cruisin' buddy.

A mobile girl is a happy girl, as one of my best friends advises me. But what's this, do I hear some grumblings about the cost of petrol and old car maintenance? Uh, what? Who would ruin a girl's mobile dreams with talk of practicality? Someone who probably hates world peace and kittens. So, I'll let you know when someday my gender-role-reversal fantasy -- I mean, lust for hot old cars -- manifests itself in the form of an awesome set o' old-school wheels. Vroom vroom!

It Hurts To Think About You In The Arms Of A Stranger: An Open Letter To My Ex-Jacket

Here comes that feeling again, and it ain't right. Which one? That ol' feeling of nostalgia mixed with regret.

What am I feelin' nostalgic/regretful about?

That brown leather fringe jacket that I threw away!

This jacket. It was my prized Bins find, back in that fateful autumn of twenty-ten.

What happened that autumn to make it fateful? I had a bug infestation scare that year, and I freaked out and blamed my new Bins jacket. So, I tossed it in the dumpster. Then I realized that pinning a bug problem on a jacket was pretty dumb, but when I returned later that night to recover my trashed treasure, it was gone. Some dumpster diver must've taken my jacket. It was the darndest thing!

Now, what's so bad about this blunder? Well, every Goodwill shopper worth her pinched pennies knows that no one ever gets diseases or bugs or germs from digging used clothes out of a plastic bin! And, even if you do, it's all about how much character your wardrobe has -- not whether your closet could pass a health inspection. What a hoot that would be!

So, I am including here an open letter to that awesome jacket I so foolishly tossed aside: 

Dear Vintage 1980's Western Style Leather Jacket,

I know our thing together was a long time ago, but I thought it was about time that I 'fessed up to my mistakes. I'm sorry that I broke your heart (which you wore up your sleeve anyway) and that I threw you away like yesterday's garbage.

Really, you were the coolest. When we went out together, I felt like Johnny Depp going undercover in 21 Jump Street. You had creases in your skin, but you weren't distressed, just wise. I knew you were the real thing -- you had earned that look through age.

I'll admit, sometimes I wasn't sure about you. Like, you always smelled like tobacco mixed with mildew. Maybe you used to spend a lot of time in basements before you met me. I didn't know much about your past. Whatever, I didn't really care. I just wanted to be with you all the time. And you made me feel so warm inside.

I'm sorry I threw you out that night. I wasn't mad at you. I just got paranoid about things going around and I thought you were responsible. BUT NOW I KNOW IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT.

I hope you're not still hot under the collar about the way I gave you the boot, and that you found a way in your leathery old soul to forgive me. Maybe you have some souvenirs of me still -- some loose change or old Mike's receipts in your pockets. Remember when we took these photos together?

Anyway, I know you're having fun somewhere, probably going to '80s rodeo parties or roadside country bars or Dolly Parton karaoke nights or wherever else you look good, like you belong. Maybe that new somebody who picked you up that night liked you for your ridiculous fringe or your tanned skin the way I did, which makes me wish I could have you back in my arms. Bring your cute hide back to me, babe. But it's cool, I understand that it's over.

Love always,

Your Ex-Owner (it wasn't a Depeche Mode "Master and Servant" thing between us, but I totally owned you!)

In other news, what's the funniest thing to coincide with New York Fashion Week? Nope, it's not my secret love life with jackets! 

It's the winner of the American Apparel Plus Size Model contest! I think this lady is hilarious, crude, and verging on Cindy Sherman-esque. And I mean all of this as a compliment!

What's my opinion of plus-size modeling? It's a tough sport, fellas and femmes, as tough to get into as regular modeling. And of American Apparel? I may own a unitard or two from that morally and financially bankrupt com-pa-knee, but I feel objectified and demoralized when I wear it. Kidding. Of course I feel great in it. I mean weird. I mean great.

That's all, folks! Except for one more thing:

If you listened to El Perro Del Mar's gorgeous cover of "Here Comes That Feeling," (the line "it ain't right" will link you to it) you might like to know that rockabilly/country singer Brenda Lee sung it first, and you should make like a library card and check that out! (Man, I'm such a punster. Shameless.)

EDITOR'S NOTE: I found this jacket on Etsy that looks like the identical twin of my old leather one. Could it be could it be? Guess I'll never know!

All Aboard The Train To Capetown!

Capetown? Yeah, I know. But I don't use puns often, so DEAL WITH IT. 

In time for the mythical season of fall (mythical when you live in the Republic of Texas), I'm going to feature my 100% camel-hair (fur real), button-less (well, it's got one button) cold-weather (ha!) cape.

I see you don't believe me when I say I'm a CAPEMASTER. What else happened here? I found these cokehead grandma sunglasses while cleaning my room, which I figure is sort of like going to the Bins. Now I am 85 and addicted.

Here is mah cape. Eeeets got pocketssesss. And one day, when I find the time, eeet weeel have buttonsssss, too.

The take-away message? Capes from the Goodwill Bins are worth your cents, folks. They will keep you warm, cover up your unsightly cowl neck sweater dresses, and protect you as you go about your nefarious daily details. Uh-huh.

And, in case you were wondering, things are just fine and okay down here in the South. The weather's balmy, but I've been cussin' up a storm. This morning, I done near got scolded for warning the dishwasher, "Don't fuck with me." And then a minute later, I repeated the same verbal abuse to a box of cookies that was giving me trouble. But I tell ya, who are you going to curse at, if not major kitchen appliances?

That is my piece of advice for you today, ladies and gentlemen. Wisdom at its finest. So is this:

Where Does It Get The Power Without Panels?

Hellzapoppin'!

What does that mean? Something like "all hell's breaking loose." It's just a fab expression from the '30s that I like at the moment. And maybe it also means I'm wearing an oversized yellow dress cinched with a pink ribbon!

Now, I'm sure you're wondering: Doesn't this dress fly in the face of my anti-hag in a bag stance? Yeah, probably.  But I was powerless in the glow of that bright yellow emanating from the clothesrack. It was all, "Buuuuuyyy me, I'm the keep-cool tunic you've been looking for all summer." And I was all, "Hot diggity, I'll throw me down a tenner." This actually happened. Sorta.

Now it's time for some variety programming. I bought a bunch of Life magazines at Half Price Books a few weeks ago, and after I cut 'em up for arts n' farts projects, I looked through the ads and deemed them worthy to share on this blog.

Refer to Exhibit A. What are we looking at, chummies? A gal's best friend! Remember every Monday in 1961 when you invited the girls over for a game of bridge and you worried about spilling cocktails over your deck (of cards, that is), so you had to invest in diamond-coated playing cards? I bet you do. Anyone who reads this blog (and enjoys it) has memories of diamond-coated cards.

Stay fresh, card-playing ladies! We are about to take a tour of some ads from Life circa '61-'63:

Just like a brewski, a baby keeps well (and happy!) in a cool environment. This is the wonder of modern air conditioning! Remember when babies used to spoil and go all moldy before a.c.?

It's your lucky day, canoers in the land of sky blue waters! A giant hand is gonna serve you a giant Hamm's! Note that everything needs to be fresh in this decade. Cards, babies, even beers.

This ad is for a watch company (that begins with a B!). But really. Without knowing that, could you solve this riddle? If you could, you get a baby. I think I have an extra one in my air conditioning unit.

Nancy is not part of an ad, but I think she's pretty fantastic. The kid tap-dances on the ceiling! She does headstands in a box (with her name on it!) while wearing glam costumes! What a living!

I want to go to the prom back then. It looks like so much fun. It's like an all-night long pajama party. Oh, wait, these teens are prettying up for the prom. Never mind.

Girdle girdle! Say that two times fast. Fun, eh? Alright, so this ad is telling me that no-lump girdles are the thing to have. Right, right. Got that. Now, where does it get the power without panels? Yeah ... I dunno either.

When you are out being a lady driver and you suddenly get a flat tire, you may as well be in a horror movie! Hitchcock it up, lady drivers who don't carry spares!

If anybody even thinks about offering me a Marlboro, I'll sock myself in the eye!

Color me curious -- I found out through some good ol' Innernet research that "Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight" is an ad campaign phenom. So I decided to try my hand at it:

Us fake smokers would rather bruise than abuse. (Oh man, could I be an ad-writer?)

What do you think? Do I win the dubious distinction of being good at victim make-up?

Those are all the ads for today, reader dears. You might like to know, on another note, that I might be out of a hobby soon. If this happens, I will probably cry. Sometimes I hate what the Internet has done to old-fashioned hobbies. Boo-hoo! Next up, I'm gonna inaugurate a letter-writing campaign called "Write or Die" that will feature P. Diddy, Barbara Bush, and Franklin from Arrested Development as spokespersons. Foolproof? Duh, it's fated to bomb, but it'll get publicity, which worked for Citizen Change, didn't it?

In the meantime, I've thought of an infallible rom-com movie plot: Girl likes boy. Boy likes girl. Girl moves away. Boy and girl write letters. Buuuuuut ... the postal service is about to run out of money and close down, taking their romance along with it! (Of course, there is no other way for them to keep in contact! The girl moved to, like, a trailer park in the desert with no WiFi or something).  I'm going to make this into a movie and get rich and then I won't have time in my busy movie producer schedule to post to this blog. You bet ... not!

Get Crucial

Today's post is an ode to teen angst.

Teen what?

Teen angst!

'Cause why? 'Cause I just watched Heathers for the tenth time (probably), and I've decided that teen angst is probably angst in its most marketable form. Teen angst is kinda cool and self-important and memorable. All of us remember - or at least we've bought into some collective Hollywood memory of those salad days of stressin' over boys and SAT scores or whatever.

But ... let's not forget about young twenties angst. Young twenties angst -- when you don't know what you're doin', where you're goin', or why you're doin' the things you do. Young twenties angst is a complicated thing. It's not simple like teen angst, where you just read Catcher in the Rye or too much Nietzsche and made snide comments about people at the mall. Nope.

Commercial break! Today's outfit, inspired by angst:

Pastel pink sweatshirt, à la Dawn Weiner, from da Binzzz. Chums, the collar is 100% fake and built-in.

What was that? Dawn Weiner? Yup. Few things are more angst-ridden than Welcome to the Dollhouse. Hold up. Is that some intense hummingbird/flower action I see? Whoa girl, this sweatshirt is a lot more action-packed than you woulda thought! I wear this little horror mostly at sleepy time, though.

And why not wear this lil' sweatshirt with some grey denim? Now, I should clarify that I usually never wear pants. I do not prefer pants. Pants are something awful. Pants are, like, the Devil's gift to big-bottomed gals. And they bandage up your legs instead of highlighting them the way skirts or dresses do. This is just my theory, though, so don't take offense, all you pro-pants members of my reading audience.

Still feeling angst-y? Embrace it, kiddo! You've got a long road ahead of ya!

In other news,  I've been making mixtapes, maybe coming soon to a mailbox near you.

What's on 'em? You'll know when you get 'em. Side note: Sometimes, when I'm not blasting early Madonna, I like to put on Missy Elliott's Da Real World album. I love how Missy raps about how she'll cook for her fella in exchange for Bentleys and diamonds. It's like The Feminine Mystique, ghetto-style, in 1999. Now, is The Feminine Mystique a complicated (and problematic) book that I've just reduced to a one-liner for humorous purposes? Guilty as charged, clever trousers!

Continuing with the theme of angst, I present "Little Trouble Girl":

Am I weird for liking this video as much as I do? Probably. But it's a duet with everyone's top favorite Kims of '90s rock. Yes, sir!