Now, not all naifs are unhappy, and most probably aren't particulary hoey (owing to their naïveté), but I would argue that most fashion ads are hopelessly pretentious and dumb, regardless of how talented the designer or how beautiful the clothes. In fact, when not spending my days frantically typing proper names into anagram servers (Justin Bieber = urine bib jets, just FYI, for a cocktail party conversation starter), I like to flip through September fashion magazines and make up back stories for the models. It's kind of like the intro voiceover for Law & Order (RIP):
In the fashion advertising system, the models are presented in two separate yet equally important groups. The models who look constipated while jumping for no reason and the models who look slightly too bored to kill you, even though that is what they clearly want in their heart of hearts despite the obstacles presented by their asymmetrical peep-toe moon boots. These are their stories.
Velveteen felt out of focus. She'd blacked out again, and had that color-blind dream about Prince. It had all been so lovely, and yet... why was she wearing her Ben Wa balls as buttons?
Lulu wasn't sure what had happened in that car wash. She was only certain that her muff would never be the same.
It wasn't until she'd arrived at the party that the Quaaludes wore off and Inez realized with woozy alarm that instead of stashing her tampons in her shoe purse, she'd wedged them into her actual shoes.
In retrospect, Babette regretted ordering the Super Loaded Nachos.
Sybil took a good look at herselves as she munched on what she hoped was an acceptable iron supplement. When? she seethed into the mirror. When would Fresh Direct arrive?
Snap, Crackle, and Pop knew that it would be hard transitioning into their new drag life. After all, so many people had pigeonholed them as elves. But they had $50,000 dollars of plastic surgery and a solid Adele number that would soon prove everyone wrong.
Gigi leaned back against the cliff face and rolled her eyes dramatically at her sherpa. Um, YES, she knew she wasn't wearing pants. And what of it? Like she would ever take fashion advice from someone in head to toe Land's End.
"Oh snaps!" Persephone realized mid-leap, as her knees knocked together like the the rattle of an ancient gong. "No one gets our Buckwheat costumes!" "I know!" laughed Hortense. "Someone just asked me if I was supposed to be Erykah Badu struck by lightning." "Ugh, that is so racist," sighed Peresphone. "Ugh, totes!" Hortense agreed.
Mackenzie laughed gaily at Lulu's ridiculous ankle socks, unaware that the feeling was entirely mutual.
Yes, sure, the Chinese throwing star hurt a little, but goddamit, Mimi was going to pick up that fallen Skittle if it was the last thing she ever did.
Almost as soon as she stepped out into the snow drifts of the frozen tundra, Marlo realized that the tuxedo pants had been a poor choice. The driving gloves and suede moccasins were doing her no favors, either. The cloak, too, while evocative of a certain devil-may-care glamour, was failing to shield her tender nipples and delicate elbows from the arctic freeze.
But the bag... the bag was fucking tight. And so she soldiered on.