Check us out in The Fashion Birdcage's e-zine

xxx

Want to know why girls on pushbikes are the new big thing?

Ever wondered why the same dude keeps walking past you in Fitzroy?

Issue #1 of The Fashion Birdcage's e-zine has the answers...

CLICK HERE to check it out.

It's a digital fashion feast, so if you want to skip to your favourite fashion snipers then look up these pages:

p.11: our bios

p.22: 'Girl On A Hot Tin Bike' by Majorca de Ville

p.73: 'March Of The Menguins' by The Sir

Revisiting sunglasses on men

Antoine entered the world at roughly the same time Tom Ford entered New York’s Parsons School of Design. It’s hard to say how much one influenced the other, but it can be easily argued that Ford’s Aviators look good on Antoine.

Without disregarding my prior cautionary post about men in sunglasses, I believe there’s a place in a man’s wardrobe (eyedrobe) for sharp, classic frames. This means they should be made from metal and glass, or something very closely approximating glass (if you’re burdened with a fear of having your face connect with something hard while moving at some speed). They shouldn’t be made from plastic, rubber, graphite or drinks coasters.

Shapes and sizes evolve so it’s no use attempting dictate here. But here’s my own rule of thumb: if the frame looks as though it would fall off your head if you shook it violently, then it’s good. I’m not interested in ‘sports’ glasses that look as though they were designed in a wind tunnel. I’m unashamed about boasting of the imperfect relationship between style and practicality. If this wasn’t the case we’d all be wearing Snuggies when it got cold (there’s a tremendous Darwinian failsafe with Snuggies: they’re highly flammable).

Colours, as well, will fall in and out of favour before the oft-changing alter of vogue, so I’m not too concerned here. If your frame is made of metal, then metal is a pretty good colour. Also, given the best of the 80s is enjoying a renaissance I’m looking forward to the mainstream comeback of large mirrored lenses – wear them, then challenge Tom Cruise to a game of bare-chested beach volleyball. Regarding frames: as a precaution, I would give loud primary colours a wide berth unless you plan on coupling them with a popped collar and expect to be beaten up by every person on Earth.

If you’re still clueless and have sun in your eyes, try to find a pair of your father’s sunglasses from 15 years ago and wear those. This rule ought to work at any future point. In all likelihood the glasses would have been resilient enough to weather fashions and the elements.

Oh, and Antoine made his own jacket. Cool isn’t it?

Faux Fur For Real

If you've ever considered sporting a fur coat to the disco, there are a few things you should should think about before getting dressed.

As a piece, the fur coat is a striking, and needs to be accessorized precisely, so that you don't end resemble Fran Dresher's Nanny Fine. The other look to stay well away from is the tragic, tarty look - wearing every piece of bling that you own, with over the knee boots.

I've seen a few foxes get this look right, which is what started this fur contemplation. I've even stood in Currency on Brunswick Street, wondering whether the look is right for me, so I set about doing some windownet shopping, and this is what I came up with. This is my take on the Veruca Salt.
Clockwise from left: 1. Vintage faux fur coat, slightly cropped, not too bulky. Avoid big 70s collars, because they are for Zsa Zsa and her friends. 2. Karen Walker brooch. In love with KW jewellery. This pin will bring the jacket into now, and make you feel more like a Yeah Yeah Yeah. 3. Karen Walker sunglasses in bright yellow. Sunglasses are generally recommended for the day time, but every girl needs a pair of sunnies for the walk of shame home the next day. 4. Black leather gloves are sleek, and you will look like a rock star spy. 5. Black bangles. Get into the groove like Madonna did. 6. The all important thin red belt should be used to cinch in the waist, to give you your lady silhouette. 7. Graphic Mimco clutch.

Nouveau Nail Art : A Thriving Industry

One of The Garb Wire's beloved fashion snipers sent in a photo of an interesting piece of jewellery by Austrian designer, Anne-Marie Herckes. He sent it with the caption, "Oh.", while her caption reads: "the essential MJ collection on a brooch" and the website opens with the following statement:

The smaller the pieces you do, the quicker you can react to
real life goings-on.

I feel at this point that it's important to thank Anne-Marie, firstly for her cutting edge and very timely craft, but secondly for prompting me to do a search on "Michael Jackson nails". I thought there'd be no way. But there is a way.

There are nails for every occasion. Every current affair. Any ordinary affair.

Just six months after my first initiation into the burgeoning nail art movement, I'm still fascinated by the genre, which, between you and me, feels a little like someone signed up for a cake decorating class, and stumbled instead, into next door's nail art course.

Forget cool hunting, here is cool nail art hunting...

Mourning Nails

What do you do if the King of Pop passes? Why, you pay tribute with a themed manicure, that's what. Respect. Some people cry, some make useless brooches, a few might play his music to remember, but you choose to remember him with your fingernails. And comfort will come, in time for you. It will.

Nails for Adults

Bite that cherry (or plum) and file those nails til they're surfboards! These nails are perfect for times when you just need to succumb to the sinful fruit, forget about tomorrow (work) and its consequences (and/or bacon).

It's a Nail Symphony!

How anyone could have an entire orchestra on her hands is beyond me... and the weight of it...is that arm really far away, or...is that a double bass at the front of the shot?

WAG Nails

It's what every girl dreams of... isn't it? To have a string of cubic zirconias across the hand. With fingers interlocked, this princess wishes for her handsome Prince of Swarovski, and his little brother, the Baron of Clear Acrylica.

The Nail Of The Wild

I wanna have a word to the stylist. Tiger print 'tard, fishnet gloves, gold rings and that butterfly piercing. That butterfly piercing... can't even see the nails in this one, but sure can see the rest of it!

B.A. Branding

There is Above The Line, and Below The Line marketing, but here we have Below Average Branding, where someone in the very general public has chosen to put some of the world's (USAs) most loved junk food brands on her nails. How genius! How very fattening.... all styled on a Cheetos packet. Yes, I know, genius. Some food for your nail thoughts.

What are your nail fantasies?

In fashion,

Majorca De Ville

A short treatise concerning the top three buttons of a man’s shirt

There are probably more established rules here. If so, I’m not actually aware of them. So here are my rules concerning the fastening, or not, of the top three buttons of a man’s shirt.

Top button

1. Always aim to do this one up if wearing some sort of tie, lest you resemble a rugby player at an awards night; before, during or after the inexorable fist fight with teammates/girlfriend/dignitaries. If you can no longer fasten this button because you’ve had a problem with the habitual ingestion of pies, which have begun to settle around the neck, then refer to The Sir’s below subclauses concerning this:
   
   1.1 have a tailor (or yourself if confident) re-sew the button closer to the edge of the placket, thus affording you valuable extra breathing space
   
   or
   
   1.2 get used to wearing large (and concealing) full Windsor tie knots. The effect is best with cutaway collars.
   
   and
   
   1.3 Do something about the circumference of your neck, preferably something less to do with pies.
   
   For the amusement of others, you may like to force the top button closed. By lunchtime your head should look like a plum.
   
   
2. If not wearing something around the neck, then unbutton this guy otherwise people will expect you to start reeling off Jerry Seinfeld jokes just like Jerry Seinfeld.
   

The next button

1. If not wearing a tie piece, keep it fastened or unfastened. I don't really mind. Further elaboration is boring.

The button after that

1. Here’s where any rule should perform the role of informing rather than dictating – as a lot of judgment is needed when deciding on what to do with this curious little toggle. A man can make his appearance a little more daring if he leaves three buttons undone. Certainly appropriate and recommended during the balmier months when one is ordering quarts of mojitos. Careful with this move if you’re required to front up somewhere with some semblance of business composure, unless you’re Antonio Banderas, and you’re drinking mojitos in the office. Even the classiest of dressers have been, from time to time, beguiled by the urge to keep this one unbuttoned. Sometimes it works, and provides a positive edge, other times it can look dishevelled, boorish or give one the appearance that they’ve attempted to dress in the car on the way to work.

Take A Bow : Design Massacre

It started with a leisurely walk on the Pitt Street Mall in Sydney.

Entering and leaving shops within seconds, I felt awash with frustration at the sameness of it all.

Anyone can do leggings, and they do. Anyone can put boots over jeans, and they certainly do that... though I wish they'd stop - especially over the non-skinny leg variety. Note to Kate Moss: "Please declare your new boot wearing style as a matter of priority. Australia needs help!".

One heavily featured "style" for the coming Australian summer, and appearing in every chain store, was the array of tops and dresses with bows on them. To amuse myself as I endured a bout of shopper's fatigue, I wrote in my mind, an imaginary letter of complaint to the lazy designers working for big brand, high street stores. It went something like this;


Dear Ms Bow Bozo,


I have seen the white acrylic bow tank in your Spring Summer '10 collection, and regret to advise that it is incredibly dull. No matter how many sequins you put on it, and regardless of the size, I think you are lazy, uninspired and demand that you resign at once.


Painfully
Majorca De Ville

I am a huge fan of the actual, tied pussy bow, as avant garde as it can seem at times. Worn the right way, it can look striking, and polished.

But printing a big fat bow on a t-shirt is unacceptable. Buying one sober, and wearing it in public would see you driven into exile. Don't stimulate our economy by buying one, because if you do, you'll be indirectly keeping some lacklustre designer in a job.

Guest Garb Wire : Agent Costume

I love dressing up!

I used to spend a long time before each school day putting together the perfect outfit and then take it all off again and change, fearing school yard stares or teasing from mean boys.

One day, I met this really cool girl, who obviously put herself together in a similar way AND left the house. Although she did look different, she also looked red hot! What a lesson! One can be original and cool at the same time.

I started to trust my sense of style.

Years later, I was getting ready for work. It must have been full moon time, or something in the air. I put on a billowy white cheesecloth blouse with short tweed like vest, long black pearls, white linen shorts, black-and-white beaded African belt (to break up the white), bright RED opaque tights, long dark-brown Mexican cowboy boots (they were HOT!), loads of eyeliner, bronzed cheeks, and i fluffed up half of my long hair up at the back, with little plaits and curly locks of hair coming down from under the spikey half bun aspiration. Truly inspired.

The collective look I recieved on first step into the morning bus said it all. My immediate thought: "Uh-oh, I've gone too far"... I tried to look them all in the eye and smile, taking a seat with carefree aplomb.

When I finally got to work - a train and a walk through Sydney's Circular Quay later, my work mate shouted "What are you wearing?"

I was made to do a few turns so everyone could check it out.

My only defence, "Well, you wear crazy things too!" muttered sheepishly in mild defence.

"Yeah," she said

"But I drive here"

Elisa can be contacted on http://www.agentcostume.com/

Damsel In Overdress : Revolting Against The Dress Code

When I take a moment to consider what it means to overdress, I'm confronted with flashes of times when I myself, may have
risen to occasions, and quite possibly, toppled and frothed right over the top of them.

From the time when I was first injected into the world of styling, being privvy to trends many months before the masses could buy them from Forever New, I contemplated my own image, and just who I wanted to be, strutting on the streets of Melbourne town.. Exactly who that is, I may never know. But, who ever does?

LEOPARDSKIN AT THE OFFICE

I remember wrestling with my wardrobe on the eve of a special lunch at Becco, with the editor of a national fashion magazine, and, forty-seven costume changes later, I decided that the only outfit worn would be Grandma's leopardskin cullotte jumpsuit (nylon hell on a hot day), cinched in at the waist with a wide woven belt in chocolate, and wooden beads to boot.

Tres fabulous in my mind, however, riding in the lift up to work the next day was interesting. I remember looking straight ahead at the doors, and noticing customers looking away and laughing with their friends. I remember having that last minute panic, and then, in my mind, deciding that they were not my target audience - it was too late, and all I could do was walk tall, like I meant it. And I do mean it, every single day.

THE ART OF SUBTLETY

A few years ago, one of my work colleagues had been out all night, and came to work soon after.

Because of her quiet and lovely demeanor, no-one would have noticed, had it not been for her white tank and silver sequinned puffball skirt. As she sobered through the morning, we marvelled at her choice of dress for the day's work ahead. It was a long day - we had several coffees, and fifteen winding sessions.

THE WARDROBE BRIEF

In other recent times, a friend and I would get so excited about "casual dress Fridays" that we would set wardrobe briefs for eachother by sms, the night before - these curtain calls/dares were at times outrageous, and as time went on, they became more ridiculous, my favourites being "Walk This Way by Run DMC Vs Aerosmith", and "Hugo Boss circa '97 - grey hues teamed with lime green".

On the Friday that we did Hugo Boss '97, my man friend, who was in a management position at the time, got wrapped over the knuckles for looking too much like he'd come straight out of the disco. With his skinny Ksubis in seal and lime tee with rhinestones, he sashayed to my desk to inform me. Needless to say that the next week's wardrobe brief was black, with a little bit of "Dolly Parton's 9 to 5" thrown in.

DRESS IN THEMES

To really entertain yourself, and others, why not decide on a colour du jour, or base your style entirely on an outrageous celebrity, just for a day. Wear neon tights, round sunglasses - really have fun at the photocopier.

There are no rules. There shall be no rules imposed upon us.

Embrace individuality - even if you love rock n roll, why not give black & white stripes and wayfarers a rest (especially when in Fitzroy) - change the way you look - pop on a hot frock and sweep that blunt fringe to the side - it'll leave them breathless.

The only thing worse than being arrested by the Fashion
Police, is being warmly welcomed by the Beige Brigade, who have far less
power and no badge or sirens to speak of.

Why Don't Ya Talk Ta Me?

There's just so much to think about right now, between listening to
Peaches' 'Talk To Me' and Stevie Nicks and Gossip's 'Heavy Cross'...
So much drama, attitude and lace to deal with.

We'll be back soon with an amazing (I'm sure) article on "Overdressing for the Dress Code". Have you ever? If you have... please tell me about it - fashionsniper@thegarbwire.com

Love, love

F is for...

Now, I feel like the last few entries have been a little hose-centric. I apologise for this, but the cooler weather seems to bring the matter to the fore.

From where I sit, here is the deal - fishnets in peep toes are okay, and block colour opaques are borderline ok, too. However,

Flesh colour or nude stockings worn with open toe (let alone summer, strappy
comfort sandals) are a big 'no-no'. No. No.

I went to a wedding reception once sporting glossy nude stockings, but they had stirrups for the toes. As in, I wore the stockings and the peep toe shoes, but the actual toes were without stocking coverage. The red, pedicured nails were out for all to see. Glamour.

The only sub group allowed to get away with this are women who have already had their 70th birthday. Although I'm pretty sure that Dorothea would throw sherry to the fire over your hosiery toes.

E is for...

Has anyone read How Luxury Lost Its Lustre? Copping a fake designer product from a normally reputable auction site leaves you feeling, well... as fake as a Von Datch truckers cap.

Racoon Tresses

Thanks to one Alice Ford, of South Yarra, Victoria, it came to light this afternoon, that Limahl, the ladyboy-vocal powerhouse behind the hit soundtrack single "The Neverending Story", and frontman of 80s band, Kajagoogoo (Too Shy), was one of the true bad taste makers of his time, and now ours - why else would so many young men be taking bleach bottle matters into their own hands?

"Turn around... tell me what you
see-i-ee-ee-i-ee"

Here, is what I see...

Biff and Happy take a day trip to the Melbourne Zoo, in matching pastel tees and tight denim shorts. White sandshoes are a given.



















Master Racoon is spotted here at Melbourne Central, rollin' nuttin' but an ultra deep v-neck shirt in blue, and tips to make your eyes water. He was probably looking for his girlfriend in faux denim leggings at the time.




















On Brunswick Street, Racoons have come to love late night pizza offerings. Masstige print tees are rewarded with extra cheeeese.






Some thought starters for you... animal, vegetable or highly flammable?

A Ribbing From The Lady

If you're planning to wear ribbed tights this Autumn or Winter, make sure they're not twisted.

As our eyes trace the ribbing up your legs, and we notice that the lines start to twist diagonally from just above the knee, we can only guess that a little higher up, the tights have a boa constrictor death grip on your thighs, leaving your good-girl listless, with every step.

Take your time putting on statement hosiery. If they're twisted at the ankle, chances are, things will only turn nasty, once you pull them to your waist.

You need to start again. Take them off. Sit down, grab the toe of the hose, bunching up the leg - put them over your toes, and pull them on straight.

The only stares and whispers you want this season, are from those wish they could be as daring as you in your yellow, straight ribbed tights.

Lastly, if you are not part of the lolly leg gang, I suggest you stray AWAY from grey marle, beige, fawn or yellow tights altogether. White is banned for trunks.

Why not opt instead for black, navy, purple or charcoal?

Fashion hosiery should not only be fun to wear, but fun to see.

Denim Leggings - an update

A note to all who read The Garb Wire feverishly, every time we have some silly observation to share.

As I suspected earlier this year (in 'Laying Down Leggings Law' http://www.thegarbwire.com/2008/11/laying-down-leggings-law.html), I was correct in assuming that it was Supre's fault that we are now subjected to girly girls sashaying around Melbourne streets (read: public space) in denim tights.

I pose this question to you all...

If they look bad on a mannequin, what hope do real women have of pulling off this look?

My advice? Just don't, lycra totally.

D is for...

Here's a worrying trend indeed. Visitors to Fitzroy insist on bleaching their hair and donning the wayfarers. This is not limited to women, either. I'm not knocking street style, but their take on Lady Agyness lacks imagination. It's not a take, it's stolen identity, now at crisis level. I love Madonna's style, but I don't sashay down Brunswick Street in a leotard.

D is for Doppelganger DON'T. Stop flicking the bean for Agyness Dean. She is her, and you are not.

C is for...

Naturally, C is for Capri pants. What else would a lady of leisure team with her white, leather, thong mules? Capri pants represent more than an item of clothing. They mean leisure business. Arm yourself with a brightly coloured kaftan, some sunshine, an afternoon vodka cocktail, and you're half way to delivering the all important Resort Report.

B is for...

People who count on The Garb Wire to deal with the uncomfortable, fashion-damning issues, needn't be surprised at the inclusion of the "Beaver" do. After conducting some independent research, I can only conclude that David Beckham was the originator of this follicle felony, and that young guys in pastel tshirts everywhere are getting their mits on the "dye at home" packs from the supermarket [research source: 1 x hairdresser from Hobart and 1 x hair stylist from Fitzroy].

A is for...

You've seen it - maybe a handkerchief hemline spotted on Cup Day (accessorised with bare feet at 5.30pm), or an asymmetrical sleeve on Aunt Glenys. In this image, patchwork meets asymmetrical, which makes it a cross between unexpected, and unbelievably bad... Michael Jackson 'Bad'.

Fashion Sniper : Oscar Ration

This year's round up of Oscar fashion was underwhelming, to say the least. And it's not because stars kept it "low- key" in recognition of the global economic climate, it is because of the good taste recession.

Let's talk about this little number worn by Frieda - if it's bad at Oscar level, you can only imagine what it will look like once it's been mass produced and sold at your local asian "Angel Teen Fashion Store". This is a frou frou fire hazard. A key trend at this year's Oscar ceremony was "Bride Wars" - if they didn't look like they were dressed for their own weddings in ivory, cream and pastel pinks (see: Penelope Cruz, SJP, Melissa George and Jessica Biel), they were classic (read: boring), like Angelina - a strapless black floor length gown, hair down with a teased, pushed up fringe and dangly, home wrecker earrings - are you still awake? Lady needs a makeover.

Am I the only one who is bored with classic? Where is the element of surprise?

Even Natalie Portman lost points when I saw her tan lines. Bogan (bo-jahn) tendencies here.

My faves for the night were Heidi Klum, who had me all a flush with both the cut and shade of her dress and the perfection of her OTP accessories!...and would you believe... Miley Cyrus? Although her belt buckle leaned a little towards "country singer's daughter", and is best left to Billy Ray Cyrus' offspring than the streets of Melbourne. Whoa from the back though! Makes me want to try on all the pretty frocks, it does! photographs courtesy of oscar.com

The Big Proposal

A salesperson came in to meet with me recently. She was armed with an average looking powerpoint presentation and a fake designer bag.

I stood up to meet her as she exended her hand to greet me. I noticed that her alice band was a cheap rendition of a Chanel handbag strap. Her voice immediately irritated me.

Throughout what she kept referring to as her 'preso', I nodded in the right spots, but I couldn't help but study all the different elements of her outfit, and how horribly cheap it all seemed. I wasn't really paying attention to anything she said, until I remembered that her voice irritated me.

Her accent was completely faush (faux posh). Here was a Bogue who barely pronounced her 's'es, because she thought she sounded more profe__ional that way. Every time I knew an 's' word was coming, I had to concentrate hard to not let my facial expression change to open disdain.

When the presentation concluded, and she once again extended her fake nailed hand out to me, I wondered - is there a special, preened and polished look that sales people must have, and does that necessarily mean that you look slick? Could someone please close this deal for me? I'm afraid this lead has gone cold.

Xerox fashion: part IV

ss

C.E.Bro (n) sE-E-'broʊ .2009
etymology: C.E.O. (abbrev. of Chief Executive Officer), brother

Def: 1. Executive working within a compliance related profession who suffers apoplexy if the colour of his beige chinos falls outside of the 0.0231% allowable standard deviation.

Collective noun: A meeting of C.E.Bros

Substitute goods Example of C.E.Bros;

Melbourne CBD;

February 2009

Xerox fashion: part III

Cupid’s Bro (n) kyōō'pĭds broʊ .2009
etymology: Cupid’s Bow, brother
Def: 1. A seasonal phenomenon unique to the Southern hemisphere (and peaking around Valentine’s Day) characterised by an unexplainable collective urge to wear white shirts and loafers on ‘casual office Fridays’.
2. Individuals ensnared within the Cupid’s Bro phenomenon, also known as Friday’s Cherubim

White Shite Example of Cupid's Bro;
Melbourne CBD;
February 2009

Bird Watching

If I see another bird silhouette design, I might cry. Stop it! It is not orginal. It is no longer cute. Cut-out resin or mirror bird shapes, bird prints on wooden brooches, tshirts, cushions, art canvas and bags. Fashion bird flu threatens to consume me. I think I need a lay down.

And don't even think, my pretty, about trying to move on from swallows to cutesy lambs, dragonflies or cherry blossom.

No disrespect to the "early bird" mastermind who did it first (she got the worm, got the cash, and has now retired to Milan), but today too many copy cats have the bird by the scruff of its neck, and it's time to put the bloody thing down. Tweet Tweet BANG!

Xerox fashion: part II

...

Broho (n) broʊ-hoʊ .2008
etymology: brother, boho (abbrev. of bohemian)

Def: 1. An individual attempting a unique, counter-cultural or socially alienating style (with particular inspiration drawn from boho-chic or hippie fashion) who has missed the point completely by dressing identically to his friend.

2. Brohemianism defined as the oversaturation of an independent cultural precinct by a single outfit e.g. Brunswick Street’s ‘Fitzroy uniform’.

Collective noun: A greenwich of brohos

Collective noun: A greenwich of brohos

...

...

...

Oh brother which one art thou? Example of Brohos;
Northcote Plaza supermarket;
circa October 2008

Xerox fashion: part I

...

Brogan (n) broʊ-gən .2008

etymology: brother, bogan
Def: 1. Australian English slang (pejorative) for a bogan who, in addition to suffering cheap and poorly selected attire, enlists further bogans (alternate pl. boga) in exhibiting identical garb and personal styling.

2. The public manifestation of identical boga.
Collective noun: A suburb of brogans

Bacteria multiplying Example of brogans;

Melbourne Central shopping centre;

circa September 2008

...

...

...

Why Not Wear It All At Once?

You're sure to have seen her on your daylight shopping expeditions. She is instantly recognisable.

She stands tall, speaking loudly on her Prada phone. Expressions of "Babe" this and "Babe" that, randomly sprout from her perfectly made up mouth.

You gulp as her spray tan competes with her Pucci print maxi dress, and you realise that everything she wears competes for your attention.

She has bathed herself in Gucci by Gucci, and it overpowers passers by - they gag as the fragrant onslaught kicks them in the back of the throat.

She is dripping in designer labels. "Look at me!" Her look screams gaudy, and she has committed a fashion felony by throwing all of her (otherwise timeless) designer pieces together, in the one outfit.

Dare yourself to study this creature, for she has left nothing out. From the signature Chanel diamante earrings,

to the diamante encrusted Dior sunglasses
and the Return to Tiffany bracelet Of course she chooses designer mules for a day of shopping...
and completes her look with a classic Louis Vuitton monogram handbag. But, what is that look?

She is every prestige brand's worst nightmare. Taste eludes her, but she has the cash, and she will buy designer goods by whatever means necessary.

When I consider where this woman is coming from, I conclude that she strives for status and recognition. Does she realise that she epitomises greed, and not style? And why does she dress for shopping, as she would for Fran Drescher's wedding?

Sherpa : Are You Experienced?

One of the key looks for Winter in Australia [next year] will be lumber jackets and sherpa vests, check shirts, ditsy, hippy floral tunics and free love, all pouring out on to the streets, en masse, with love, baby, love.

This inspiration works when it comes from the highly stylised country manor looks of Dolce & Gabbana, and the Gucci [at Woodstock] campaign.

And while this is how I might wear the look...

Of major concern is how every day Australian fashion followers will make it their own [and munt it].

My prediction? A frightening procession of cheap fringing, pigskin leather, micro fibre suede vests, flannelette shirts, and leggings, thrown together in a haphazard way that looks like its come straight from Drovers Run on the set of McLeod’s daughters.

Far out, man.

Lip (dis)Service

Movember is an extremely successful crusade to raise awareness of men’s health issues. Part of its campaign involves men growing a moustache during November, many of whom then front up to their city’s Movember Gala Parté. Outside of its obvious charitable mandate, Movember is an opportunity for otherwise clean shaven men to experiment with some facial styling under the risk free pretext of a good cause.

This year’s campaign has just wrapped up, and already Melbourne’s streets are refilling with rubber-faced blokes with shaving cuts around their top lip. The Garb Wire applauds Movember and its inspiringly innovative approach to its cause. We are, however, a little disappointed with the lack of innovation and follicular brazenness on the part of the temporarily moustachioed.

Before I go on, let me point out that my observations are generalisations. I’m addressing the sighted majority here. With that said, here is my summation of 2008’s Movember: almost every man fashioned their mo into a horseshoe. It’s also important to note that modern day mo categorisation erroneously misclassifies a horseshoe moustache as a handlebar.

Typically the bastion of bikers, fat cricketers and Uncle Chop Chop, the horseshoe moustache is certainly imposing. And these guys have a reliance on fearsomeness given the demands of their job/rap sheet. But the effect needn’t and doesn’t carry over to a fellow in his early 20s and in a suit who had only 29 days to nurture his mo. Instead it just looked like he didn’t mulch his wheatgrass shot finely enough and tried to skol it on a fast moving train.

One other observation I made during Movember was the detection of a more understated but much more worrisome accompaniment to the soup strainer, being the soul patch (known locally as the tickler). For those fortunately unfamiliar with this miscarriage, the soul patch describes the mistake some men make in keeping a small tuft of hair directly below the bottom lip. This flavour of facial hair is completely acceptable if you’re a trumpet player in the 1950s. If one makes the sensible conclusion that you’re not, then you’ve strayed into facial suburbanism with an advertisement on your mug that essentially instructs ‘punch here’. Get rid of it, then get rid of all your Shannon Noll CDs.

So it’s disappointing that the men of Movember didn’t grasp the full extent of this opportunity to really explore what a moustache could do for them. As such, I didn’t see enough Magnum PIs, pencil moustaches or American Air Force cadets – and these should be achievable in the timeframe.

We didn't see enough of these...

We saw too much of these...

We never want to
see this again...

Ben Cousins On Ice

In breaking news, Ben Cousins has promised to focus on his budding theatre prospects and has hopefully now put behind him the abuse, self-destruction and utter wastefulness of a professional sporting career.

Cousins, at his lowest, was one of the AFL’s most decorated players. Barring a relapse, the emerging thespian will now dedicate his future to his more creative pursuits. And with good reason. With a mind now clear from constant physical training and athletic achievement, Cousins is finally realising his potential as much more than a highly capable professional footballer. He has embraced his mantle as a (life)style idol that has for too long been held back by his addiction to professional success.

For those readers who haven’t been able to get past the headlines over the years detailing his public battle with sporting greatness, there are numerous aspects to the man that support this bold move into arena theatre. Always viewing himself as both canvas and muse, he's adroitly combined avant-garde body adornment with his personal exploration into Existentialism and the Self with his ‘Such is life’ stomach tattoo. His fluttering around Malibu’s social scene is prolific and legendary (and likely keeps Summit Centres rehabilitation clinic in the black). And anyone who undergoes full body waxing to accentuate a championship body AND to avoid a hair drug test is obviously on the front foot in personal achievement.

All Eyes on our Kim

L-R:
1. Rayban Wayfarers " I'm a sucker for guys and girls in nerdy glasses. Darkly hot!"

2. The Get Up Kids "I'm an old skool emo fan from way back. The Get Up Kids are from a time before boys started wearing make up, girl jeans and wanting to cut themselves up"

3. Leopardskin pumps "I'm obsessed with anything leopard print, especially my leopardskin heels. They make any outfit HOT!"

4. Buzz Lightyear "I'm a child trapped in an adult's body."

5. Calvin Klein Eternity Moment "This is my new fave now that CK have stopped making Escape."

6. Black Nail Polish "Black nail polish looks hot on all lengths of nails. Ashlee Simpson wears it, so it must be hot!"

7. Apple iPod "I can't go anywhere without music. It's a struggle getting to work when the battery dies."

8. The Beatles "The BEST band in the world. Full stop."

9. Cup Cakes "Cup cakes are everything that is right with the world wrapped up in a nice little package."

10. Lo Rider Bicycle "I haven't got one yet, but it's my life's ambition to own one someday."

11. Chi Chi Lip Gloss "My favourite lipgloss. Tastes so good."

12. Sugarfree V "This is the only thing that keeps me going. I can't live without it!"

Want us to show you off, in pictures? Send us a list of your favourite things now.
Submissions should be emailed to fashionsniper@thegarbwire.com

Nouveau Nail Art

In beauty salons the world over, beauty industry professionals are changing the way we see our fingernails, for good.

Shrieks of “I’m a nail artiste, not a nail technician!” can be heard from Miami to the Gold Coast and beyond.

To be fair, I must give thanks to my muse for this story, who was recently caught with her own interpretation of the stylishly classic French manicure; her nails were cut square, the cuticles were trimmed and the nails were coated with a clear gloss but something wasn’t right. The tips were turquoise, and just where the tip meets the nail was a fine gold line running across each nail. This sits well outside the boundaries of classic style. [Note: A French manicure is when all fingernails are cut square and painted in a clear high gloss lacquer. This is then finished with a brilliant white varnish that covers only the tips of the nails. It is a simple way to groom nails.]

Naturally, true Nail Art deserves to be displayed in a classy Nail Art gallery, so that the very general public can appreciate it for what it really is. And here it is…



Heavy Metal Nails. Girls, want to scare the man in your life? Ask for the “Psycho Style” next time you’re at the local nail salon. “Could Edward Scissorhands please come to reception?”. As you’ll see, it’s not just about the nails themselves, but what the hands wrap around to best showcase the art.

Nails That Go Fast! Please note glamour grip on steering wheel. So, so luxurious.

Nails For Lovers. I can’t work out whether these belong to a porn star, or a woman who is besotted with a silly man who ignores her affections. Regardless, the person who asks for this style has love on their minds and roses in their hands. Some hire sky writers, some express their love through nail art.

Christmas Nails. Ho Ho Ho, it’s festive nail art at it’s finest. See folded iridescent chip pack used as prop for full nail pop effect.

Happy Hour Nails. This silly season, don’t just pop open a bottle of bubbly, decorate your feckin nails! Complete with vines, grapes and strawberries as a decorative garnish. Hic!

Fairytale Nails. For the evil stepmother within you – “Eat the apple. Eeeeeeeeeat the apple. What’s the matter, little girl? Cat got your tongue?” Request this manicure and meet your doom!

Nails for Dog Lovers. A new way to walk the dog. This one has it all – watermelon, glitter, oranges, strawberries, flowers. The perfect way to accessorise any dog paw.

Deep Sea Creature Nails . Perhaps the most dramatic transformation of them all, this nail makeover may haunt my dreams for the rest of my days. You’ll see it’s all in the detail. Forget the coral, that’s the easy part. Note the shells trailing up the arm, and the addded touch of a jelly fish on the right hand. There is even an open clam containing a pearl, which obviously adds value. If you look even closer, you might notice that these arms also belong to a man.

One can only pray (with a glitter ball in palms), that nail art will gel it's way into every girl's heart, and onto her nails.

Fashionninjas Redux

Yes, displaying our Spring Racing Gallery of Amazement has taken longer than we expected. There are a number of contributing factors.

1. So far there has been only a small band of fashionninjas crawling Melbourne’s streets scoping race day indictments


2. A Canon Coolpix digital camera is entirely reliable so long as you’re not taking photos at night. From a moving car. With the flash reflecting off mauve shirts


3. Melbourne actually turned it on. This discovery was both frustrating and heartening. Frustrating because Ms. De Ville and I invested substantial time and money in pre-financial crisis petrol costs rummaging Flemington and associated suburbs in vain; and heartening because we attribute Melbourne’s sartorial renaissance completely to The Garb Wire’s uncomfortable but important online direction.

With that said, here is a meagre upload of some of the snaps. The Garb Wire will still accept further public submissions on this topic, just hit up fashionsniper@thegarbwire.com. And thank you to those who have already submitted content. Granted, much of the received stuff will have to wait for our ‘Miscellany of Dumbfolk Anthology’, but the responses are cherished. Seriously.

Click on the below photos for hi-res splendour...

A Mauve Shirt named Desire
Here’s Yella, from my previous post. He ate his kebab and found love outside the convenience store. He’s still carrying his shopping bag.

Spot the problems
Followers of Ms. De Ville should now have a keen eye for handkerchief hems – but can you spot what’s wrong with the fellas? Dude A looks like a school boy with his shirt untucked. There’s little excuse for this, except if you’ve just come out of a fight, or you’ve just become rapidly intoxicated and have just started a fight. Dude B looks slick but there’s something a subtly goddawful here (and it’s the same affliction Dude A is cursed with). Look closely. That’s right! They’ve both bought their race day shoes from Bunnings! Who would have thought gumboots can come up in such a high sheen?

Access Denied
These girls look lovely save for the fact that they’ve thumbed their powdered noses at keeping on their dress shoes, instead opting to devolve to rubber footwear. Classless.

Unaware
Nothing too deranged, just that this man’s tie is too short. Great if you’re going for the cartoon character look. And his shirt’s mauve. And his gumboots aren’t shiny enough.

The Mauve Ghoul
This was snapped while hurtling down Flinders Street, hence the haziness. But one can still make out some terrible things here. The beer, smoke, security-pass-on-belt trifecta is laughable. No prizes for guessing the colour of his shirt. Hint: it starts with M and ends in vomit.

Bluey
At least the cut’s nice.

Fifi
Admittedly, this photo was selected under duress. Ms. De Ville believes that one should leave a little more to the imagination. I can understand this. The amount of side-boob on offer here is astronomical. With much recent literature written about the highly correlated but inverse relationship between over-sexualised attire and self esteem, I can appreciate that this smacks more of desperation than slick race day lady-garb.

The bug-eyed triptych
Please refer to my previous post on the dangers of stupid looking sunglasses. If you’re not convinced, Dude C should offer some insight into the perils: he’s hitching home because all his mates deserted him for looking atrocious. I don’t think his hair helped his cause much either.

Laying Down The Leggings Law.

I sensed impending mass fad disaster today, when I saw that two different girls had poured themselves into denim look, jean-style leggings, chambray blue in colour, Bettina Liano signature-style white stitching down the sides, with printed-on bum pockets! I believe Supre is to blame, but they usually are.

Life In Leggings.

1. Leggings should be worn as an accessory, with clothes.

2. Wear them with loose fitting tops that rest beneath your backside, and cover your front bum.

3. Do not wear leggings with a midriff top unless your name is Turleen, and you live in a trailer.

4. Only a small percentage of the population actually believes that leggings can be passed off as trousers in the work place. Don't tuck your shirt into them and sashay around the office, no matter how svelte you are.

5. Exposed, full-leg legging exposure is only really ever forgivable if you happen to be entering a gym, or if your name is Sandra Dee, and you've just had a bad girl makeover from the pink ladies. Oh yes, indeed.

Fashionninjas

Derby Day is an annual climatic event that triggers the mass opening of fungal bulbs (Generalis Admittance Flemingtonius) from which are dispersed blonde-tipped and bronzed-up spores of race day fashion pedestrianism. Recent years have seen the phenomenon reach plague proportions. These spores gestate for roughly seven hours within the champagne soaked grasslands of Flemington Racecourse, after which they’re released – carried by their own wind – across Melbourne. By early nightfall their howls and mating cries form an aural mist over an otherwise gentle Melbourne spring night. It will continue until dawn. Some spores will publicly shed parts of their delicate microfiber exoskeletons, some will become ensnared in Freud’s primal web of sexual pursuit and base aggression, and others will simply throw up all over themselves.

For all it’s chaos and shitfulness, Derby Day evening provides cultural observers with rich material. So Ms. De Ville and I went out that night to capture this richness. We realised that we didn’t have the stomach to infiltrate the heartlands of post-race day carousing - those south-of-the-river hotbeds of platinum blodesque, neckglassed, bourbon sodden gastropods – so instead we took a walk down Fitzroy’s Brunswick Street. This doesn’t seems a likely breeding ground for race day dumbfolk, but even the BoHo areas are taken hostage during Spring Racing Carnival.

Armed with a camera, hoodies and shoes we could run fast in, we walked the beat and attempted to surreptitiously snap high-quality specimens. As far as fashion-nijitsu goes, it was fruitful but more of a learning experience than a high yield mission. First lesson learnt was that it’s extremely hard to take covert close range photos of people using a flash. A couple of times I ran the risk of a dust-up with some uncomfortably proximate targets who were bulging out of their shirt collars. We modified our approach so that Ms. de Ville feigned posing for a photo (outside of the 7-Eleven, who would believe that?) and at the last minute I would deftly move the camera to the intended target and take the shot, safe under the pretext of shooting Ms. De Ville’s portrait. This method proved successful, but not as much as Ms. de Ville’s own approach. She would strut down B Street’s runway and shoot, periscope style, straight over her shoulder. This yielded some astonishing visual studies of these limpets.

We intend to re-run this mission on Cup Eve next week, and possibly penetrate areas of richer pickings – so stay tuned for the wholesale unveiling of our preposterous collection after that date. Until then, here’s a teaser…

Yella

A man who has reached the ninth level of inebriated nirvana. And rightly so. Because he’s carrying a plastic bag full of god knows what. It couldn’t be food, because we captured this silverback shambling out of a kebab store (the sandwich board in the foreground the lure). Does he need more food? Perhaps he’s bought stain remover?

Click on the photo for a more intimate study of a man enraptured by banality.

And yes, the picture is deliberately blurred. This is The Garb Wire’s premiere foray into public photos of dickheads, so we’re breaking new ground creatively and legally. So we’ll just see what fallout becomes us. If this thing has legs, then floodgates will open, dams will burst, the obnoxious undercurrent of dumbfolk will be exposed - and The Garb Wire will become a clearing house for such civic scrutiny. But before then, we will wait, and keep an eye on the reaction from our readership (and various local municipal enforcing bodies). Please leave a comment and tell us your views…

Melbourne Cup's least edifying moments numbers 2,3 and 4

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A short while ago The Age Online, in celebration of Flemington's mediocrity, published a photo gallery of the past five years' worth of trackside revelry. I have reproduced the more pertinent images here for two reasons. Firstly, there are important fashion lessons within each picture. Secondly, each picture contains my favourite subclass of human.

Cornrow and Cowgirl

You may be mistaken for thinking my beef here is with the cornrows and unashamed shirtlessness. Nope. Cornrows: fine. If you've got the fortitude to weather - every single day of your tightly braided life - the disdaining stares and unhidden smirks then go for it. Similarly, if you want to rock a bare chest at an event where every intelligent man is wearing a suit then I'll defend you backed by the assumption that you've exhausted all other attempts at individualism.

No, my problem is with the cowgirl hat. That's right, it's not a cowboy hat because it's not wide enough. It's a prop pioneered and made common by female erotic dancers to simulate that 'rawhide' fantasy for seated oglers. This guy just didn't get it and must have thought it would give him an edge. Apparently, it seems to only have made him more comfortable taking off his clothes in front a crowd who paid to be there. Funny that.

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The Bourbonator

I don't have a problem accessorising with empties. Or having your mates do it for you if you've lost all motor function from the tubes of suburban and coke you've thrown back.

And now for a quick game... how many different brands of pre-mixed drink can you see on this person? The answer may surprise you. It certainly surprised him.

Yet this fashion lesson is brought to us courtesy of the background grinner: if you want to wear a diagonally striped shirt then you can only appear in public within the year 2001.

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No comment

There's little relevant to say here, save to point out that those who wish to go tube for tube with The Bourbonator ought to heed the messages postulated in one of my prior posts.

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To continue the good work laid out here by The Age, recent graduates out of The Garb Wire Academy of Fashion Faux-tography will be at Flemington in force this week, as the Spring Racing Carnival reaches it's braying crescendo. They're saddled with the municipal obligation of compiling a visual database of the very worst of fashion injustices.

So stay tuned for galleries upon galleries of The Carnival of Dumbfolk in the near future...

Spotted: Car Adornment Catastrophe

One tourist in Fitzroy chose to devalue his Mitsubishi Magna by displaying the stickers shown below.











Lock up your daughters, indeed.

Bird On A Wire : Thou Shalt Wear Mauve

Oh me, oh my, as Spring Racing fever hits Melbourne, some wanker has decreed that purple shirts be worn by all the men appearing as part of the Spring Racing Carpark Set.

Fellas, team your mauve shirt with a mauve tie, and complete your outfit with some footballer blonde tips in your hair, and a pair of prestige (read: masstige) sunglasses worn on your neck.

Melbourne Cup’s least edifying moments number 1

Those who appreciate the amalgam of fashion, racing and amateur pornography will remember Melbourne Cup 2003 for the scandalous (and thankfully brief) union between Paris Hilton and Australia’s very own Robert “Millsy” Mills.

Ms. Hilton needs no introduction, save to say she had been wooed with champagne and appearance fees to attend the Cup that year. Mr Mills should be much more difficult to recollect, for he was one of the early burnouts from the first season of Australian Idol. Googling Millsy yields little by way of thorough biography but does reveal the young and once aspiring singer also burned out as host on one of those shocking late night audience call-in scam shows. In fact, Millsy’s high water mark on the Belvedere-slicked pontoon of celebrity was, indeed, his tryst with Hilton. The press deduced the length of their coupling to last only the duration of the race itself plus the time it took Millsy to pull the grass out of his hair and re-sculpt his idiotic quiff. During this brief encounter the press also managed to capture in all its glory some choice snaps of this ungodly double act. And within these images is the resplendent depiction of race fashion suffering terminal wounding.

Please refer to this post’s photo. There are a few things going wrong here. Ms. Hilton I have less problem with: she’s undressed in a typically revealing and garish ensemble. Frankly I think it’s fine because it’s Paris. The fact that her hat resembles the screw cap from a Listerine bottle is regrettable but at least is allows focus to be drawn to her more famous body parts.

Millsy is another, more terrible, story. First of all let’s get out of the way all the things he’s done right with his appearance. OK. Now let’s move on to his appalling misjudgements. The suit is funereal and shapeless: one couldn’t get further from the mark for a spring racing carnival. The shirt and tie aren’t too offensive but again do little to address the occasion. That’s about it for the garb, so let’s examine the rest of the look. Millsy’s head is certainly badly accessorised. In addition to bankrolling that rubbery grin, Millsy’s melon also discharges an abominable hairdo. The quiff is punctuated with blonde tips and accommodates a pair of extremely suburban sunglasses. If his brief that day was to blend in with all other badly dressed men attending, Millsy’s done that with aplomb. If he had better forethought the fact that his meeting Ms. Hilton was to provide his only meaningful publicised pictures then I would hope he’d have risen to the occasion. But Millsy is my dead hope.

Fashion Sniper : Top To Toe Branding

Last night one of our self appointed fashion snipers reported in to Majorca De Ville.

Spotted on train : victim in top to toe Ed Hardy - cap, glasses, diamante
tee, embellished jeans, sneakers and bag. No joke, all Ed Hardy. Leaves one to wonder if he is sporting the new ed hardy underwear range underneath?

Look at this guy. He's not related to this tale of Hardly Imaginative Spattoo clothing. This guy is what I imagine our Ed Hardy friend looked like. He wears two pairs of jeans that have been double distressed 75 times.

Fashion Sniper: Will you be the next target?

(Disg)racing Fashion

Today The Age Online cheerily uploaded some footage entitled Racing Fashion do’s [sic] and don’ts. The Age managed to run the video in the correct season, but that’s about all they got right.

The Garb Wire ran a fashion audit uncovering 178 mistakes within the video. How many can you find?

Click here to be amused.

++ For Immediate Release ++

The Naughties : Time for the Guru?

I recently read with great interest about a new range of skincare products coming to Australia from the UK.

Nish Joshi is the supposed guru of holistic health care in the UK and has a loyal following of celebrity clients including Gwyneth Paltrow, Sadie Frost, Patsy Kensit and Ralph Fiennes.

Despite not completely understanding their philosophy on skin care, "working from the inside out as well as the outside on", I rather liked the story of Joshi and couldn't believe how affordable the product was. As soon as it arrived at Myer, I raced to the store at lunch time, and bought $200 worth of product; one of everything on the shelves.

Importantly the Joshi skincare range does not contain parabens, synthetic fragrances, colours or silicones in any of the products. It is allegedly a "range that answers the call for skin-care that works – naturally". It does contain benzoic acid, dehydroacetic acid, alcohol, cetearyl alcohol, and my favourite, Phenoxyethanol, which feels suspicously like acid and alcohol, with acid and alcohol.Sure, I've had lots of compliments on my glowing complexion lately, and my pores are smaller than they have been in years, but why is my skin actually flakier than ever? Flaky? Me?

See below for some carefully placed celebrity endorsements that maketh the brand... It must be a whole new world when the Guru is your best friend, and you're a celebrity, and you hang out with Madonna and Sadie and Stella McCartney.

"Joshi is truly special. I love him"

GWYNETH PALTROW

"You completely trust yourself with Joshi. He's an amazing man"

SADIE FROST

"I pretty much regard Joshi as my GP... He would be the first

person I'd turn to for medical advice"

RALPH FIENNES
"Joshi and I had a casual fling that nearly cost me my marriage.

I can only hope that Aesop will take me back."
MAJORCA DE VILLE

Vain = Pain

This week Posh Spice was eclipsed by her own shoes while she was busy eclipsing her own fragrance launch. Why? Because she was wearing knee-high black latex platforms that elevated her roughly six inches off the ground, without these shoes actually being supported by any heels. In a blatant nose-thumb to gravity, Antonio Berardi has designed a range of sky-scraping heels - without heels. I’m not actually sure of the structural underpinnings that allow such a shoe (I’ll presume that NASA was involved) but I am sure that they would be a bitch to wear and that Posh will probably wake up soon with a couple of club feet. But they looked amazing and everyone is talking (and blogging) about them and that’s all that matters - because fashion equals sacrifice. Frankly, I don’t know, nor ever personally want to know, how uncomfortable these shoes really are. So not being able to get hold of Posh this week, I consulted the one person I know who is acquainted with the sensation of heellessness…

Not long ago, Ms. De Ville and I were enjoying a late night session in one of Fitzroy’s more esteemed pool halls, the stairs leading up to which being older than Stonehenge and not nearly as structurally well preserved. Ms. De Ville’s Michael Kors Pocahontas boots fell foul of a loose step and both heels disengaged from their moccasin mother-ships and flew several metres. Ladies more practical but less fashionable would at this point either take off the boots or just walk about on the newly flattened soles. But Ms De Ville instead carried on as if the heels were still present and conceived the (h)optical illusion that Berardi is attempting to claim credit for. Over the ensuing few hours Ms De Ville's calves and back received an uncompromising workout as she attempted to walk (and joust at the pool table) using just the balls of her feet. The evening became expletive-ridden and the walk home nightmarish. But at least she got the jump on Posh by about a month, not that the paparazzi took any more notice than usual.

And from all this I have begun to think about the many ways the fairer sex sacrifice comfort to appease the gods of fashion. My male musings stirred questions such as ‘what is the most painful procedure a lady undertakes to achieve/maintain beauty?’ or ‘which procedure actually yields the best results?’ and finally ‘which procedure is just an absurd waste of time, money and nerve endings?’. Empathy only gets one so far, so I’ve again relied on Ms De Ville’s first hand familiarity with self-beautilation to round out my analysis of these unfathomable practices. This, unmercifully, is probably not an exhaustive list…

Plucking
MdV (on the pain): the first few times are really bad, especially since that’s the time in your life that you have two full blown moustaches above your eyes, and the skin is sensitive.
The Sir (on the gain): if the alternative is a bushy forehead then it’s worth the short term smarting.

Waxing
MdV (on the pain): a millisecond of pain = the satisfaction of not worrying about a mo’, or looking like you’ve rolled around in manure and fertilizer (like they must’ve in the 70s)
The Sir (on the gain): absolutely necessary, regardless of the pain. What went wrong in the 70s?

Tanning bed
MdV (on the pain): I think spray tans are the way to go these days. Who wants to look like they’re in a calisthenics championship in the mid 80s anyway?
The Sir (on the gain): Does this really not hurt? You’re cooking yourself in a sarcophagus sized oven. OK, so even if it’s painless, this article ought to put a sobering spin on it.

High heels
MdV (on the pain): High heels are not practical in any sense. Not the structure or the price tag. However it is widely known that they not only improve the posture and extend the line of the leg, but they make women feel irresistible.
The Sir (on the gain): discomfort’s worth it.

Make up
MdV (on the pain): The art of make up is that it looks like you’re wearing half as much as you really are. Avoid it for as long as you can, because there comes a time when you NEED it.
The Sir (on the gain): Subtle make up is good, anymore and you look like a clown’s wife.

Pilates
MdV (on the pain): My friend swears by it, I’ve never done it and the word ‘Pilates’ conjures visions of women suspended in metal cages, using different pulleys and weights and suspensions for, like, exercise type stuff.
The Sir (on the gain): I just added this in because I don’t honestly know what it is. If it’s exercise that enhances a practitioner’s healthiness and flexibility, then I think that’s great. And I want to see those pulleys in action.

Eyelash curling
MdV (on the pain): It is painless, and provides a quick perm-a-lash treatment, which I usually do in the car on the way to work. This is an important tool for any make up kit.
The Sir (on the gain): maybe it’s because Ms De Ville is only ever present in large sunglasses, but I don’t think I’d notice or condemn lashes that haven’t been mechanically curled. The inventor of the eyelash curler is probably still laughing at this sham, and is most likely a bloke.

Electrolysis
MdV (on the pain): $$$
The Sir (on the gain): Much like Pilates, I didn’t know what this was. Now that I know it’s part of the hair-removal industry, I simply cannot encourage it enough.

Push-up bra
MdV (on the pain): It’s still support, after all. The only discomfort can be weathering the consequent leers.
The Sir (on the gain): Why are there other models beside the push-up bra?

Fashion Sniper: Denim Handbags

Spotted: A denim jeans handbag on the streets of Melbourne. I was hanging out with a friend at the time and had to stop mid sentence to gawk at a she-man toting

a Yeehar! Line dance lovin' Hoot-en-anny

of a handbag. Well, I’ll be. A genuine over-the-arm arse. A google search later confirmed that there is an entire craft industry devoted to turning pre-loved jeans into old-hat pieces of artsy crafty monstrosities to be passed off as “accessories”.

Arse-ssories.

Click here for an important instructional video on this ridiculous craft.

Fashion Sniper: Will you be the next target?

++We have changed our website address++

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The Garb Wire gladly accepts fanmail and other assorted well-wishes, however we ask that any media enquiries or correspondence of a business nature relating to the new address continue to be forwarded to our lawyers: Garfield Jung & Boonwah.

AFL's Brown(g)low Award night

The Australian Football League conducts its finals events this month. Some of them are awards ceremonies. Some are bombastic media affairs. Many are actual games of football. And others are alcohol or substance fuelled rampages by professional footballers that result in outrageous violence and/or sex crimes. Excluding the final group, all these events attract a lot of attention because of the fashion deployed.

The Brownlow Night (the league’s best and fairest award ceremony), especially, now allows the dress choices of the wives’ and girlfriends’ (WAGs) to eclipse the sporting merit of football’s finest stars. And through a purely fashion-focussed lens, there’s good ground for this: ladies look lovely in ball gowns. Dangerously, this is where The Sir’s clinically objective summation of fashion can become a little, ah, influenced by lewdness. Football functions now acquiesce to the sprayed-onslaught of overly provocative garb, and Brownlow night is the zenith of such eye-poppingly risqué attention grabs. But sometimes this is ok. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve begged Ms. De Ville to just once loosen her adherence to the ‘legs OR boobs’ edict when selecting dresses, so it’s shamefully refreshing to see the WAGs cast chastity to the wind and attempt the ‘legs AND boobs AND arse’ hat-trick. It’s also prudent to invest in tanning salons the week before Brownlow night as they are guaranteed to do a roaring trade in catering for the ladies’ need to bronze up all this exposed flesh for the cameras.

At least this diverts attention from the black tie dress code’s appalling bastardisation by footballers’ ham-fisted interpretations of a dinner suit. Most footballers loping down the red carpet in recent years look like they’re off to a business seminar, in the suburbs, in the 80s. Or they look like they’ve paid a chimp to tailor a suit out of carpet from a cinema. And why have they sculpted their hair into a peacock’s fan? You’re meant to be MEN, for chrissakes. At least it gave me heart to observe a renaissance of bow ties at this year’s Brownlow. Even the eventual award recipient was in a tuxedo – not that I know his name. I also don’t know the name of the footballer husband of Rachael McLeod but I know his number is 23. Why? Because that was the number glued to Ms. McLeod’s back in diamantes. If diamonds are a girl’s best friend, then diamantes are the girl’s best friend’s fat sister.

Majorca De Ville : Bird On A Wire

The Garb Wire has travelled up the east coast, to Cairns, land of the big reef sandal.

Never before have I witnessed so many variations of the sensible, comfort slide. They come in tan, cognac and black, are made of leather, wet suit fabric and lots of clunky rubber. They are synonomous with XXXX beer, Bundy Rum, and gender muddying she men. I often see these offending articles in shops like Colorado and Doc Marten, and I wonder who buys them. The answer?People in Cairns!! People who travel to Cairns. People of all cultures, shapes, sizes and genders.

These sandals need to go straight to bad shoe heaven, to sit with Crocs on one side, and Blundstones on the other. Of major concern is that the sandals are usually only a small part of a larger, more banal vision of a man wearing chinos and a sensible, corporate polo shirt.

The moment people turn their backs on fashion and choose to wear these non descript comfort ensembles is when they themselves get stereotyped by people like us, and sent to their beige rooms.

Why can’t today’s fashion come up with cool names like those in the 50s?

Rockabilly. Beehive. Greaser. Stovepipes. Brothel Creepers. Teddy Boy. Fedora. Cristóbal Balenciaga Eisaguirre.

Some of these represent fashion or cultural movements, others are items of apparel. And in the case of Balenciaga - a tremendous and pioneering designer.

And what are we left with now? Today’s streamlined and sheared down vernacular has spawned monstrous phrases to describe even worse fashion miscarriages. But interestingly today’s fashion slash lifestyle commentary has employed one of my favourite literary instruments – the portmanteau, which refers to the squashing together of two words to illustrate the outcome of such squashings in real life. Possibly its most illuminated application has been when Hollywood big shots decide to marry or reproduce... Brangelina! TomKat! Bennifer! Or the term used for the litter of the entertainment industry’s last generation: celebutante and celebutard. The fashion world is similarly Germanic in amalgamating words. We’ve weathered the hydrated and sculpted storm of Metrosexuality; then we endured the humiliating extension with such toe-curlers as mandana and manscara (which led the weeklies to coin my current favourite term: bromance).

But today’s fashion doesn’t just evoke portmanteaux, evidenced by the substitution of jewellery with bling* and the substitution of hairstyle with utter abomination. But not to be held back, the dark side of fashion has leapt beyond the reach commentators with utterly bewildering mistakes as popped collars and rubber bracelets (these, ostensibly, began as visual receipts from donating to a worthy cause but were soon hijacked by the dumbfolk). So with this last dig I realise I’m now straying away from my original point, but I simply cannot help but pan this stratum of misguidance.

So can someone please reignite the romance of the 50s' coining of fashion?

*for those who enjoy the etymology or categorisation of new words, please note bling is not onomatopoetic, as might be initially thought. This makes sense, as jewellery doesn’t actually make any sound, let alone the sound ‘bling!’. It’s actually a representation of the article, much like when money is represented by dollar signs appearing in a cartoon character’s eyes accompanied by the sound of a cash register ringing up a sale – money itself doesn’t make that sound. Similarly, bling evokes the sound made when one strikes a precious metal with a gem hammer – think of the noise TV deploys when a character’s gold filling flashes. The literary term for this is ideaphone.

Street pizza delivery

I live in Fitzroy in Melbourne, just one block from the bubbling cultural medley of Brunswick Street. It’s an enlivening experience. The strip has an awful lot to offer the eaters and drinkers and - as I observe most Saturday and Sunday mornings – typically the eaters and drinkers eat and drink more than they can keep down. I’m talking about having to weave around pools of vomit on my way to collect the newspaper and a Babka loaf.

Now, The Garb Wire concerns itself with matters of high fashion and cutting edge style, so I can understand our discerning readership’s collective eyebrow raising at this point. But bear with me because I need to further describe revelry’s unsavoury by-product in just a little more detail before my point becomes clear…

Street pizza - as it’s known on the, ah, street - is the result of the dumbfolk reversing an evening’s meal onto the pavement. It’s disgusting but indiscriminately affects anyone rolling a double-one on the craps table of binge drinking. Many street pizzas preserve the characteristics of their former incarnation, in fact last weekend I observed a brilliantly reproduced tagliatelle alla boscaiola in a full starburst only metres from the door of a venue renowned for serving Jägermeister.

Anyone exposed to television’s overuse of the ‘crime drama’ genre will be familiar with what forensic ballistic specialists refer to as ‘splatter patterns’. The term describes the pattern blood (or something else) makes as the result of some unfortunate event, and can provide insight into what exactly happened. This term can also apply to a Bacardi sneezer – whereby anything outside of a full pizza suggests that the offending matter must have ricocheted off the sufferer. Or their clothes or shoes.

So here’s where today’s musing finally gets to fashion, or in this case: protective fashion. Do those who have an unflattering history of hurricane vomiting over themselves actually think about how absorbent (or repellent) their clothes are of second hand kebabs? Given the absence of 18 year olds bar-hopping in raincoats, I’d guess not.

That point may not be entirely true, upon reference to our more ‘suburban’ friends. Has anyone noticed the rapid uptake of both garishly patterned hoodies and Jäger bombs? Do these wretched patterns serve to camouflage the wearer’s liquefied burger down the front?

So should revellers be more mindful of the probability of wearing their dinner home when dressing up for an evening out? Maybe waterproofs are overkill, but surely wearing a mink bib is unnecessarily courting danger? What’s an ensemble that succeeds in balancing fashion with the need for a barf shield?

Binge Bidding

I recently discovered a fantastic online gambling site called eBay - I think it’s is really going to take off. It allows any punter with money and a salivary gland to bid on stuff over the internet. Quite a range of stuff actually. I’ve become unhelpfully obsessed and have spent the past week glued to the website, feverishly bidding on shite I don’t need and certainly don’t know the real value of.

If you think this is an effective method of parting me from my millions then you should see what happens when I add booze - which is exactly what I did last Thursday night. Unsatisfied with my usual online purchasing irresponsibility, I soaked myself in three bottles of faahn waahn and launched a blistering attack on the late night bidding community.

The details can be only hazily recollected. I laid down about a thousands bids. Possibly more. It was the thrill of the hunt that ensnared me. I was less interested in the goods peddled than the thrill of running down other doe-eyed bidders. I’d tickle them with low opening bids, and then goad the stayers with marginal increases before shattering online dreams with ridiculous last minute broadsides.

My triumph was the purchase of a pair of Art Deco silver and onyx cufflinks. I went to bed (I think) content with my stranglehold over the online markets.

The next day brought with it an aching head and some upsetting discoveries. I swung open the laptop and upon closer and less intoxicated inspection of my glorious cufflinks I quickly deduced that I had been a little imprudent with their purchase. It seems I’m not big with small print. Yes, the cufflinks were coloured silver. No, they weren’t made from silver. They were wrought from a lovely substance called marcasite. Wikipedia ratified my growing despondency…

“The mineral marcasite, sometimes called white iron pyrite, is iron sulphide (FeS₂). Marcasite is often mistakenly confused with pyrite, but marcasite is lighter and more brittle. Specimens of marcasite often crumble and break up due to the unstable crystal structure.”

So I’d bought chemically unstable cufflinks. It doesn’t end there. My despondency rapidly turned into anger and humiliation after further scrutiny of the product photo, at which point I realised the item I’d bought was actually a pair of earrings. Chemically unstable earrings. I guess that’s a lot safer. I also discovered that in my frenzy I’d also put down the wrong mailing address. But that’s fine, I don’t want any goddam marcasite anywhere near me anyway.

And how much did The Sir pay for his marcasite earrings? The reader with the closest guess wins a pair of Art Deco silver and onyx cufflinks.