A. Asymmetrical hair. The only haircut worse than the “business in front; party in back” mullet, the asymmetrical cut said “Do I know you from english class or lesbian softball team tryouts?” Was decidedly not a guy magnet.
B. Walkman headphones. Ubiquitous. Usually playing a heavy rotation of REM, Elvis Costello, Squeeze, Prince and Talking Heads albums, unless a tape jammed and was eaten by my Walkman, in which case they functioned as tiny earmuffs.
C. Crazy earrings. Loud, strange, “arty” ones that I thought expressed my “frustrated artist lost in a world of wannabe Gordon Gekkos” mentality. Mainly they just got caught on my Forenza sweaters or wapped me in the face on windy days.
D. Vintage men’s overcoat. My father was particularly troubled by the fact that his daughter intentionally dressed like a Lower East Side pickle salesman. I thought my look rocked.
E. Oversized cotton sweater from The Limited. I owned three of these shapeless ¾ sleeved, cheesesteak-fattened-ass coverers that I wore over a collection of leggings and zipper-legged pants from Reminiscence. Yeah, that was a slimming look.
F. Keffiya. The preferred neckwear of college students protesting the school’s investments in South Africa. Because if you’re looking for a fashion inspiration, you can’t do better than Yasser Arafat. My parents forbade me to wear it when visiting my grandfather, who swore he had ties to The Jewish Defense League.
G. Rotating button exhibit. Usually included a dozen Canal Jean Company pins in a rainbow of colors. I thought I looked cool, but really resembled Jennifer Aniston’s “flair” bedecked waitress in Office Space.
H. Rolled up sleeves. On everything. I wasn’t going for a Miami Vice look; that’s just what happens when you buy oversize men’s coats and sharkskin smoking jackets. (Yeah, I did. You mean they weren’t cool either? Gah.)
I. Black leggings. Oversize top, skinny pants, garish socks, clunky black shoes? Check, check, check, check. And is that “Electric Avenue” I hear? Let’s hit the dance floor.
K A B L O O E Y
K A B L O O E Y is a 47 year old non-practicing filmmaker who lives with Phineas at an undisclosed suburban location. Their three kids are Moochie (6), Lonzie (20) and The Big Puppy (22). She (who am I kidding, I’m writing this myself) tweets @kblooey and has two goals: 1) To make creative work a central part of my life, and 2) To keep my family from needing the services of the Supernanny.