Warning: staring directly at apparel may cause permanent damage to corneas.
My daughter is now eight, so I’m happy to report that I’m done with globe-headed Caillou, that whiny little fuck, and Chuck E. Cheese, the flea-bitten, steroidal, rat-boy. These are massive plusses in my book, and they brought me as much joy as did throwing out the rectal thermometer.
However, these parental joys are balanced out by a new horror: having to enter the black hole of ugliness – the Justice store. This mall chain caters to suburban tweenage (I want to shoot myself just typing that “word”) girls with an affinity for neon and shiny objects. The stores themselves are infinitely dense nuggets of tween fashion trends collapsed inward by the weight of their day-glow hideousness. If Tim Gunn were merely to glance into one, his eyeballs would liquefy and melt down his cheeks. [Read more...]