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9:37 am | 06 August 2004 | not so Lucky

Like so many other things in life, I have an intense love/hate relationship with fashion magazines: as in, I love them, and they make me hate myself. They are pure girlie crack, I am insanely pathological about reading them, and the high only lasts for twenty minutes--the approximate amount of time it takes to read one from front-to-back. The moment the first smudgy handmark or crumple mars the glossy surface of a page, it is worthless; the glow is gone; the glamour, as they say, is gone. Remember that glamour means deception: in the old days, the faeries would "throw a glamour," tricking mortals into believing them to be human, or horse, and then robbing them blind or eating them! AWESOME! Faeries are fucking badass!

So but anyway: I'm a spastic drooler for magazines, and one of my favourites is the oft-touted Lucky, the magazine that pulls no insulting punches by pretending to be about anything other than shiny-things-and-where-to-get-them. Lucky is "the magazine about shopping," as its tagline goes, and isn't out to wreck my retail high by putting some little fake-concern article about African female genital mutilation in the front of the magazine.* Lucky is pretty hip, shows a variety of price points (including even the magazine-land unspeakable Old Navy, and vintage or thrifted stuff). But despite the pornographic six-page layouts of like slouchy handbags or whatever, despite the minute discussion of various d'Orsay shoe buckles, etc., Lucky is relentlessly annoying in its copywriting.

Realizing, wisely, that its readers have no wish to trawl through troublesome actual articles, the magazine sprays the photos of its wares with little handwriting-font phrases explaining the import of the camisole or whatever, such as "Girly when paired with** pink stilettos." A big fave--BIG one--is "luxe." This, it would seem, is the ultimate compliment in Luckyville, since we all want to look rich, moneyful, worthy of much dollar-spending, ostensibly from either our daddies or boyfriends. Or both! "Down-filled ermine kneesocks: so luxe." And then, of a woven rattan tote: "For a second I thought this bag was preppy, and then I realized that it was the answer to a city summer work bag." Whew! Thank God you came to that realization! I myself might've made the same grievous thinking-it's-preppy mistake! PRAISE ALLAH FOR YOUR GUIDANCE IN ALL THINGS SARTORIAL!

Of course, you can't really blame the editors. We have to remember that fashion is a pitfally swamp that leaves many lost, wandering, prey to crappy sandals and the true horror of the skort. A quick visit to the Lucky dicussion forums is not only an exercise in feeling-superior-to-people, but it is one of crucial annoyance after about twenty seconds. The ladies that experience this level of devotion to Lucky are bitches, guys. And not "bitches" how I'm a snarky "look at these bitches!" bitch. No, bitches like the following exchange (direct quotes; each line is a different poster):

41255. is bandolino shoes any good?
-i swear by them
-Nice grammar.
-Hey look, the grammar police is back!
-funny :) Lets not forget 12 and 14 year old girls do
-Oh, well thank God your condesending ass is here!
-Did I hit a nerve?!
-Not the original poster, I just hate you as much as your by significant other probably does!
-oh yeah, nice friggin' shoes
-i believe it is "no one LIKES and know-it-all"
-LOL, doesn't change the sentiment does it
Now, I know some of you may be choking on your Twizzlers reading that I, the grammar headmistress, would call someone else a bitch for pointing it out. But that's the thing. You DON'T point it out in casual conversation unless you are a total dick. I hate bad grammar and sloppy spelling like I hate black platform flip-flops, and I was hard-pressed not to pepper the extract above with our friend the (sic), but the original poster was just asking about some fucking shoes, and this pack of insecure she-wolves just pounced all over her incorrectly-writing, tacky-shoe-loving ass. But let's move on. The forums are good for pressing questions like "Do Marc Jacobs pants run small?" (answer: YES) but that's about all.

Worst of all, kittens, I hate that bitch Andrea Linnett, she who cracked the Unpreppy Rattan Tote Code above. You may remember her as the horsey manfaced ex-Sassy editor. You may also know her as the sledge-jawed current Lucky fashion director who is usually represented by annoyingly facile fake-amateur cartoons in the pages of the rag. She can't help, it would seem, but revel in her fashion-land entitlement; when she writes the last page of editorial content, which is merely an Andrea Revue, a list of things she thinks are great. Which she cannot help but to effuse about in the most irritating manner: "This ring is available through So-and-So Boutique online (www.soandso.com) for only $45, but it's similar to the artisanal garnet stunner my friends bought me last year (on an island that is similar to St. Bart's, but way better and more exclusive) for $6,800." I'm not kidding. This is a near-exact paraphrase of last August's ramble from this bitch. And it's worse because she is convinced she's God's gift to fashion, and it's only because she can afford to drop $780 on a lingerie set, the skeletal, Easter-Island-headed crone. GOD she makes me freak out with her prancy, I'm-a-pretty-princess foolishness. If I ever see her, I'ma slap her upside her jutting, clifflike forehead with that $6,800 garnet ring. I'm not saying her opinions aren't usually right, because they are; girl knows how to make an ankle look skinny. But it's that last page of Lucky that chaps my ass raw. "I must have these things to get through my favourite season!" she yelps. Who gets through--endures--something they call their "favourite"? On second though, though, I will tell you this much: I love Lucky, but I need a half-pint of Scotch to get through it. Luxe! clm.


*It isn't, friends, that I don't care about the horror and atrocity that is female genital mutilation; it's just that with a lot of ladymags, Glamour and Marie Claire, usually, the magazine is ordered in a specific and almost Bible-like way, such as: Table of Contents, Editor's Letter, Reader Letters, Two Pages of Fluffy Stuff, Four Pages on the Horror of Female Genital Mutilation, Makeup Trends, New Hairstyles, One Serious-ish Article on Men or Cosmetic Surgery, Fashion Trends You Can Afford, Fashion Trends You Can't, Horoscope. Vogue and Harper's Bazaar have serious articles on real problems such as, Where is the New Hamptons? and What If Black Really Isn't The New Black? and the delightful disdain of food critic par excellence Jeffrey "Cuddlebug" Steingarten, whose swooning paeans to esoteric grains and snooty denouncement of restaurants such as Chili's have won him a place in my heart forever. Anyhow, there's this idea that men's magazines don't tend to have that Genital Mutilation article; they have no compunction with being 100% about things guys want, and want to have--they don't have to temper or pay for their desires by having a social or philanthropic focus. And while I agree that perhaps they should, and while I certainly am not insensible to the total disaster the world is spiraling rapidly into, I don't think we as women should have to pre-atone for looking at new makeups by first slogging through a story about women suffering elsewhere. Also: when I want news, I get it from news sources, not from fucking Cosmo, thank you very much. It's so totally insulting that these magazines might actually operate under the premise that this is the ONLY way women would possibly hear about foreign civil rights violations or whatever that it makes me want to puke into my Hermés Birkin bag.

**Another raging Luckyism: "Paired with." "Pair these parachute pants with a strappy tank for maximum impact!" God, it just makes your hair singe.


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