Flipped collars, Flamboyance, and the Success of Spandex.

A dear friend of mine from high school has recently started a fashion blog based in Chicago that specifically targets style for the working professional (http://theworkingwardrobe.com/). She just got her first independent style consulting gig today. What that means, exactly, I'm not sure, though judging by the fact that I wear moccasins to work four days out of five (and All-Stars on Fridays!), her services are probably targeted towards casually-frocked culprits like me. Anyway, in tribute to her, I would like to take a moment to pontificate on some of my experiences in fashion out East.

We of the Midwest have a particular vision of fashion on the East Coast, usually involving Pastel Polo Parades and flipped collars so starched they threaten to lop of an ear upon any sudden movement. Incidentally, this vision does indeed materialize, particularly around the freshman area of Harvard. Now I understand why my high school (Wayland Academy, a boarding school where my dad teaches physics) had a dress code--to be more "East Coast." Of course, I was oblivious at the time to the implication that "East Coast" meant "prestigious." No one seemed to mind that our women's ties and tweed blazers provided endless fodder for contempt from people at the public school.

Anyway, despite the stereotypes, over the past year in Boston I've noticed that the style spectrum extends beyond the boat shoes and walking advertisements for Brooks Brothers in Harvard Square.

I can say that one of the best places for the style sleuth has to be the Faneuil Hall area on a Friday night. Faneuil Hall, not my usual nighttime hangout, is located downtown, just a five minute walk from the harbor. It's an old area, so much of the sidewalk is actually cobblestone (tourists dig cobblestone). There is a large area around Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall in which no cars are allowed, and the only way to migrate to the next bar is to tread over the treacherously uneven brick. Now combine cobblestone with 100s of swaggering drunk women in their 20-somethings teetering upon dangerously tall toothpick heels, clinging onto their sheepish boyfriends, who are trying their utmost to remain serious and manly about their slightly sloppy situations. While I've spotted some nice patent leather spikes in this area, my experiences as a spectator have made me want to refrain from sprucing up in stilettos.

Another demographic which seems to have found inspiration lately, particularly in the realm of "the headdress", is the homeless of Boston. See, there is a scruffy-looking fellow (presumably and sadly homeless, as he is usually carrying several loaded trash bags with him) who wanders around my work neighborhood in the ritzy Beacon Hill--Back Bay area. The special thing is that he wears some sort of feather headdress. I never want to stare too much, but it seems as though he has cut a strip of plastic to fit his head and adorned it with feathers of various fowl and size. The weird follow-up occurred a few days ago when I caught the 39 bus going south from Copley to Jamaica Plain. On the bus, I noticed that another woman, also homeless, was wearing a similar headdress, silently watching the stately brick apartments of the Back Bay whirl past. Are the homeless of Boston combining forces in the inauguration of a fashion "haus"? Is the mysterious headdress a mere coincidence? Am I missing some kind of subtle portent? Am I living in a David Lynch film? What?

Another fervor of fashion that has overtaken Boston (and much of the globe, unfortunately) is the "skinny jean." For those of you lucky few who aren't familiar, skinny jeans are simply very, very tight jeans (sometimes enhanced with spandex) that are so tapered they cut off the circulation in your calf muscles. The skinny jean is also God's way of saying that you have the figure of a double-scooped ice cream cone. Furthermore, how do these ladies get their feet through those narrow ankle-exits? I've tried on skinny jeans; I know how long it takes to get your feet through those unforgiving mouse holes. But then again, I have rather large feet.

And finally, and perhaps on a more personal note, I wish to touch on the resurgence of animal print spandex in my life. Recently, a dear and brilliant friend of mine has found it very necessary to sport this luxuriously tacky print not once but twice in the same week! What are the ramifications for a ruggedly handsome European fellow of donning a tight, midriff-baring cheetah print mock-neck at a downtown club on "Gay Saturday"? How do tipsy women at a housewarming party respond to tall Belgian men in sleeveless, curve-hugging, tiger-patterned evening gowns? The rest of the world may never know, but thanks to the past week, I now do.