Things I Hate

Naught Couture

Affectations of the nouveaux riche—bling in the pop lexicon—got its bump into the mainstream off hip-hop's ghetto fab flavor in the 198o's.  Run's gold records begat Rakim's gold rings and soon every rapper from Hollis to Harlem was lampin' in Louis Vuitton. NYC DOT could have covered the LIE with fake Gucci track suits if a few million sheep in EPMD's clothing hadn't beaten them to the discount racks on Houston Street. Suburban white kids followed suit, and now every mall rat in America totes her rhinestone-covered cell phone in a fake haute couture handbag. Those who don't hide in shame behind Jackie O'versized shades from Gucci, Dolce & Gabana and Chanel. Skate shoes, baseball caps and yes, even bicycle seats are bedazzled by their manufacturers with faux fashion flamboyance to attract an ever more conspicuous class of crassly self-absorbed consumer. When working parents can't make their mortgage, where do their kids find the money to buy this stuff—in the seat creases of their Scion TC's? Not likely—I don't know any teenagers who have jobs. I'm guessing the cash for this flash comes out of mom's credit card. That's how I pay for stupid shit I don't need.


No comments: