I try to limit my time spent on Facebook. Though I like using the network to keep up with faraway friends and family, I find the content and culture of the app to be generally toxic. Not the kind of noxious that knocks you out with one whiff, but the kind that seeps in through the guise of casual pastime and keeps you coming back for more until your hooked.

Today I signed on and managed to (mostly) dodge temptations to get caught up this indignation or that righteousness. The key is to speed past wordy posts full of all caps, snarky memes, or links to sites whose names contain words like viral or patriot or Turks. In pursuit of cute summertime photos of nieces and nephews, I even resisted the urge to stop and coo over a Facebook memory, which depicted a slimmer, happier-looking me from 7 years ago.

In my midday work lull, I just wanted to feel that little bump I get from seeing images of my favorite people, nothing more. But then a post from one of my oldest friends caught my attention: she was lamenting having read about or witnessed a series of scary events that’d taken place this week in the town where she lives. It’s the town I grew up in. The one I remember as being the sort where you could leave your doors unlocked and your children outside past dusk without worry. It’s the Smalltown, USA that I keep in my memory as being clean and kind and free of big city problems like homelessness. Now, despite my efforts to block out gnarly news in my feed, I was faced with a report that there is a substantial and growing population of homeless people in my hometown. When asked about what’s happened to cause the shift, her response, in a word: Opioids.

In this prescription-soaked culture, opioids are the hottest trend.

So hot, in fact, that some reports credit the class of drugs with the deaths of 33,000 Americans in 2015. And while, these deaths include overdoses from illegal drugs, like heroin, the wildfire spread of opioid abuse can be attributed to legal prescription drugs.

Rx meds are so ubiquitous, so ingrained in popular culture, that the image of those puke orange pill bottles has found it’s way onto the fashion racks. What you see above is not something from a medicine cabinet, but a phone case from the Spring Summer 2017 collection by Moschino. I was engaged in a different addictive pastime – browsing the Net-a-porter.com sale – when I spotted it in all of it’s disgrace. And the timing couldn’t be worse. I’d just learned that my innocent hometown was being stained by fallout of pill-popping addictions when I saw this garish display of everything I hate about fashion: tasteless, wasteful, and self-destructive consumerism.

The design, from a creative director whose a known thief and proponent of throwaway culture, even features a cheeky expiration date, reminding any consumer with a conscious of the planned obsolesence found in too many seasonal collections. The trouble is the culture (via social media, medication, and shopping) has so many of us walking around unconscious – numb, dumb, and stumbling about looking for the next fix – that we’re not readily aware of how damaging it can be to participate in these dopamine-inducing habits.

Net-a-porter describes this phone case as “playful.”

There is a common myth that people in Northern California do not care about fashion. This is false, of course, as anyplace that supports a class system has a system of style values; and NorCal is a vigorously classist place.

The myth might be fueled by the misunderstanding that caring about fashion means you desire to reflect the pages of Vogue magazine. With this belief you’ll easily miss the trends and tropes conveyed by the residents of this part of the country, who are sooner to take their queues from the brands seen at the X-games than those shown at Fashion Week. Folks here like to show off their labels, too, mind you. Yet instead of Hermes they choose Hurley; rather than Oscar de la Renta, they love O’Neill; and the highest praise goes not to Prada, but to Patagonia.

Trendspotter that I am, I peeped these preferences immediately. Cynic that I am, the trend turned me off immediately. I’d go into Patagonia stores (outlets, that is) trying on jackets, pulling on pants, poring over fabric tags, hoping to spot the reason I should be gagging over china-made polyester garments. I couldn’t find anything in the make of the clothing that made it instrinsically better than, say, Champion or another brand with retail price a fraction of those of Patagonia. I wrote it off as just another status label and, indeed, many people in this region wear it to convey class.

However, if I’ve learned nothing else from my two years in the Bay Area it’s that cynicism isn’t just unproductive, it’s downright destructive! So when the press release for Patagonia’s Worn Wear program came across my inbox I resisted the urge to send it straight to the bin and actually gave it an audience. I am pleasantly surprised:

Patagonia’s Worn Wear program was created in 2013 as a way to encourage people to take good care of their gear, washing and repairing as needed. The program aims to keep clothing, regardless of brand, in circulation for as long as possible. When it’s time for a replacement, we want you to invest in something that lasts.

That’s why Patagonia makes the best quality, most functional products in the world, guarantees them for life and owns the biggest garment repair facility in North America. And it’s why were going on tour – bringing Worn Wear’s critical message to communities across the country.

“There is nothing we can change about how we make clothing that would have more positive environmental impact than simply making less,” notes Patagonia CEO Rose Marcario. “Worn Wear is a celebration of quality products and their relationship to our lives. It’s a simple but critical message: keep your gear in action longer and take some pressure off our planet.”

The notion that one should repair clothing instead of chucking them is one that is resonates with the Manifesto. It seems so reasonable, but so few brands spend anytime speaking to clothing care and repair – presumably because their business models thrive on throwaway culture. This action by Patagonia makes me feel better about the brand’s premium price tags. I believe in investing in good brands, especially when those brands then invest in new ideas that promote responsible consumption.

Learn more about Worn Wear and get tour dates at Patagonia.com.

Apparently, companies don’t expect fast fashion consumers to care about durability or tailoring. Unfortunately, that may be true about much of the fashionista hoard. For a growing number of us, however, we just don’t believe the hype… at least not until we’ve seen, touched, felt it for ourselves.

The commercials for the Peter Pilotto for Target collection certainly do inspire one to seek out a sensual experience with the brand. The models make the garments look fun, stylish, and easy to wear. So when February 9th came about I headed to my local target to for a first person experience. Now, I don’t expect that I can turn a hem with the likes of Jourdan Dunn, but the mark of good clothes is that they fall beautifully on even the “average” body. And, for the most part, they did not do my average body well.

I tried on a size medium in four different styles:

• A long sleeved tee ($19.99) made of a cotton/modal blend, which felt nice on the body but didn’t look like much;
• a sweatshirt ($29.99), which I thought looked great, but the cotton/polyester blend felt awful on my skin – it was the kind that you could tell would fade quickly;
• a tank ($24.99) made from a cotton/rayon/spandex blend, which looked like something you might find at Cato or Sears;
• a 100% polyester dress ($39.99) that looked bad on the hanger, bad on my body, and felt like dragging fingernails across a chalkboard. Blegh.

It should be noted that I was shopping at a Target store in Santa Cruz, CA – a smallish college town where the demand for Pilotto is small. Accordingly, their selection was also small, which may have precluded some of the collections best pieces. It’s also true that it’s hard to make well-fitting clothes when you are limited to S, M, L sizing. If the clothing warranted it, the fit issues could be resolved by a good tailor. However, I’m reluctant to spend resources altering a piece of polyester that’s not built to last.

If this is to be my only encounter with the Peter Pilotto brand, as it will be for the majority of the population, it’s not a very good representation. The magic of artistry and quality craftsmanship, as seen on the SS14 designer runway show below, is all but lost in this mass-market effort. It makes me wonder if the designer line, too, would be a disappointment. So when ones budget does upgrade enough to allow for the purchase of a $2Kish dress, will she want the “real deal” or will she have by that time discarded her admiration for the brand along with the poorly-made clothes?

So the final verdict is that, no, the Peter Pilotto for Target clothes are not worth the cost. You are paying for hype and for status, as it were. This notion is demonstrated by the fact that a dress that’s available on the Target website for $29.99 sells for $39.99 at net-a-porter.com. The value of the dress is not instrinsic, and the shadow of my doubt is now cast over Net-a-Porter as well.

To be fair, it’s not impossible for these collaborations to produce a few palatable items. I have a cotton cardigan from the Thakoon for Target range that I still enjoy regularly. The problem is that in order to get a few gems, a glut of crap is churned out in a supply chain that is rife with waste at every stage. Then a large amount of it ends up in landfills within a few years. It’s madness!

The evidence of such sins comes into full view when the task of changing residences is at hand. If you’ve ever moved, you can probably relate to the feeling of amazement at the massive amounts of stuff that collects about you over the years. And the process not only forces an evaluation of quantity, but also the quality of that stuff, and its aptness for your lifestyle. When you take a step back and survey the hoard, a strange spector rises and displays to you the body your way of life has built. A body you may well be proud of, but which is no longer appropriate to the next phase of your existence. In this case the body must be burned down.

Now, wait! I’m not suggesting anyone pile their unwanted wares up and set fire to them. You can leave that literal act to the denizens of Black Rock City. Rather, to burn the body in this case means to catalyze the consumption of materials, such that they dissipate from your life. That pile of clothes in your closet may be just clutter to you, but to the world at large it is a valuable coalescence of various energy sources. You can “burn” this clump of energy by selling, donating, upcycling, and recycling the items – all of which are more soul satisfying than dragging the unused items along with you or, worse, sending them off the landfill.

In addition to lightening the load, the burn serves to provide an opportunity to build a new body, whose level and type of fitness is most appropriate to new circumstances. Such was the case when I moved from Atlanta to San Francisco. I burned a body of high heels and summer dresses so that I could rebuild with flannels and sensible shoes. The new body served me well for a time, but proved to be as transitional as my 8-month, Haight street sublet. Though temporary, this new body consisted of quality items purchased, mostly, from nearby thrift stores – Goodwill and Wasteland, in particular. So rather than give them to strangers, I decided to light the flame this time with a clothing swap.

Lucky for me, the fine folks at Epica Wines just happened to be in a giving mood and provided bottles of wine for my friends and I to enjoy while we traded sweaters, jackets, flannels, and other fog-worthy wardrobe items. So not only did I get to avoid the guilt of discarding items not used long enough, I got to spend some time in fellowship with kindred spirits – a much needed thing for anyone in a new city.

A clothing swap is, possibly, the least resource heavy means of composting your clothing. It’s certainly the most fun. It’s such a perfect method of burning (unswapped items get donated) that I’ve decided to make such events a regular part of maintaining a TFC approved closet – whether I’m moving or not. So if you’re feeling a little weighed down by your wardrobe it may be time to feel the heat. Get started by planning a clothing swap with your friends and see how being sensible about clothes can help save, not just the planet, but your soul.

The painting is part of a current exhibit “Girl with a Pearl Earring: Dutch Paintings from the Mauritshuis,” which features paintings from the golden age of Dutch influence in art and culture. The highlight of the exhibition for me included a pair of wedding portraits featuring the most exquisitely represented 17th century fashion. The jacquard fabrics, especially caught my eye, as the fabric style is very relevant to current fashion.

This painting, by Pieter Jacobsz Codde (Dutch, 1599-1678), has a similar style and shows an example of jacquard fabric with a similar floral pattern. The manner of juxtaposing extreme detail with impressionist-like strokes is really effective at portraying texture. In person, that is. Also of note in this period of fashion are the gigantic lace collars, which, though terribly impractical, were worn as status symbols.

From her clothes it is clear that this woman (above) is a woman of considerable status. She is well-to-do and fashionable: her dress is richly ornamented, around her neck is a Millstone ruffs. The millstone ruff is a round collar made of pleated white linen. It was fashionable in Holland from the late 16th century to about 1625. They began small, but became increasing broad until finally resembling millstones. Manufacturing such large ruffs was a complicated and time-consuming task for the specialists who made them – mostly Flemish or Dutch women. A ruff like this required a great deal of material, sometimes as much as 15 meters. Usually cambric was used, a fine linen often decorated with bobbin lace. After washing and starching, it was gathered or pleated and set on a collar and then ironed into circular shapes with ‘pipe’ irons. These costly collars or ruffs were worn by the well-to-do, both men and women.

Source

Not long after my visit to the de Young, I walked past this floral jacquard jacket in the window of a Zara store in the Financial District of San Francisco. Not long ago fabric like this was considered best left to grandma’s curtains. Now, however, jacquard, brocade, and damask fabric is common to trendy, contemporary fashion.

After several years as an independent contractor I’m back in the market for a 9-to-5 (give or take) job. I’ve dusted off my resume and am in the midst of giving her a good polish. Yes, Her. Like any other personified inanimate object, my resume is female. Whatever qualifiers you may want to preceed it with, I am an American, after all, and the archetypes are built in to the bone.

Recognizing the fact that the contract bids I’ve grown used to writing are rather different than the more traditional cover letter/resume combo, I’ve been seeking out advice on how to best craft the latter for the current job market. Accordingly, an article titled “Anatomy of a Winning Resume”  was an automatic click for me – especially considering it came from Mashable.com, one of the few sites I read daily. As is the trend, the advice in the article was presented in infographic format, using images to set the scene and communicate culture.

In this case, the scene is tantamount to a Sterling Cooper Pryce casting call; and the culture is such that you, Ms Bikini-clad Resume, better appeal to this all-male panel of HR managers else be ignored. The sex politics implied here are already troublesome, but what struck me most is how the infographic portrays an unattractive resume. Note that the proportions and uniform are identical, but the undesirable object has the nerve have underarm hair. Better break out that razor, “Honey!”

Spelling errors on a resume = Underarm hair on a woman.

As of 20:16 PST, the only comments on the article are discussions about whether or not the graphic is offensive. In attempt to thwart observations of the obvious, a defender of the piece points out that the author of the article is a woman… as if that means the infographic (which she didn’t create, BTW) couldn’t possibly be sexist. I’ll be glad for this sort of simple-mindedness to go out of style.

Emer O’Toole’s armpit hair makes tabloid writers want to puke.

My distaste for Platell’s outlook notwithstanding, I don’t blame her. Shaved armpits are the current fashion for Western women. It’s just the way things are; and the vast majority of people are not inclined or equipped to question the status quo. Even a willful dissenter, like myself, has moments of pause. How much can I afford to ignore conventions when the proponents of them are in possession of something I want or need?

Though the devices in play in this infographic make me frown, it’s possible they’re perfectly apt for the subject of job-seeking. There are beauty standards – both figurative and literal – that every applicant must keep in mind in their hunt for employment. Men in corporate environments, for example, are still largely expected to be clean-shaven. As for me, I might be able to keep my pits as I please, but what about the hair on my head? I’ve observed how differently I’m treated when my ‘fro is in full effect, as opposed to when I’ve straightened it into submission. Wearing my hair in a style that more closely reflects the going standard has in the past earned me better customer service, friendlier smiles from strangers, more doors opened for me, and perhaps other privileges the nappier version of me doesn’t enjoy. It follows that it could improve my chances of landing the job I want. While tech & fashion jobs tend to have less conventional office environments, they’re still haunted by the archetypes of the American tradition. Accordingly, I think I’ll keep my flat iron hot.

Last night AMC’s Mad Men ended it’s fifth season with a sweeping display of somber turning points. One could feel the throbbing pain of Don’s aching tooth even through the moments of triumph. A sense of gloom weighed heavily throughout the episode, casting shadows that made crimson cues jump off the screen and demand your attention (as if every second of of the episode weren’t already being savored like the last sips of your best bottle of bourbon).

Among the most striking of the red flags was near the end of the finale, when Joan and her fellow partners are surveying the terrain of SCDP’s newly acquired domain. In her characteristically sexy saunter, Joan leads the men into the new office space and marks a spot with an can of spray paint, saying that it would be the location of a stairwell. The point of ascending is signified with an X. The five cohorts then line up to take in the New York City view, with Joan in her flaming red dress in the center. The scene lingers longer than is necessary for the character dialogue to be processed. Instead, what speaks is the image of red-hot curves standing as the centerpiece of powerful business team. Here, the specter of prostitution looms. The team is in the business of selling sex – and not just by way of pimping out Joan to land new accounts.

During this episode we also see the defected Peggy in action at her new job. In a scene that opens with her doing her best irritated Don Draper – berating a team of silent underlings – the ambitious woman stands in the shoes she’s been eyeing for four full seasons. It’s a win she’s been stumping for since her circumstantial rise from the secretary pool. It should be triumphant, but it’s ugly. The dimly lit scene is as visually unappealing as the drooping shoulders on her poor-fitting scarlet suit. And it’s only made muckier by the exchange that follows Peggy’s display of relative power, when the man that brought her into the company ignores her repeated statements that she doesn’t smoke. Though she’s technically a peer to the likes of Draper, she’s still a woman – a woman who has been unsexed by her mannish ways and bad clothes. Will we see next season’s Peggy haunted by her sacrificed femininity?

As the season ends, some are looking toward new horizons while others are seeking closure. Don skirts a much-needed visit to the dentist, but braves a call on Lane Pryce’s widow to return collateral cash that’d been put up to start the new firm. Surely, the ad man was hoping to soothe a guilty conscious with the gesture, but he get’s a dignified lashing from Mrs. Pryce who reminds him that he’s not truly doing her any favors. And he hadn’t done any for Lane, either. Meanwhile, the deceased money man’s ghost looks over the scene by way of an empty red leather armchair – as livid as the man was when Don confronted him for embezzling funds.

It’s not unfounded for Don to try to smooth bumps in the road by throwing cash at them. He keeps trying the trick, and it continues to fail when it really counts. And when it’s not dollars in play it’s the Draper charm that makes men and women alike bend to his tall, dark, and stormy will. Neither tactic, however, is able to convince the new Mrs. Draper to be content with merely being the Pepper Potts to his Iron Man. Meghan wants a spotlight of her own, and is willing to compromise some of her artistic ideals (and perhaps her happy marriage) to get it. Though Don’s ex, Betty, refers to her as a “child bride,” this is the first time Meghan’s youthful exuberance truly gives way to childish pouting.

However unbecoming, her brooding is rewarded with eventual success as her husband uses his sway to land her a plum role in a commercial for one of the firm’s clients. She beams at her husband with love and gratitude as she takes center stage in a bright red costume, poised under the stage lights in black ballet slippers. The moment recalls Meghan’s mother’s attempt to soothe her daughter’s discontent by saying, “Not every little girl gets to do what she wants. The world can’t support that many ballerinas.” Meanwhile, Don looks on from a place unfamiliar to the leading man – the shadows. And just like that the contentedness that Don enjoyed at the start of the season is shattered. He and his wrinkled brow stroll through the dark and toward the Old-Fashioned Don Draper, who’s respite is found not in the comforts of home, but in the thrill of new conquests.

Photos: amctv.com

The irresistible ball of cuteness you see above is from a holiday gift guide list presented by Style.com. The site asked a number of fashion industry insiders what gifts they’d like to give and get this year and Christopher Kane CEO, Tammy Kane, listed a French bulldog puppy as one of her big wishes. This was a blatant confirmation of a trend that I’ve seen brewing for a while.

The craze is one that’s especially near and dear to my heart because an awesome Frenchie named Marilyn (she was “blond”) was a part of my family for 13+ years. As a result, part of me is repulsed by the fad – taking a bit of offense to what looks like it might turn into what we saw a few years back when every other celeb and fashionista was toting around a little Chihuahua. I’d rather not even say her name in this space, but at the height of that trend a certain hotel heiress was known for changing her little pooches like she changed handbags. Disgusting. Dogs aren’t accessories; they are living souls and, hopefully, this trend won’t lead to any breeding exploitations. Trust me, these dogs are just as cute and even greater companions as adults. Check out the French Bulldog Rescue Network for info on how to adopt a dog that needs a home.

As all true trends do, French bulldogs have invaded many facets of popular culture. Below: a fashion editorial; Martha Stewart and her dogs do a Pet Smart commercial; and the movie poster for “Due Date” which features a Frenchie in a starring role.