Paplo Gazpachot says:
Dude, it's time. Girls, you too. Time to pack up the whole in-your-face, raw, hyper-sexualized, porno, skater, white trash, open wounds, self-effacing, Jackass, loose ethics, 80's bar mitzvah disco, and party-till-you vomit movement, aesthetic and attitude. Go on, scram. Beat it. We don't want you hanging around anymore. For those of us that saw this Larry Clark inspired tsunami coming, we all thought Terry Richardson was on to something fun (in 2000) and we all laughed our asses off at Vice's fashion do's and don'ts (in 2002... ok, ok... they're still pretty funny). Ed Templeton represented on the West Cost. And for a nanosecond it seemed like that colosal wanker Dov Charney was going to breathe some eros into the deadly boring billboards and newspaper back covers of our nation's cities. Ya Ya Ya... we thought.
But it's all over now you beautiful losers. The schtick just comes off as stupid and done. Your hip, modern, rough-hewn, brainless, urban nihilism has been handed over to marketers and sold to the suburbs. Tired. Tired. Ti-erd. Like disco in the 70's you never had any substance to begin with, and you thought that would make you safe. But it hasn't. Your fashion clock has stopped ticking. And don't try to pretty things up with your pastels and your five sizes too small dandy suits either. Just take your little terrycloth short shorts, your limited edition Ryan Mcginley skateboard, your two months at Parsons (before you got kicked out), your ketamine, your tube socks, and your three legged cat, and just go. Try to have the decency to fade into the night and be remembered by your own kids in twenty years. God knows you took enough pictures. They'll be yawning at yet another flash-saturated shot of you getting your boobs sucked by strangers in a crowded Brooklyn bar.
Please. Go. Stop clinging on. Make way for something new. Evolve.
OK, you can keep the hot pants.
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