Zack:John Rhys Davies is wearing carpet remnants and whore makeup.
Dr. Thorpe:Maybe a guy like this has to really go out on some wild limbs in his quest to appeal to women. "I'm not rich, I'm not handsome, and I'm not interesting, but god damn it, you're going to notice me."
Zack:Used car salesman by day, the world's worst transvestite prostitute by night.
Dr. Thorpe:His coat looks like it's made of corkboard. At least I'll give this guy credit for bringing his own beard.
Zack:He didn't need a giant beard. Maybe that's the key. Giant man, tiny beard. Tiny man, giant beard.
Dr. Thorpe:But he does have that big hairdo. It looks like his face has just hatched from a chocolate egg.
Zack:I think it looks more like he took down and scalped Diana Ross at Bob's Carpet Warehouse while she was bending over to check out some Stainmaster plus. That is diva hair for sure.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, he got too busy keeping up his oblong hairdo to concentrate on going to the gym, and his modeling career floundered until Etro started hiring "grotesques."
Zack:For some reason I can't stop picturing this guy riding a scooter. I think it's the scarf over the shoulder like it's blowing in the wind as he zips around the streets of Paris on a plaintive Vespa stretched to the absolute limits of its body's tensile strength. Then he stops at a café and orders an espresso in one of those tiny cups. Like a giant in the land of normal men.
Dr. Thorpe:Maybe I'm thinking in more esoteric and metaphorical terms, but I am imagining this man as a lost baby duckling. Waddling through a crowded street, looking desperately for his home and his family. But you'll never find them! They fell down a manhole!
Zack:I want to be with you, but I just can't be. This guy looks way too arrogant and that's just not something I can associate with a baby duck. Maybe if a baby duck became president or something, then I could see where you're coming from. Until then, I just can't bridge that gap.
Dr. Thorpe:If you interpret his facial expression right, it looks like he's almost in tears though. But I suppose they're probably "I SAID NO FOAM!" tears.
The Remains of Bidet (James Ivory, 1993)
We might find we have more in common than we think if we just stop fighting long enough to combine our bodies into a singular organism.
Fashion SWAT... the fashion industry is obsessed with impracticality. We know that what designers create was never meant to be worn by the grimy masses, but that doesn't somehow diminish how ridiculous many of these costumes are. Make no mistake, they are costumes, and like a Halloween prize pageant we will turn our discerning gaze on the grievous fashion misfires of Paris, Milan, and New York. We're not pulling any punches, and we're definitely not interested in making any friends. We're Joan Rivers without Melissa Rivers to temper our screeching. We're the Fashion Police in jack boots. We are Fashion SWAT.