Dr. Thorpe:It looks like an executive porn star.
Zack:This is a final stage ganguro, before she slips free of her flesh and becomes one with the oversoul.
Dr. Thorpe:Her tongue is lolling out of her mouth. Soon it will fall to the ground, a wet and wriggling vestige of her former body.
Zack:She no longer needs bronzer or decoration, her skin has been stained the color of a drowned corpse and her glittering facial applications are now actual gems that her body secretes from trapped dust like pearls.
Dr. Thorpe:In the next few days she'll be like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, ripping pieces of her flesh off and discarding them, becoming something greater than human. Ganguro pupation is disgusting and fascinating at once, like sea slugs mating.
Zack:The mass-conciousness of the ganguro who have gone before her into the shifting oversoul are a buzzing at the periphery of all her senses.
Dr. Thorpe:Soon she will stand as an empty, brittle, leather shell, frozen forever in the peace sign position.
Zack:Like a picture in the files of a Manatca observation team, only poisonous to the touch, a warning to those who dare to tread on the streets ruled by the ganguro. Beyond her body she will no longer be tan. She will be the tan.
Dr. Thorpe:One day the tan will spread to all continents of the world, and we will all be in the horrible grip of the ganguro hive-mind, sucking the essential oils out of those we once loved.
Zack:When enough of them pass on, when the great ganguro reaches critical mass, no one and nothing can stop them. Not all of the agents of The Manatca. Not even the soft-voiced majesty of Etro and his bearded host.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
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.