Dr. Thorpe:This guy lives in Jobriath's house.
Zack:At least this guy can open some wine. Or he has the robot to do it.
Dr. Thorpe:His house is some sort of a horrible art deco F. Scott Fitzgerald opium dream.
Zack:The Mediocre Gatsby
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, the real Gatsby would never let the hinges on his fucking... staircase thing show.
Zack:I think that's a changing screen. You go behind it and turn into an absolute cunt. Sort of like Kafka's Metamorphosis only you come out and do crossword puzzles in your tighty blighties half-sloshed on robot wine.
Dr. Thorpe:It's not this guy's fault he looks like such a tit. He dresses that way to please his sixty-year-old girlfriend, who dresses in giant black feather boas and has hair like Olive Oyl.
Zack:I don't imagine that this ad inspired many people to go into department stores and ask "where are the Y-fronts by Lyle and Scott?"
Dr. Thorpe:Second Popeye reference of the night, let's see if we can push our luck with these. Jeez, this guy's gayer than POPEYE.
Zack:I think that "guy" is actually a woman. Notice the strategic placement of the newspaper. Notice the slim waist and hips. Notice the complete lack of a bulge.
Dr. Thorpe:Yikes, I'm having flashbacks to the terrifying gender ambiguity of those Japanese goths we reviewed months ago.
Zack:It's like one of those episodes of Maury where they have a fashion show and you have to guess which women are transsexuals and they always load it full of ugly women so that the pre-ops look hot by comparison.
Dr. Thorpe:This person does have a haircut sort of like Dorothy Hamill. Or Mark Hamill. Or Prince Valiant. Yeah, we're never gonna figure out the sex here, the seventies were the great equalizer. Everyone dressed like a bad dream.
Zack:People had sex like crazy and they didn't even know who or what they were having sex with.
Dr. Thorpe:Man or woman, you were nothing but a spectacle of horror topped with a bulbous hair helmet.
Zack:I think back in the seventies the only secondary sexual organs - maybe the only sexual organs period - were the huge patches of chest and stomach hair most men seemed to cultivate. Maybe back then sex was more akin to pollination.
Dr. Thorpe:I think the thing in the background is a conventional bed that's just been broken down into a big amorphous jelly by years of "roaring twenties" theme orgies.
Zack:Thank God we're not critiquing photos of those orgies. Or are we?
Dr. Thorpe:Next week we should do Orgy SWAT.
Zack:Oh man, don't even suggest that. It would be like reviewing your own heart surgery while it's happening.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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.