XelaWho Magazine: Fashion Police

Darlings, I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’m going to put it as plainly as I can. I’m hanging up the diamante-encrusted kid leather holster and custom-designed Fabergé badge and sashaying off into the sunset. Put another way, I’m getting out of the Fashion Police business.
We’ve had some good times, pumpkins. And when I look around and see you folks in unripped jeans, freshly showered, wearing shoes, dreadlock free, without Mayan fabrics, mullets or camel toes, surviving (somehow) without your utility belts and wearing either socks OR sandals, I know my work here is done. Before I go, though, could somebody please, please explain to me what the freak is going on with all these…

BADGES ON BACKPACKS

Sugarplums, I think it’s an understatement to say that we give not a fig where you come from, and care much, much less where you’ve been. In fact, I have a saying: There’s nothing more pathetic than a lame boast. If you’ve been to 160 countries, your backpack is probably badge-worthy. 50? Maybe. But four? Oh, please…
And while I’m here, a special shout out to my Canadian friends:
IT’S NOT GOING TO MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE IF PEOPLE THINK YOU’RE NORTH AMERICAN OR NORTH, NORTH AMERICAN. IF YOU’RE GOING TO GET MUGGED, YOU’RE GOING TO GET MUGGED. IT DOESN’T HAPPEN BASED ON NATIONALITY.
So what’s with all the mandatory Canadian Flag on backpack thing? Do they not let you out of the country without one?
Something to ponder, sugarplums. Besos, and I’ll see you on the catwalk.

PAST VIOLATIONS...

SEPTEMBER 2006

A whole year has gone by, darlings, and what a fabulous year it’s been. Full of glamor and intrigue, juicy gossip and mischief. There have been fashion highlights and fashion lowlights… I like to think we’re improving, at the very least…
Now, I notice that on the 19th, this saucy little publication is throwing a gala soiree extravaganza. I want you to be on your best behaviours for the night, sugarplums, and when you’re frocking up in preparation for the Big Event to keep in mind all the invaluable wisdom I’ve been sharing with you over the months. Yes, you will have to shower and yes, you will have to get dressed in front of a mirror. And I certainly don’t want to see anybody sporting what, in moments of dread and nausea I refer to as…

THE REEF SANDALS WITH SOCKS LOOK

Sweetpeas, we are not in Florida and we are not, for the most part, retirees. I don’t care how Scandinavian you are, or claim to be, let me assure you that you have NO BUSINESS WHATSOEVER being out on the street wearing socks with your sandals.

Footwear is not like human sexuality, pumpkins. You can’t have it both ways. You have to wake up in the morning and make a choice. Need a little ventilation? Fine - go with the sandal. A little chilly out? No problem - go with the shoe.

Anywhere in between is a hideous abomination, and will not be tolerated.

And while we’re on the subject, let’s take a little peek at what’s going on on the dancefloors around town. Latin dance can be many things - stylish, hot, passionate. Equally, flip flops and reef sandals can be many things - comfortable, casual, relaxed. But I would like to point out that there is absolutely no overlap there, and the next time I see someone salsaing in flip flops, I’m not going to be responsible for the actions of my 9 inch stilettos.

OK. That’s it for me this month, snugglebunnies. Until next time, remember: Being fabulous starts from the ground up.

AUGUST 2006

THE INDIANA JONES LOOK

Cherubs, I applaud your decision to come to Central America. Really. You’re all very intrepid and I am in awe, constantly. But I think I have pointed out on these pages before the concept of appropriate dress… what may be right for an afternoon of simple diversion with your bondage mistress may not be the perfect outfit for High Tea with the Queen, for example.

Likewise, I am positive that you fellows are fresh out of the jungle, having spent months excavating Mayan skulls and dodging poisoned arrows blowdarted by hostile pygmies. But we’re in the city here, boys, and we can relax the dress code a little. Our pants do not, for example, need more than, say, fifteen pockets. Our hats need not be waterproof, collapsible or have built in mosquito nets. Boots, while acceptable if handmade from kid leather by our favorite shoemaker in Milan need not be capable of Everest or Lunar expeditions.

Machetes, even slung in those darling native-weave holsters, are just plain silly.

And for goodness sakes, let’s bury the photographer vest now and forever. Ugly and cumbersome back when it was actually used by professionals in the field, now that everybody has switched to digital, there really is no need to be souring the landscape with these relics. OK. That’s it from me, sweetpeas. See you on the 19th.

JULY 2006

Darlings, I’ve heard the whispers in the changing rooms out at La Pradera. I know the scuttlebutt, and it’s hurtful. Some unkind souls think that I’ve been too harsh on the tourists lately, and that we all have a cross to bear, fashion-wise. Fair enough. Here’s one for the Latinas, a little something we like to call...

CAMEL TOE

Girlfriends, don’t get me wrong. I’m not coming out against tight pants. Men and women all over the globe agree that one of nature’s delights is walking down the street behind some Sweet Young Thing and seeing a sight that reminds one of, as my father says, two puppies wrestling in a lycra sack. Dear old dad. Such a way with words.
No, señoritas. I’d like to draw your attention to the frontal view of the setup for a moment. Now, the rule here is very simple. Feet, ankles, knees, legs – all these can be happily divided and distributed one per pants leg. Everything else? Well, let’s just say it’s best to maintain a united front.
Make no mistake. I’m not anti-labia. I’m pro-labia. Some of my best friends assure me that they are proud owners of perfectly functional sets. But that’s just the point. They spare me the details.
So, until next time, muchachas… how about a little breathing space downstairs? Some things really are best left a mystery until the second date.

JUNE 2006

It’s true, possums. It’s been a while since I touched on the delicate subject of hairstyles, and truth be told, I don’t really care so much. As long as it’s clean and cut according to some sort of logic by somebody who has held a pair of scissors before, what goes on Up Top is pretty much up to the individual.

There are, of course, limits. And these limits are, of course, overstepped every now and then. You know what I’m talking about, duckies, and if you don’t, let me spell it out for you…

THE SPANISH MULLET

Now, sweetpeas, I know that some of you weren’t fully conscious during that hideous and painful decade otherwise known as the 80s. Lord knows I tried not to be. So let’s get our definitions straight. A “mullet” is any hairstyle where the sides are short, the top is short or medium-length and the back is loooong.

Still confused? Think Michael Bolton. Think Bon Jovi, circa “Shot through the heart”. Now stop thinking about them and pay attention.

It’s one of the mysteries of the Universe that the Spanish seem so keen on reviving this particularly nasty piece of hairwork, but then they’ve never really been All There fashion-wise, have they? From Cortez’s puffy pants which were only really suitable as nappy protectors or personal floatation devices to their more recent Eurovision entries, we can see that our Iberian friends have a thing or two to learn.

But GOOD GOD, SPANIARDS. HAVE YOU NOT DONE ENOUGH HARM ON THIS CONTINENT ALREADY? Are you not content with having brought your venereal diseases and guilt-based religion? Must you also infect this beautiful land with the idea that a hairstyle which should really go down as a comical footnote from a particularly misguided era is somehow hip and de rigueur? Think about what you’re doing, please schnookums… and cut those little rats tails off while you’re doing it.

MAY 2006

Well, duckies, I have actually been noticing a few minor improvements, fashion-wise, around town, and naturally I’ll be taking all the credit for that.

We’ve still got a long way to go before we reach Maximum Fabulousness, though, so buckle yourselves in as we explore an all-too-common Fashion Tragedy…

THE UTILITY BELT

Batman you are not. Nor, sadly, Wonder Woman, Aquaman or any other lycra clad superhero with impressive thighs. So why the desire to go jangling around town like an escaped pack mule? These belts are just frankly shameful in an urban context. Why? Well, let’s go through their contents on an item by item basis:

Swiss Army Knife: It’s a well-known fact that the only two applications these things really have are for opening wine bottles and peeling the occasional apple. Hardly the sorts of emergency situations you’re going to encounter cruising down the 4th Calle, wouldn’t you say?

Compass: How can I put this delicately? If you need one of these to navigate around Xela’s Zona Gringa, you should return to your hotel room. Immediately. We’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.

Maglight: Granted, Xela’s electricity supply is notoriously crap. But slinging a flashlight in a holster 24/7 seems a bit excessive, don’t you think? Not a bad idea, but unless you’re planning on conducting on-the-spot cavity searches, it could easily live in your backpack.

Mountain climbing Carabineer: Yes, Xela’s streets are steep, but really… I’m guessing that most of you who clip these on have never actually been rockclimbing, so let me fill you in: For these to be of any use, you also need a harness, about 60ft of high quality rope, some sexy little rubber shoes and a whole range of other junk that is likely to make your stroll from the internet café to the bar most uncomfortable.

I could go on, darlings, but as you can see, space is at a premium. So take care, and remember - there’s nothing wrong with strapping it on, just so long as you’re going to use it.

APRIL 2006

DREADLOCKS

…you know: those things that look like a cross between Medusa and a Guatemalan fuse box? Now, my dearies, I’m not here to denounce the beauty of dreads (a head of writhing serpents is becoming on some people) but I think we should have a little chat about them nonetheless...

First, my Rastifarianitos, I’m not talking about you. Any religion or culture that promotes brotherhood, worshipping a living savior or getting high is ok in my diary. No, I speak out against the prep dread; that perfect cylinder, created by an attractive lady with a degree and more expensive than the pair of pre-ripped neo-old school jeans you bought to go with them. And, if you like to consider yourself a Rasta Man then remember this: Rastafarians don’t drink alcohol. This should rule, well, all of you out.

But really sweety pies, do you think you’re fooling anyone? Does anyone else see the irony of wearing clothes that give the appearance that you are too enlightened for that self-consciousness bull-poo, while wearing a hair cut that is more maintenance than Jennifer Lopez. I mean, besides the actual creation and subsequent tightening, when it comes time for “the washing” (which apparently doesn’t come often enough), you have to wear a neck brace to support the added weight of a head full of waterlogged sponges. When they’re dry, you know it’s time to wash them again.

Finally, did you roll down a hill and never notice that your ’do picked up everything on the way like velcro? Or is it your own personal traveling shrine to every buena onda you’ve met in your life? (A reminder: there are a lot of people in the world). Either way, from hair wraps to briars can we make a compromise? No dead animals, bones from the corpses of dead animals or any other material that is capable of rotting. You know who you are.

There you have it. Stay safe, stay healthy but most importantly stay stylish. ‘Til next month.

MARCH 2006

Ok, goselings. I must confide in you that after last month I had planned to drop out of the Fashion Police on account of the lousy pay and benefits (who ever heard of all you can eat tortillas as a “perk”). However, after receiving the replies from my “Grunge” article I realized this transcends me: it is my duty to pick up where your mothers left off, keeping the streets clean of the fashion inept. I can’t cover it all this month but minimally let’s have a talk about...

MAYAN CLOTHING

You are not an indigenous Mayan. Most likely neither were your forefathers. I know the colors are beautiful and maybe back home at your weekly pajama party you can show your bed buddies what vibrant sleepwear is on sale in Guatemala. But until that moment be strong. Don’t stick a single gaily attired appendage out from under your fire retardant sleep sack. Let’s talk about the two biggest items:

The Poorly Fit Mayan shirt

Originally made to fit the influx of Scottish travelers in the mid-eighties this shirt will hug your body like a clown jumpsuit. Better able to handle a healthy haggis gut, don’t wear this if your torso is over a third of your total height as you will end up looking more like Shaggy and less like the experienced eco-traveler you might wish. Even the vanity shirts “I’m angry or you’re just ugly” and “Call me daddy” are a better choice for chest coverings than the Mayan shirt. Or, heck, go bare-chested.

The pajama bottoms/Mayan pants

Now we all know that drawstrings are fun to chew on and can double as shoelaces in Mcgyver-esque times of need, but when was the last time drawstrings have been seen making an out-of-the-house appearance since you last saw nursing home patients on their daily exercise walks. So, when drawstrings team up with thin, gaily dyed cloth and exterior pockets, sweeties; there needs to be an intervention. Besides, while we are being all anti-corporate, buying hand woven cloth what are the locals spending that money on? Air Nikes and a Coke.

Ok. I’m finished for this week. Never forget my linditos; there is a dress code, and I am here to enforce it. -FP

FEBRUARY 2006

Good Lord, Sweetypies… it seems like I touched a nerve with my last column… who would have known that so many of you were so, well… attached to your little zip off trousers… Apologies, dumplings… I’m just trying to make things right in this world. I will try to be gentle with you this month. But really. I do feel it’s time we had a little chat about this so-called…

“GRUNGE LOOK”

Possums, we all know that back home, looking like a rock star is cool and looking like a starving artist is even cooler, but we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto, and the rules here are slightly different. The wearing of ripped jeans does not, for example, denote the fact that you have dismissed the whole concept of fashion as shallow and meaningless, nor that you are making some sort of post-ironic reference to the 80’s - it suggests that you have been in a major car accident and have not yet received adequate medical attention.

Likewise the moth-eaten cardigan. Come on, duckys - who are we fooling? We all know that you bought a plane ticket to get here, and that instead of working, you devote your life to the drinking of banana milkshakes and the planning of the Next Drunken Spree. You’re surrounded by people who think you’re a millionaire and, in relative terms, they’re not far off. There are homeless people in this town who dress more carefully than some foreigners.

As for the whole shoe question - this is not optional, people. I have some… acquaintances… back home who live in the countryside and claim that not wearing shoes helps them “connect with the Earth”.

Whatever. Here, in a major city, with doggy do, spit and god knows what else on the sidewalks, the only thing you’re connecting with is the chance at some serious bacterial infection. Buckle up, campers.

One final word, grungelings. I have also heard the theory that, after a day or two of not showering, the human body ceases to smell. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG. Let me, and everybody else who doesn’t want to share a bus seat with you, set you straight: What happens is that you cease to smell yourself. Everybody else has a very good idea of your comings and goings, and well in advance, believe me.

OK, sugarplums. That’s all I have space for this month. Until next month, remember - if you can’t step out in style, for god’s sakes, just stay in.

JANUARY 2006

Now, darlings, I know it was hard leaving home. Sweet Lord, it nearly broke my heart saying goodbye to my nearest and dearest - Givenchi, Armani, Diana Ferrari, and packing them into a hermetically sealed, climate controlled, double alarmed storage vault.

But life goes on, ducklings. We must not, as the emergency manuals say, Freak Out, Go Apeshit or Lose It in any of its other manifest forms.

Sadly, though, I have noticed this tendency amongst some of my Jetsetting Associates. Quite frankly, some of you are wearing things that we all know would never cut it in a million years back home.

So the editors of this racy little magazine have had the good sense to ask me to give a friendly little monthly nudge, in regards to fashion no-no’s. Let’s begin with…

TRAVEL PANTS

Sugarplums, I know there were some elementary mathematics involved here: 1 pair of trousers with zip off legs = 1 pair of pants + 1 pair of shorts = more space in the backpack. But let’s just think about this for a second. The amount of space saved is exactly equivalent to one pair of shorts. And the real equation looks more like this: 1 pair of “travel pants” = 1 ugly pair of pants + 1 ugly pair of shorts. I mean good God, people - have you never even heard of Vacation Sex? How do you expect to be getting any if you’re walking around looking like a Boy Scout leader?

And I really can’t leave the subject of pants with out visiting this whole “pockets on the outside” issue. The rule here is very simple; on a covert mission to invade a small country: acceptable. Otherwise: not.

I understand that pretty much every pair of pants on the market today, from pyjamas to suit pants has at least one pocket on the outside. But please, darlings, persevere… as Dr. King said, We Shall Overcome… And if you do end up crumbling, please, for the love of all things wholesome and pure in this world, please refrain from actually putting things in the pockets. We all know you can fit your guidebook, water bottle, phrasebook, camera and bag of Doritos in there - it doesn’t mean you actually have to do it. This is what backpacks were invented for, possums. Use them, and may your days be elegant and well lived.