Poseur #4: All That Glitters Is Not Gucci by Rachel Maude Page A
Authors: Rachel Maude
Tags: JUV006000
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why wasn’t she satisfied?
She opened her MacAir and clicked on SchizoMontana.com , which she’d added to her favorites yesterday for easy viewing. More like
least favorites
. There he was on the home page, that Ariel Berkowitz punk, grinning this dopey smug smile from beneath his lame ironic mullet.
His multicolored fluorescent clothing was garish against his pale, scrawny body, and black-rimmed geek glasses framed his
eyes.
Melissa clicked on the “About Schizo Montana” link, even though she’d read it so many times she could recite it by heart:
Schizo Montana is a clothing line that celebrates a true Santa Monica original. If you’ve spent any time on Montana Avenue,
you have experienced the unique charms of Ms. Schizo Montana, a homeless woman who traverses the Avenue, alternately cawing
like a bird and cursing George Bush. (Yeah, we tried to tell her there’s a whole new White House regime, but yo: she won’t
listen.) Our line is a celebration of this L.A. mainstay, with each limited edition tee featuring one of Schizo Montana’s
many personalities. And no, this isn’t exploitation, so don’t bother asking! We are totally tight with Ms. Montana. We love
her and she loves us too.
Melissa clicked on the “Shop Now” tab and zoomed in on a wife beater silk-screened with a photo of a homelesswoman wearing a petticoat over her pants. She was seated alone at a table outside the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, talking to herself.
The words “The more, the merrier!” were printed across the bottom. Melissa felt physically ill. Poseur had not just lost the
Nylon
cover to a t-shirt brand. Poseur had lost the
Nylon
cover to the single stupidest t-shirt brand in the history of fashion.
Melissa couldn’t contain her hatred any longer. She clicked on the “Contact Info” tab, cut and pasted Ariel’s e-mail handle,
and then clicked over to her own e-mail account— [email protected] —and immediately started typing.
Dear Mr. Berkowitz,
Congratulations! You have created the single most offensive clothing line in the history of clothing lines. And no, I don’t
mean offensive in some cool, Eminem/Howard Stern kind of way. I mean offensive as in offensive to my eyes because it is so
empirically ugly. So, good job! Thanks for making L.A. an uglier place to live in with your lame-ass merchandise.
Toods,
Divalish16
Melissa hit send. She was pulsing with anger; high onit almost. She clicked back to the home page and stared at Ariel’s smug smile again. Puke. She couldn’t see his eyes well
enough though, so she dragged the photo to her desktop and blew it up using Photoshop. Magnified a hundred times, Ariel’s
eyes were warm and alluring.
Just like Satan’s
, Melissa thought.
She clicked over to her Gmail account to reread her clever e-mail, and found, to her surprise, a response from the fluorescent
Satan himself.
Divalish, Wow:
You really are pathetic. Seriously, do you have a life at all? Or do you just troll around the Internet looking for things
to comment on all day? I bet you’re a forty-year-old woman with nineteen cats and no boyfriend, and you just finished your
box of Franzia wine and John Mayer is playing in the background at your tiny apartment right now and you’re desperately lonely
and sad because John isn’t singing about you so you go online and send hate letters to people like me. People who have real
lives and do cool stuff and actually leave their houses and go out into the world once in a while. Okay, go make out with
your John-Mayer-shaped pillow!
Peace out, biatch,
Ariel
Oh. No. He. Did. Not.
In a single pulse, Melissa read the entire e-mail again, managing to get even more pissed off the second time. She sat up
stick-straight in her champagne velvet upholstered office chair, cracked her knuckles, and furiously started typing.
Oh hey, Ariel,
That is such a cool-ass name, yo. Are you, like, the Little Mermaid, or something? Are you totally
She opened her MacAir and clicked on SchizoMontana.com , which she’d added to her favorites yesterday for easy viewing. More like
least favorites
. There he was on the home page, that Ariel Berkowitz punk, grinning this dopey smug smile from beneath his lame ironic mullet.
His multicolored fluorescent clothing was garish against his pale, scrawny body, and black-rimmed geek glasses framed his
eyes.
Melissa clicked on the “About Schizo Montana” link, even though she’d read it so many times she could recite it by heart:
Schizo Montana is a clothing line that celebrates a true Santa Monica original. If you’ve spent any time on Montana Avenue,
you have experienced the unique charms of Ms. Schizo Montana, a homeless woman who traverses the Avenue, alternately cawing
like a bird and cursing George Bush. (Yeah, we tried to tell her there’s a whole new White House regime, but yo: she won’t
listen.) Our line is a celebration of this L.A. mainstay, with each limited edition tee featuring one of Schizo Montana’s
many personalities. And no, this isn’t exploitation, so don’t bother asking! We are totally tight with Ms. Montana. We love
her and she loves us too.
Melissa clicked on the “Shop Now” tab and zoomed in on a wife beater silk-screened with a photo of a homelesswoman wearing a petticoat over her pants. She was seated alone at a table outside the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, talking to herself.
The words “The more, the merrier!” were printed across the bottom. Melissa felt physically ill. Poseur had not just lost the
Nylon
cover to a t-shirt brand. Poseur had lost the
Nylon
cover to the single stupidest t-shirt brand in the history of fashion.
Melissa couldn’t contain her hatred any longer. She clicked on the “Contact Info” tab, cut and pasted Ariel’s e-mail handle,
and then clicked over to her own e-mail account— [email protected] —and immediately started typing.
Dear Mr. Berkowitz,
Congratulations! You have created the single most offensive clothing line in the history of clothing lines. And no, I don’t
mean offensive in some cool, Eminem/Howard Stern kind of way. I mean offensive as in offensive to my eyes because it is so
empirically ugly. So, good job! Thanks for making L.A. an uglier place to live in with your lame-ass merchandise.
Toods,
Divalish16
Melissa hit send. She was pulsing with anger; high onit almost. She clicked back to the home page and stared at Ariel’s smug smile again. Puke. She couldn’t see his eyes well
enough though, so she dragged the photo to her desktop and blew it up using Photoshop. Magnified a hundred times, Ariel’s
eyes were warm and alluring.
Just like Satan’s
, Melissa thought.
She clicked over to her Gmail account to reread her clever e-mail, and found, to her surprise, a response from the fluorescent
Satan himself.
Divalish, Wow:
You really are pathetic. Seriously, do you have a life at all? Or do you just troll around the Internet looking for things
to comment on all day? I bet you’re a forty-year-old woman with nineteen cats and no boyfriend, and you just finished your
box of Franzia wine and John Mayer is playing in the background at your tiny apartment right now and you’re desperately lonely
and sad because John isn’t singing about you so you go online and send hate letters to people like me. People who have real
lives and do cool stuff and actually leave their houses and go out into the world once in a while. Okay, go make out with
your John-Mayer-shaped pillow!
Peace out, biatch,
Ariel
Oh. No. He. Did. Not.
In a single pulse, Melissa read the entire e-mail again, managing to get even more pissed off the second time. She sat up
stick-straight in her champagne velvet upholstered office chair, cracked her knuckles, and furiously started typing.
Oh hey, Ariel,
That is such a cool-ass name, yo. Are you, like, the Little Mermaid, or something? Are you totally
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