The Fashionista Files Read Online Free PDF Page B

of future posture and back problems, however, do not get in the way of her taste and zest for foot ornamentation. A true fashionista, the worse her walk gets, the more heels she buys. I have witnessed her try on many, many pairs of shoes that have killed what could be a beautiful gait. In her eyes, if she has trouble walking in them, they must be good! We have been late for meetings and we have missed grabbing at least a hundred taxis because of her shoe-stopping pace. She even admits her husband hates it when she wears heels for that very reason.
    It’s a small price to pay for glamour. And when she’s sitting, she sure does look good.
    They’re Here! They’re Queer! We’re Used to It!
    Fashionistas make the biggest fag hags. We herd the guys with the Flock of Seagulls haircuts. Our favorite designers are men who love men but adore women. After all, where would Amanda Harlech (a.k.a. Lady Harlech), who was once the muse of Karl Lagerfeld (damn, that woman must have the sickest wardrobe), be without Galliano? And what about Carine Roitfeld (editor of French
Vogue
) without Tom Ford? To fashionistas, gay men are vital accessories, an intrinsic part of our culture. They tell us the secrets to a man’s mind—and take us dancing till all hours of the night (so what if they wind up ditching us at the bar to go home with a hunk in a tight white Hanes tee?). They understand our style, crazy quirks, and neuroses, and know how to meet our emotional needs better than any boyfriend. Plus, they have no problem escorting us out when we have no date—and letting us know when it’s time to put down the fork at dinner (“No more carbs for you, missy!”).
    Friends of Dorothy
MELISSA
    When I was eleven years old, my older cousin Maté was a slightly chubby fifteen-year-old guy who went everywhere with a small Spanish fan. He channeled Karl Lagerfeld in a country where machismo trumped Moschino any day. He was strange and unusual, and like Winona Ryder in
Beetlejuice,
I noticed him because I myself felt strange and unusual, too. I was infatuated with Maté. He had an outsize personality and constantly greeted relatives with two slobbering kisses on both cheeks. He screeched instead of giggled and called everyone “dahhhlink!” Maté and I both agreed that our uncle,
Tito
Ed (
Tito
means uncle in Tagalog), who had immigrated to the United States, was just the bomb.
    Tito
Ed had found success as a director in San Francisco. He staged full-blown, critically acclaimed productions of Broadway classics such as
Pippin
and
Oklahoma
in the Bay Area, as well as more unconventional fare like an all-male version of
Caligula.
When we picked up Tito Ed from the Manila airport in the early seventies, he walked out of the terminal wearing a bright orange jersey tank top, terry-cloth short-shorts, knee-high athletic socks, and platform flip-flops. His hair was teased into a bright red Afro and he was wearing huge, oversize sunglasses reminiscent of El-ton John. Rather than denying entrance to his conservative home-land and targeting him as a freak, the security officer asked him, “Are you a star?”
    “Of course!”
Tito
Ed replied, collecting his matching black leather luggage special-ordered from Spain.
    My family soon joined
Tito
Ed in San Francisco, and my favorite memory of that time is when Tito Ed visited to take my sister and me shopping. His favorite store was Neiman Marcus. At twelve, he gifted me with my first grown-up watch (a crocodile-strap Anne Klein with fourteen-karat-gold trim) and introduced me to his favorite designers: Alexander Julian, Ralph Lauren, and Perry Ellis.
Tito
Ed would bounce into our house, a fifty-year-old man wearing his signature outfit—white cotton short-shorts, knee-high socks, and a Perry Ellis “America” T-shirt with the stars-and-stripes pattern emblazoned across his chest. Like all fashionistas, he was never afraid to look slightly ridiculous, and commanded a great deal of respect from the theater