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Wednesday, February 20, 2008

A rant from Cesar Padilla, owner of Cherry vintage store in New York...

In the thick of New York Fashion Week, I really got on the idea that humanity needs to stop wearing black. I looked around at the makers, shakers and patrons of tomorrow's fashion and realized they all look depressed, uninspired, tired, too skinny, sulky and lame as they judged yet another sad black sack.

I found myself fantasizing about creating a Black Clothes Burning Day, like the disco fires in Chicago stadium in the late 1970s. Imagine Giants stadium full of Japanese chicks working smurf blue, black girls in head-to-toe pink and me, all throwing mounds of black fabric into a massive bonfire. Poof! Gone! Wearing vintage Sprouse and Versace, Bonnie Cashin, Jeremy Scott and Kansai Yamamoto, we'd stare into the inferno and chant, "Burn! Burn!" The Olsens would dislodge those black quilted Chanel bags from their elbows and, finally cracking a smile, toss them in. Tom Ford, tears streaming down his face, would appear on the jumbo screen and vow never to make anything black again. He'd promise it to us.

That's the dream anyway. More realistically, I want to set a trash can outside my West Village vintage boutique, where people can bring their tired black clothes and burn them in exchange for a sizable discount on something colorful.

As you can probably tell, I can't stand black. I don't get it. As a fat person, I can tell you there is not one piece of black clothing that is going to slim you down. I look around the streets of New York and want to shout: "Who died? No really, who the fuck died?" I'll go to that funeral wearing lime green. I want to celebrate life. We are surrounded by a beautiful experience. So why are you wearing black?

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