Vulgarity so ubiquitous in our culture

THAT'S WHY THE
LADY IS A TRAMP
Why Is Vulgarity So
Ubiquitous In Our Culture?
By Coco Helado

Blame it on the Taxi and Limousine Commission. When virtually every cab in New York City stuck a banner ad for a certain "gentleman's club" on its hood, I was startled out of complacency. Looking at the world with fresh eyes, I realized the extent to which vulgarity has become so ubiquitous in our popular culture - it no longer registers the faintest note of shock. Naked girls on telephone booths. Naked boys on billboards. Leering reality shows. Pornographic spam multiplying in my inbox like crabs on steroids. An endless parade of jeans cut so low they actually dip into the Bermuda Triangle. Sleaze is everywhere. It's become positively banal. Sure, I like a bit of spice with my rice, but this is getting out of hand.

As though reading my mind, top fashion designers unveiled their fall/winter collections in a lockstep of grandmotherly good taste: tailored jackets with below-the-knee skirts, beribboned waistlines, romantic, homespun details. "Elegance is back!" the magazine headlines screamed. In footwear, two-tone pumps replaced toe-cleavage and straps. Even lingerie got into the act, with tap pants and sporty boy shorts muscling in on the overexposed thong. Structured handbags squared off with last season's jaded hippy hobos and sniffed, "Get a life!" Meanwhile, micro minis, crop tops, S&M accessories, and butt-cleavage trousers have been relegated to the back of the closet. For now.

Like many of us, fashion designers are nostalgic for gentler expressions of feminine allure. After all, "sexy" stops being fun when we've pushed the proverbial envelope so far that we're taking virtually all of our style cues from hookers. (Prostitution is the ultimate crap job - ask anyone who's done it.) Most women want clothes that score us a second look, not a court summons. When every day-tripper dutifully puts her mediocre midriff on display, it's time to rediscover the allure of mystery.

Mystery, ironically, is at the heart of eroticism. How else to explain the process by which one person becomes addicted to the smell, touch, and taste of another? For now, I'm glad the designers have decided to give it a run, and I'm hoping they will help steer the zeitgeist in a slightly more wholesome direction. Once they succeed, however, they will certainly shift course. Like sailboat captains navigating through choppy surf, fashion leaders are always working the delicate balance between prevailing and countervailing winds. When flash and bling become prosaic, they dress women like born-again virgins. And when we get too comfy in our crocheted afghans, they decide it's (yet again) time to reinvent the mini. Fashion is about selling clothing, and they'll use whatever tactics bring in the cash - whether it's appealing to our inner prude, or exploiting society's taste for trash.

Most of us buffer ourselves from the fickle winds of fashion by defaulting to our own personal sense of style. Me, I'm a tramp in summer and a lady in winter. In colder months, I take comfort in demure woolens, sharp tailoring, nubby fabrics, the color black. Come summer, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, I shed my stodgy wardrobe and celebrate sunny days with flirty dresses and sparkly makeup. Call me a hedonist, but when the mercury hits 80, nothing but a mini will do.

Like most women, I notice an immediate difference in how I'm treated in the world based on what I wear. Bundled up, you're one of the masses, judged by character and demeanor. When you show some leg, guys treat you like a superstar. It's that simple. The difference reminds us that fashion is all costume drama. But it's certainly fun to play with people's reactions. When I'm happy, I don't need affirmation from the street. But when I'm down, I dress up. And the whoops from the boys on the corner lift my sad spirits.

While I wholeheartedly embrace my inner Lady and her "Tramp" sister, beloved seasonal siblings, I still think we could do with a little less pole dancing on prime time. So I finally wrote the Taxi and Limousine Commission a letter. While I don't object to such establishments in principle, why must I be reminded of their sordid existence hundreds of times each day?

No response. Apparently, the Taxi and Limousine Commissioner has no more interest in the concept "family-friendly" than Hooters. So, for now, bring on the turtlenecks. As long as bimbos on top of my taxi are baring their cleavage, I want to keep mine shielded from scrutiny. But the view from the backseat - icy roads and snowdrifts - is bleak indeed, making me long for the warm breezes of the tropics. Summer's a distant speck on the horizon. And right about now, I'm dreaming of a flippy dress, strappy sandals, the warm sun on my bare midriff, cool mojitos, dirty dancing at beachside bonfires, a hot stranger who can't peel his eyes - or his hands - off me all night.

That's why this lady is a tramp.