Books like Vice DOs & DON'Ts: 10 Years of Vice Magazine's Street Fashion Critiques

Of course, anybody with even the most rudimentary talent for sniffing these things out will surmise that Vice Dos and Don'ts falls well within the often nebulous boundaries of Hipster Culture. As such, it is expected to walk a wobbly, boing-boing tightrope, simultaneously embracing this status (via its snark and in-the-know elitism) and deprecating it too, because an objet de hipsteur must ipso facto shrug off conspicuity lest it become the target of a more willfully deprecated, inconspicuous, and therefore ultra-super-duper-elite hipster culture (not to mention a punchline for mainstream culture).The politics of hipsterism are thorny and labyrinthine, if I may mix my metaphors into a hearty, nourishing stew. In principle, I have no problem with a twentysomething NYU undergrad wearing a vintage t-shirt ironically, listening to Arcade Fire or Of Montreal or whatever, and trying generally to look like an emaciated nerd on crack. In fact, I think most of that is pretty neato compared to some of the alternatives, like being a gun-toting racist ignoramus in teal Wal-Mart sweatpants listening to Tim McGraw or an oily-haired business goon in an ultra-WASPy Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit. (Everything I hate about upper class, aspirational America is writ large in Ralph Lauren magazine ads. Oh, these Aryan McMansion types who want to play croquet and watch polo matches and wear seersucker jackets and burgundy cravats, like it's fuckin' Edwardian England...! But I must pull back the reins before this digression gets too far afield.) Where I have serious problems with Hipster Culture is when (like other countercultures) it gradually, almost imperceptibly, becomes a miniature reproduction of the mainstream culture it purports to counter, just with different uniforms and cultural reference points. Then, I pick up a book like Vice Dos and Don'ts, and I suddenly don't care about these quibbles, qualms, and sociological conundrums. This is just fucking funny stuff, no matter who you are -- or, more pointedly, what you are. It epitomizes the nth-degree decadence of hipster culture, in which anything and everything sacred is fair game for caustic, pitiless insults. Even the Fashion Dos are often liberally maligned here. Infants, the homeless, and the obviously mentally ill are all fodder for excoriating put-downs, so if you're scrupulously sensitive to propriety (i.e., terminally P.C.), you'll probably wanna scoot on over to some feel-bad literature of oppressed minorities post-haste, to salve your conscience 'n all. Maya Angelou may be the anti-this-book -- spiritually speaking. (If we must speak spiritually.)What is the book? It's a compilation of 'street fashion' 'critiques' from the previous ten years of Vice magazine. But 'street fashion' and 'critiques' are misleading -- in that they lead you to believe this is, like, the edgy (but serious) stepchild of Vogue. Not at all! These are mainly just snapshots of people (mainly total freaks) on the street in various cities being ridiculed -- or occasionally praised -- by Gavin McInnes, the author of the column.Some of my favorites to follow. (Please know that these lose a lot without the benefit of the accompanying photos! So mitigate your judgment!)Photo: A child, maybe three, viewed from behind, in tiny purple sweat pants, a silver puffer jacket, and a red knit hat; each of her hands is being held by a (presumed) parent.Critique: 'Nice fucking purple track pants, you fat bitch. What are you, the fucking Michelin Man? Nice gay hat, too, you fucking little loser bitch.'Photo: Fat man with long curly black hair (and bald spot) wearing a denim shirt which reads, 'Banging Is My Passion.' He's holding hands with a jean-jacketed suburban mom type.Critique: 'Right on! You know what my passion is? Being forced to picture a gigantic, sweaty Greek man in black socks bouncing his hairy brown balls against this poor woman's ass for hours and hours and hours. On behalf of everyone fortunate enough to walk behind you, thanks!'Photo: Really fat guy wearing super-tight khaki shorts with a white shirt and suspenders and what looks like a bad at-home haircut. (A FloBee malfunction perhaps.)Critique: 'And the winner is... this chief. Up until he was 29, his mum was his best friend. Then she died of ovarian cancer and now Nigel turns to her dogs Noddy and Big Ears for camaraderie. Don't worry about him, though -- he gets to fuck them.'Photo: Random photo of overprocessed nightclub douche and douchette in messenger caps. She's wearing a strategically torn-up t-shirt that says 'Tits' and a studded belt. He's wearing a gold jacket with no shirt underneath.Critique:'Look at these turds. Could they be bigger pieces of human waste please? Look at them! They're just two big pieces of genitalia with ridiculous hats on. They're not even worth diarrhea-ing on.'Photo: White, uptight postcollegiate couple on the dance floor -- in Polo oxfords.Critique: 'Normal people just keep getting weirder and weirder to me. Sure the guys are hairy, obtuse mama's boys that read sports, piss on the lid and dance with an overbite, but the women are just as shitty. She doesn't even know what a fucking butt plug is.'And so on...Clearly, this book is not for the easily offended (a.k.a. the hopeless, humorless dullards). But everyone else should order a copy as soon as possible. Or if you go to a bookstore -- a real, live bookstore -- to purchase it, make sure you look good and aren't dressed like an elderly gay Italian retard because, mark my words, someone will take a picture of your patchwork-jacket-and-pegrolled-stonewashed-jeans-wearin' ass and send it in to Vice. And then we'll be laughing at what a total fucking jackass you are and paying $17.95 plus state sales tax to do it. (A bargain, I might add.)