No. Men's fashion is nothing like women's and never will be tbh. It's notoriously vile, bland, boring and simple. 1955 literally being jeans and a white tee everything after then was a puke fest.
There's sooo much you can do with a white tee, a pair of jeans and a good pair of shoes though. That's, like, my dream aesthetic.
A dingy hole-in-the-wall jazz bar that doubles as a brothel on the weekend. On the window hangs a “C” Sanitary Inspection Grade. Inside, a cockroach scurries across the bar floor and onto the stage. A high-heeled boot STOMPS it dead. The boot is imitation leather, the scuffing filled out with a black marker. Lady Gaga looks down at the roach she just killed and imagines it’s Katy Perry. Her short, corpulent frame is squeezed into an ill-fitting Nordstrom Rack sequined “mermaid” gown.
“Hey fellas!” she calls out in her best Mae West impression. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here??” She thinks talking like this makes her more sound more “old-school showbiz.” A waiter pours cheap Costco scotch-whiskey into a chipped glass and brings it to her on the stage.
She takes the glass with a pudgy arm covered in a giant “Lady Gaga Is Over” tattoo (the “ironic” title of her 5th and final pop album). She takes a big gulp of whiskey and starts hollering “DID YOU EVER KNOW THAT YOU’RE MY HERO” in a raspy voice ravaged by alcohol. Behind her a sign reads “Bette Midler Tribute Night.”
About a dozen middle-aged drunks sit at the bar drowning their sorrows in $5 beer. Lady Gaga’s voice rises — “YOU’RE EVERYTHING I WISH I COULD BEEEEE” — in a failed attempt to get their attention. “Oh well,” she thinks to herself. "At least I got paid for this gig." An $80 check is stuffed in her bra.
Suddenly a black transvestite wanders into the bar and starts cheering for her. Lady Gaga's eyes well with tears. "I am remembered. I am known," she thinks to herself. Encouraged, she downs the rest of her whiskey and goes for the kill: “CUZZZZ YOU ARE THE WIIIIIND BENEATH MY WIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!!!” she wheezes and shouts and growls, thinking she ended the song on a triumphant note.
“Homegirl, you done snatched my weave and strangled me with it! I am deceased!” calls out the transvestite in praise. (later that night, he will be killed in the alley behind the bar.)
One of the guys at the bar nudges his drinking buddy and points to Lady Gaga (who’s refilling her glass with whiskey). “Who was that?” The drinking buddy squints his eyes at her. “Liza Minnelli, I think.”
everything after then was a puke fest.
