These are some of the clothes I can remember wearing in the 80s:

  • A Japanese wildly-painted turquoise, white, and orange jacket that turned into a skirt. I think Fee Waybill of the Tubes had one. Maybe his jacket turned into pants. Yes.
  • A neon-yellow sleeveless t-shirt with black bats and neon orange paint splatters on it that I wore with black leggings and neon orange gloves. I wore this to a Pee-Wee Herman show and he walked up to me and said, “Not looking for attention, huh?”
  • A “Go Greyhound!” bus t-shirt and a red miniskirt. The t-shirt sentiment was deeply sarcastic.
  • Z. Cavaricci washed out jeans with HUGE elaborate flaps on the sides that made my waist look teeny, and butt huge. I would wear a red cut-off t-shirt with those. I am sure they looked even more stupid than I now recall.
  • A washed-out pink sweatshirt with a black piano keyboard print running down the arms. I think Pat Benatar had one just like it.
  • Skintight dark stretch jeans from England, essentially painted-on. Impossible to find in the States. Left nothing to the imagination. I would tuck a t-shirt into them, even.
  • A 50s vintage cashmere houndstooth men’s jacket with the sleeves rolled up. This came from Aardvark’s on Melrose. I think it was $32.00. It went with everything and was very soft.
  • A long yellow knit skirt that once flew up and over my head completely with a gust of Chicago wind. I was so shocked at the sheer force of this and that the skirt stayed up and up and up and up that I didn’t immediately do something. I did eventually set down my two bags of groceries and pulled the skirt down. A passing young professional man grinned wildly as I blushed red-hot and hoped my underwear was not torn or something.
  • A pair of Levi’s that were so old and worn that both the knees and the butt were torn out. I think they were from the early 70s, and had been passed from friend to friend over the years. They died with me. I mourned them.
  • A red satin baseball jacket. I like baseball gear. A little too Bee Gees, in retrospect, the jacket. It ripped anyway.
  • Purple high Doc Martin boots with yellow laces. Incredibly uncomfortable.
  • White leather pants, which made me look like a whale. They were really expensive, and I felt like an idiot after I bought them. Worn once, with a horrid dark pink puffy shirt and a zig-zaggy white leather belt over that and white go-go boots. Oy.
  • Black pleated pleather pants, which did not look bad. Dave Davies of the Kinks complimented them, and that made them wear-worthy. They did get hot, though.
  • A white puffyshirt, ala Seinfeld. A lot of buttons and seams. Cute, if busy.
  • A strange white long skirt, top 15” was white satin, the rest see-through organza. This skirt was reserved for rock shows only. I suspect it was actually a slip.
  • Silver leather penny loafers. I wore them until they fell apart. I really like shiny shit.
  • A black lace see-though vintage dress, which underneath I wore red underwear. God. Stupid girl. That was an interesting evening out.
  • Red flat-heeled go-go boots. Again, worn them until they died.
  • A giant poofy fuchsia and black cheetah print winter jacket with black rabbit fur trim. Oddly enough, purchased at a store in Rochester, Minnesota when I was at the Mayo Clinic for a few days and saving my poop samples in a jar in the hotel room, which made the room smell like death and poop. I associated the coat with poop and never wore it much, especially after I figured out the rabbit fur was real.
  • A teeny-tiny butter-soft 13” black leather miniskirt, worn low on the hips. This took serious balls to wear, I think I did only once or twice. Once I was told not to wear it to a club, as my date said he did not want to get in a fight over me. That was a nice compliment, or a very slick way of saying it looked awful.

The only things I still have somewhere, I think, are the cashmere men’s jacket and the teeny leather skirt. My teen son would love the jacket, but I am hanging onto it for a bit more. He’d wear it in the rain and rip it playing basketball. The skirt? I think now I couldn’t get it past my butt, and also should not. Do I pass it on to my daughter someday? Hmmmmm.