ABSTRACT

White Trash Girl slunk into my office wearing a short, striped polyester miniskirt I'm positive I myself owned in junior high, a clashing pais-

ley button-down shirt of some petroleum-based miracle fiber, topped off by a too-tight, powder-blue vest of tired, stained faux-suede. Bleached whiteblonde hair peeked out from beneath some sort of go-go cap. There were some supremely clunky black platform shoes that you could hear clicking rhythmically up the hallway as she approached. It was like Mary Richards on acid. This was Art School of course, and you got pretty used to seeing the more disastrous moments of 70s fashion bearing down on you in the halls, like deja vu all over again.