So Very Beige

I can't say that I was really a fan of Versace's fashion. The loudness of some of the prints and use of oversized gold caused flashbacks of bad 80s fashion, which I grew up with and often donned. But the most genius thing to ever come from Gianni was his description of Armani, in which he declared, "He's so very beige."

So very beige. That is life in a planned community, where CC&Rs dictate which shades of sand and tan you can paint your home. Sticking out is a sin. A cause for lawsuits or fines, or social exile. It's all about fitting in to one of four floor plans. A modern caste system. Square footage and pool size determines family worth. Pity the child whose parents could only afford a jacuzzi.

Back then, money couldn't buy a kid's popularity. It helped, though. Girls didn't want to be too mean. They might want to borrow your clothes. It was paramount to have the right name on your ass, the correct animal over one's breast, the cooler brand of topsiders or hightops, an array of legwarmers that would take you through the week. Guys were either collar up or collar down. And, as long as one of your friends had a car, you were not a complete paraiah.

This, of course, was before Prada and Coach and Louis Vuitton ruled the quad and overpriced German autos lined the student parking lot. This was when 501s were chic, how you wore them told where you landed on the food chain, and the right kind of hairspray added to you social standing. It was bad then, but much worse there now.

I try to avoid that town as much as possible, but certain family duties force me out there from time to time. I still see big hair and long nails wandering the streets when I visit. But nothing amazes me more than the shades of beige still lining the roads and peppering the hillsides like a plague of pox. It grows and grows like a sand-colored cancer. And it feels as malignant.