Some Frank Thoughts on "Gucci Gucci," The Song of the Summer

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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for almost two years. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.

Dear Friends, Peers, Colleagues and Readers,

Unless you're living under a rock you've probably saw that Racked declared Kreayshawn's "Gucci Gucci" the fashion anthem of our summer late last week.

Since then we've had several days to mull over the song. And, by mulling, we mean we've downloaded it and spent at least half a day listening to it on repeat, rewatched the absolutely epic video several times over, sent links to everyone we ever met who has ever shown even a modicum of interest in partying, fashion, Freestyle and Fannypack, and pretty much memorized every line and lyric.

And it is upon all of this subsequent contemplation that we officially declare the song not only our Fashion Anthem of the Summer but the Fashion Anthem of the Summer—and almost definitely the straight-up Song of the Summer.

In other words, if you've thus far ignored all our published Kreayshawn linkage and/or all of our maybe desperate-seeming personal emails, status updates, tweets, chats and texts, you really ought to take four minutes out of your so-busy-you're-reading-a-blog-instead-of-being-productive schedules and watch the damn video.

Why? Well, for one, if you're a New Yorker of a certain age who works in a certain industry (fashion, media, music, public relations, advertising—basically anything that's both creative and professional) it will transport you to headier, happier, younger days. Back before we really realized how sucky everything would always be forever. A point in your life when Tuesday happy hours ended at dawn on Wednesday and after a quick hose down, a Diet Coke and a bodega egg-and-cheese you were at your desk doing your job and punching your time card again expressly so you could afford to do it all over again later that evening.

A time when you'd go anywhere and do anything—nothing was ever boring, you didn't need to know anybody at the party to have fun, dinner was whatever was free at the bar and if there were no glasses you just passed the bottle. You didn't need to toast to anything; you just toasted "to shots."

A time when you did talk shit about those brands—Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi and Prada—because in your young, dewy, bloodshot eyes the people who wore that stuff way too were "basic" (otherwise known as boring) and the last thing you'd ever be was basic. Maybe, in actuality, you just didn't have any of that stuff; you couldn't afford it and were maybe a little intimidated by it. You didn't compute the fact that going out for drinks every night of every week was actually as exorbitant as any Prada price tag. Or, hey, maybe you did compute but the drinks were more fun.

A time when that lack of Prada and Fendi "basics" were actively eschewed for the 'much cooler' trappings of New York party-buffoonery. Did we wear jeweled Minnie Mouse ears and chains dangling between various piercings? No. Did we wear gigantic, ironic glasses; terrible hats; cheap, pathetic jewelry; the color orange; and just about every crazy, weird, insane, hilarious party hipster cliché? No comment.

(That said, love her little bow tie-printed shirt-dress thing.)

Basically, this video is a time capsule for us—an express ticket to our younger, funner selves. Personally, we're transported to 2007-era Brooklyn rooftop parties that stank of sweat and spilled beer and weed; and the dank and disastrous basement of a still-plugging along downtown club called Lit that pretty famously stank of sweat and spilled beer and weed. It was a stinky, stupid time but it was really, really fun and it's times like those sort of make all the daily trials and tribulations (and expenses) of living in a place like New York City sometimes, maybe worth it.

Even if Kreayshawn is a west coast gal from Oakland. More specifically, a tiny, hip hop-hipster lesbian from Oakland. Who hangs out with a silent, limply dancing girl with bleached hair and feather earrings as well as the types of people who drive Dodge Chargers and shake around huge sandwich Tupperwares of cocaine.

So, okay, maybe we're over-internalizing the whole thing because it clearly has nothing to do with any facet of our lives. Fact is, the song rules, the video is great, and the lines: "Bitch you ain't no Barbie; I see you work at Arby's; Number 2; Super-size; Hurry up I'm starving" are just beyond brilliant.

Just, seriously, watch the video.

PS—Who let these girls film in Prada!?

· Love, Frank [Racked]