The high point of my career–my Watergate, my Pulitzer, my Hottie and The Nottie, as it were–was being included in The Star magazine in the blurry ’90s as part of their weekly fashion spread. On a slow week, I guess, they ran a big photo of me wearing neon, blindingly patterned pants, a swirling, multicolored shirt, and a four-foot polka-dotted green tie. The heading of the spread was “Would You Be Caught Dead in This Outfit?” and I wasn’t the least bit annoyed by that. I had made it into a supermarket tabloid!
Landing in this particular column was my dream anyway. I had always thrilled to all the eye-popping ensembles that the tabloid strangely thought were hideously tasteless. And in my case, being tasteless was exactly the point! I wanted to blow people’s fuses with a mere glance at my nightly explosions of mismatching motifs. I reveled in bad–or actually, no–taste, and was delighted that they had finally noticed my stylist was sightless! The caption: “Michael’s fashion statement is a single word: Garish.”
And my response, even now, is a humble two words: Thank you, Star!!!!