We all know who Mr. Blackwell is, right? He's the guy who does the list of best and worst dressed people in "People" magazine every year. Well, it seems that the residents of Nashville are seeking to earn their own columns.

I enjoy attention as much as the next guy. I like meeting people, too. Despite what my friends say, I don't hate everyone. However, I don't enjoy stupid comments from people I don't know. I don't enjoy being given unsolicited fashion hints from people driving by in their cars or, more commonly, pickup trucks. It seems as though this is happening more and more lately. I haven't gotten any weirder looking-in fact, I think I've toned the weird dial down a few notches. So there! I think it's just that I'm out in public more. Examples? Sure!

One morning I was taking the three-block walk to work when I stopped at the corner to wait for the "walk" signal. This was when a pickup truck passed and I heard "put on some stockings!" come bellowing from the window. What? First off, that skirt was not too short to wear without tights, especially when it's 95 degrees. Second, since when do I take fashion tips from people who think it's high-tea behavior to yell out of truck windows? Third, who freaking asked you? For the record, I wasn't even dressed in any freak-like manner. I was wearing an uncharacteristic white dress shirt and catholic schoolgirl skirt.

About two months ago, I was leaving work clad in a red velvet cheerleading skirt, black baby tee and a black cardigan with little red skulls and crossbones on it. Hey, I love that cardigan! Long live "old lady cardigan + punk rock skulls" irony! That's before we even consider the pirate undertones! What's not to love? That only made it even more of a pisser when some high school girl in a tour group yells "Halloween! Trick or Treat! Trick or Treat!" at my back. Normally, I let this stupidity pass unnoticed. This is mostly because this kind of comment usually comes from small children who don't know any better. Unfortunately for her, I was getting over strep throat and was in no mood for a game of goth bashing. "Oh really? It's not Halloween? Oh my God! Thanks for telling me!" I replied sarcastically before marching away. Rrrrr.

Last weekend, I was at a pawn shop buying a used violin. As the clerk was doing the KGB-like check to make sure my Discover Card wasn't stolen and I wasn't a member of Al-Qaeda, a large man walked over to me and asked, "where do you work?" I was taken aback, but not too surprised. Apparently all short girls look alike to large men. "He thinks he knows me," I think. I get this a lot. "Vandy," I reply. "Is that a work outfit?"he asks. "Well, I could wear this to work, but seeing as how I'm not at work right now, I guess it's not a work outfit." I thought this guy was going to ask me if I was a stripper (thus volunteering to have a knee-high boot lodged in his ass), but no. He thought I was a candy striper. What? I was wearing a black tennis skirt and a red baby tee with cats on it. What exactly equals candy striper here? I was clearly dealing with a member of MENSA. The guy eventually went away when he asked me how old I was. I guess 23 is too old for him.

I see badly dressed people all the time. Do I go running up to them and ask what the hell they were thinking when they wore white shoes with black pants? No. Do I run around telling girls when they have wicked camel toe? No. I don't go up to women and say, "honey…you're just a little too big for that halter top," do I? No! Why? Cause they didn't ask me, that's why. (And it's so much more fun to just laugh at them quietly.) So why do people feel perfectly free to give me unsolicited fashion advice? Cause I'm too small to beat the crap out of them? Let it be known, general public: I'm a firm believer in the power of public embarrassment. Don't make me open a can.

I went to Sears to buy a new belt for my vacuum cleaner and when the guy took my credit card, he looked at my last name. "That's an odd name. What is it?" "I think it's German." He then does what everybody does:

1. Look as if he's wondering if there were any Nazis in my family
2. See if I have an accent.

The answer to both questions is "no," by the way. Anyway, he then looks at what I'm wearing: black velvet skirt, white linen poet shirt, black velvet vest. "Is that some kind of native dress?" he asks. Didn't we already cover this? A-mer-i-can. I talk to him for ten minutes and everything's cool. Then, he looks at my name and my clothes and all of a sudden I'm a foreign tourist? How am I supposed to answer that question, anyway? "Uh, no, I'm just a goth chick." I don't think so. That just leads to twenty minutes of answering questions about the accuracy of The Craft. And the inevitable, "do you listen to Marilyn Manson?" So, I just claim to be a costume historian. That usually gets me off the hook.

The award for stupidity goes to this one. I once was in the habit of wearing a pair of silver sequined devil horned barrettes to work. One day, I was talking to my boss about something work-related and he said like, "oh, by the way...." and I could tell by his squirming that he was going to say something that would piss me off. He proceeds to tell me-while pointing out that he thought the complaint was silly-that a coworker had found my devil horns to be "rather offensive." Those were the exact words. "Rather offensive." He asked that I cease and desist with the horns at work. I initially found this amusing. Really, really amusing. What the hell? It's not like someone thought that they "weren't businesslike" or something. I could understand that: they are, after all "devil horns in a work environment." The fact that someone found them offensive is just completely stupid. The people at work know that I'm not a freaking devil worshipper. What self-respecting Satanist would run around in sequined devil horns? OK, maybe a Satanic drag queen. But I am at least very clearly not a man, thus could not be a drag queen. It must be sad to be so thoroughly lacking in the brain's whimsy lobe.