Stages of Alexander McQueen grief:

1. See his Spring 2010 collection online last night; Think to myself, “those shoes are fucking hideous.”
2. Feel a bit insecure about my inability to “get” the designs of an apparent fashion genius.
3. Wake up this morning to find he’s taken his own life.
4. Feel guilty about my dislike of his collection and any subsequent bad cognitive juju I may have directed toward him, given the circumstances.
5. Come to the realization that due to his unfortunate demise, the entire 2010 fashion season will be held in his honor, with his final collection at the forefront.
6. Further realize that said collection will be held up as the last opus of a fallen legend—a pure expression of artistic genius and yet more fuel to fire the minds of those predisposed to believe in the false corollary between brilliant art and depressed/otherwise psychologically imbalanced artists.
7. Ultimately realize that any attempts on my behalf to express my personal distaste for the line or my concerns regarding its supposed implications will cause me to appear to be, as they say in the biz, a total dick.
8. Feel significant guilt about having turned this thought process into a meditation on how Alexander McQueen’s death may negatively impact me, as opposed to his family and those who loved and were inspired by him.
9. Wonder briefly what it would have been like to have hated Heath Ledger’s Joker performance.
10. Write this.
11. Feel guilty about the possibility of having trivialized the death of someone who was by all accounts a brilliant and lovely man by having written it.
12. et cetera ad nauseum

(Having said all that, Bohemea has been killing the McQueen tribute game all day. Definitely worth a look.)