O Catherine! Queen of the audacious sleeve,
the geometric print, the statement collar vast—
You taught us this: that style is no time to grieve
conformity’s dull death, but to broadcast
in fuchsia, in teal, in patterns that deceive
the timid eye and make the bold aghast!
From Second City’s stages you emerged,
a vision in whatever wild attire the wardrobe offered up—wigs piled high as ambition,
shoulder pads that surged like architecture, like a battle cry, like “Yes, I’ll wear this cup of madness on my head, this exhibition of pure, unfiltered joy!” You purged the fear right out of fashion.
You wore the costume. The costume never wore you.
Through decades—’85 to now—you’ve built a temple to transformation, brick by brilliant brick: Delia Deetz in black lace, geometrically styled, gothic glamour sharp as arsenic, proving that the weird inherit worlds rebuilt in their own image, slick and chic!
And Kate McCallister in her Christmas chaos,
that mother-on-a-mission sprint through airports vast—
even in sensible sweaters (practical, not pious)
you made anxiety a kind of contrast,
showed us how panic has its own panache—
frazzled can be fashion unsurpassed!
In Christopher Guest’s gentle, mad menageries
you bloomed: Corky St. Clair’s leading lady bright,
a dog show handler’s Busy Bee vagaries,
a folk singer whose hair alone could write
whole dissertations on the glories
of volume, of catching every light!
Your voice! That instrument of pure invention—
Sally singing songs of tragic love,
the Mayor’s wife, a chicken with good intention,
a porcupine, a monster, creatures of
Tim Burton’s dreams, each one an intervention
against the ordinary from above!
Moira Rose—oh, Moira!—your magnum opus dressed
in labels we can’t pronounce, in wigs like sculpture,
in vocabulary plucked from some possessed
thesaurus, in a wardrobe that’s pure culture
shock and awe, a woman who confessed
to nothing less than her full aperture!
That role earned you the Emmy, earned the Globe,
but more: it earned you legions who now know
that going full baroque, adorned in every robe
ridiculous and resplendent, helps us grow
into ourselves—that the examined wardrobe
is worth the wearing, head to toe!
From HBO’s Six Feet Under’s somber grace
to Lemony Snicket’s unfortunate affairs,
from voicing elemental fire’s fierce embrace
to wild robots, to post-apocalyptic scares—
you slip each skin, inhabit every space
with fearlessness that simply doesn’t care
what anyone expects. You show up dressed
for the occasion of being Catherine O’Hara,
which means: expect the unexpected vest,
the pattern that attacks like a piñata
exploding color, the committed zest
for making “too much” your entire mantra!
And Eugene Levy! Your partner through the years—
from SCTV sketches to that creek called Schitt,
proving that the best creative careers
are marathons of friendship, bit by bit,
building worlds where boldness perseveres
and two old friends can still commit
to making magic, making us believe
that style is courage worn upon the body,
that we should never ask permission, never grieve our wildest impulses, never be shoddy
imitations when we could achieve
full Catherine: unruly, bold, and gaudy!
So here’s to you, our patron saint of More:
more color, more pattern, more towering hair,
more willingness to walk through every door
dressed like nobody else would dare,
reminding us that style’s most sacred core
is wearing joy like couture everywhere.
From After Hours to The Last of Us,
from Christmas comedy to robots wild,
you’ve shown us how to make a glorious fuss,
to dress like chaos and entropy’s child—
audacious, free, ridiculous, wondrous—
forever fearless, forever undefiled!
Long may you reign in glorious excess,
teaching us all to overdress for life!
