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In this task, you are given a text of many news articles seperated by special token "|||||". Your task is to summarize them.

Marc Jacobs. Photo: Getty Images 
  
 Attention, Fashion Week attendees: 
  
 The gauntlet has been thrown. 
  
 Today, Yahoo Style received an invitation for the release party of Gloss, a book about ‘70s photo legend Chris Von Wangenheim. Hosted by Marc Jacobs and sponsored by Bookmarc, the bash will take place at Tunnel, the infamous '80s nightclub… and even if you’re invited, you might not get in. 
  
 That’s thanks to the party’s dress code, which takes up more space than the actual invite itself, and goes — word for word, and in all-caps — like this: 
  
 STRICT DRESS TO KILL CODE WILL BE ENFORCED: FUR COATS OVER LINGERIE, LIP GLOSS, JERRY HALL SIDE-SWEPT HAIR, SEQUINS, GOLD LAMÉ TURBANS, PATTI HEARST SYMBIONESE LIBERATION ARMY GEAR, ROGUE, ROLLERINA CHIC, SHEER HAREM PANTS, MINI SKIRTS AND MUSCULAR LEGS, PLATINUM RECORDS AS HEAD GEAR, SEQUINS, GRACE JONES BUTCH REALNESS, GLOSS-Y SKIN, BLEACHED EYEBROWS, SLITS, RIDING IN ON A WHITE HORSE, SEQUINS, SKY HIGH STILETTOS, MIRRORED AVIATORS, METAL MESH, COWL NECKLINE HALTERS, OR EYES OF LAURA MARS CHIC. NO FLAT SHOES. NO MATTE SURFACES. NO NATURAL LOOKS. 
  
 We’re already dissecting the true meaning of “rollerina chic” (do roller skates count as flat shoes, or no?) and hoping to make it onto the inevitably insane dance floor. 
  
 Until then: your move, Alex Wang. 
  
 Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest for nonstop inspiration delivered fresh to your feed, every day. ||||| [...] Marc Jacobs is hosting a party during New York Fashion Week for the release of "Gloss," a new book about the work of famed 1970s photographer Chris von Wangenheim. Invitations, which were recently sent out, detailed — in ALL CAPS! — Jacobs’ absurd dress code requirements. —Gawker 
  
 I was indulging in my morning flat white when a matte black envelope that smelled like regret was slid under my front door.Â 
  
 "Oh?" I gasped. "An envelope?Â Pour moi?"Â 
  
 I rushed out of my seat at the kitchen counter to grab it, almost slipping backward from the lack of traction connecting socks to floor.Â Must buy gripper socks soon, I murmured into my rose-gold Apple Watch.Â Will wear to NYFW — blow everyone out of water. Socks with sticky grips, in the Five Below style. This is the fashion for fall.Â 
  
 Perhaps the excitement over my new idea had me whipped into a fervor, or maybe it was the lack of sticky bits on my soles, but as I glided back to the counter, crushed envelope in my fist, I had a little oopsie-daisy. My hot flat white (almond-milk base) spilled down the counter, all over my midi rings and neutral manicure and onto the envelope, permeating the paper's surface and leaving my face tarnished by an ugly smize. Liquid pouring everywhere, scalding my nimble digits, I shredded open the envelope before any more damage could be done. 
  
 Dear Dayna,Â it began.Â You are invited to the Marc Jacobs–hosted Gloss book party celebrating the work of Chris von Wangenheim,Â it continued.Â What next? Do go on. Darling, I'm listening!Â 
  
 My eyes darted downward.Â The text that used to be there was now drip-dyed and waterlogged, something like word spaghetti without the spicy meatballs! I saw "LINGERIE" and "BLEACHED EYEBROWS" and "RIDING __ HORSE," and a scramble of other letters that hardly made up sentences. "MATTE SURFACES" was clear as day, and so was "SKY HIGH," but for all the beauty I could be taking in, I saw nothing and nothing saw me. Surely, this dress code — I could make out the very beginning "DRESS __ KILL COD_" — was one for high glamour and thrills, and now I would never know what it was. I, it appeared, would not be dressed appropriately for the party. 
  
 But that hasn't stopped me before. 
  
 Undeterred, I spoke my daily affirmation — "You DO belong in fashion. You DO belong in fashion" — and threw the invite in the trash. I'm sure I could approximate an outfit similar to what MJ wanted. After all, I belonged in fashion, dammit. 
  
 The week passed as normal: thrice-daily cocktail meetings at the Polo Bar,Â several trips to Five Below, and three published editions of my fashion column, "What to Where: Wearing What You Want Wherever You Go." Peppered in-between my weekly activities, I acquired all the parts to my outfit for the party from the most chic of boutiques, knowing that my intuition would not lead me astray. After all, I was the Greater New York area's most respected fashion blogger according to my cousin Sherri. I could figure this out. 
  
 The night of the party arrived, and I consulted my closet and my new purchases to begin constructing my look. Within the hour, I knew My Look™ was complete. I sashayed in front of the mirror and felt quite certain that I was ready to go. I was wearing, with littleÂ apprehension: 
  
 -A MERMAID TAIL 
  
 -FOUR VINTAGE PEPPER SHAKERS STUFFED INTO AÂ BRASSIERE 
  
 -TED CRUZ BITCHFACE 
  
 -YOUR MOTHER'S CHECKBOOK 
  
 -A WINE GLASS FILLED WITH PUDDING 
  
 -THE URL TO THE MOST OFFENSIVE SUBREDDIT, STAMPED ON A CD-R AND WORN ON A PINKY FINGER 
  
 -WINNIE THE POOH ON TOP AND DONALD DUCK ON BOTTOM 
  
 -THE KEYS TO AN IMPOUNDEDÂ LAMBORGHINI 
  
 -LIPSTICK (SANS LIP)Â 
  
 You look fantastic, darling, I thought as I glanced back at my reflection. But there's just one thing missing. 
  
 Reaching into the depths of my miniaturized walk-in closet, I found a shoebox marked For Special Occasions Only. I smiled as I pulled out the last element I'd been waiting for, the icing on the cake, the piece that would make the Olsen twins themselves quake in their caftans with envy. Nestled within the box were my favorite, my beloved, my incomparable FLAT SHOES. I slipped them on and bounced giddily into the night. With a dress code to kill, I had definitely killed it. 
  
 Post-Script: 
  
 I was flatly turned away at the door. ||||| "Considered one of the greatest fashion photographers of all time, his work was – and still is –, standing on par with contemporaries like Guy Bourdin and Helmut Newton before his untimely passing in 1981 at just 39. A lot of his images have remained unpublished until now . . . the book features over 200 images alongside"Though von Wangenheim’s career and life were cut short by a tragic car accident in 1981,points readers toward thein the form of editorials and campaigns.""Von Wangenheim’s highly erotic photos are envelope-pushers even by today’s standards.""Chris von Wangenheim epitomized the 70s. The fashion photographer captured the glamour and excess of the era withexploring sex, violence and danger with. Thiscontains interviews from models, editors and art directors and over 200 jaw-dropping images, some of which are outtakes from memorable shoots.""Mr. Von Wangenheim was perhaps. From the late 1960's all the way into 1981, when he died in a car accident, this artist captured the glam and excess of that era. . . [] includes more than 200 images, some legendary, someunknown.. . . Mr. Von Wangenheim's work might have faded with his passing but it wasn't forgotten.""In the 1970s, when fashion photography was focused on overtly sexual, and often disturbing, subject matter—a reflection of the women’s liberation movement, as well as the fiscal crisis and the urban crime wave that followed—Chris von ­Wangenheim’s dangerously seductive pictures stood out as some of the most extreme. . .." ||||| If you suspect your partner is on Tinder without your consent, Vanity Fair reports there's now a website that can help you find out. For $5, Swipe Buster will use the person's name and location to see, via the dating app's API, when they were last using Tinder. 
  
 After running some tests, Vanity Fair said the service basically works, though it's spotty in larger cities. 
  
 The goal of the project, said the anonymous software marketing employee who dreamt it up, is less about making money and more about showing people just how much of their personal data is readily available online. 
  
 "A lot of people are going to be like 'WHAT!,' and hopefully a lot of people are going to be more careful, and Tinder is going to say we have to XYZ to protect our API," he said. "I think the positive outcome [is that] a company is going to be protective of its users. We're expecting it to be quite impactful, and a lot more people will realize what kind of data they have online." 
  
 Of course, there's another simple way to find out if your partner is trying to meet other people. 
  
 "If you want to see who's on Tinder," a spokeswoman for the app said, "we recommend saving your money and downloading the app for free." Julie Kliegman |||||
Output:
Marc Jacobs is hosting a Fashion Week release party next month for Gloss—a book about fashion photographer Chris von Wangenheim, "whose shocking work epitomized the glamour and excess of the 1970s and reflected the fashionable underworld living life on the edge," according to its description. If that sounds a bit intense to you, well, then you probably won't be too surprised to hear that the dress code for the party is epic. Per an invitation received by Yahoo Style: "STRICT DRESS TO KILL CODE WILL BE ENFORCED: FUR COATS OVER LINGERIE, LIP GLOSS, JERRY HALL SIDE-SWEPT HAIR, SEQUINS, GOLD LAMÉ TURBANS, PATTI HEARST SYMBIONESE LIBERATION ARMY GEAR, ROGUE, ROLLERINA CHIC, SHEER HAREM PANTS, MINI SKIRTS AND MUSCULAR LEGS, PLATINUM RECORDS AS HEAD GEAR, SEQUINS, GRACE JONES BUTCH REALNESS, GLOSS-Y SKIN, BLEACHED EYEBROWS, SLITS, RIDING IN ON A WHITE HORSE, SEQUINS, SKY HIGH STILETTOS, MIRRORED AVIATORS, METAL MESH, COWL NECKLINE HALTERS, OR EYES OF LAURA MARS CHIC. NO FLAT SHOES. NO MATTE SURFACES. NO NATURAL LOOKS." Two reactions: The Week dubs it quite possibly "the most outrageous dress code of all time," noting it "sounds like the fever dream of someone who fell asleep watching Studio 54." At New York magazine, Dayna Evans has written up her own fever dream, a nearly 700-word missive imagining her get-up for the event: "FOUR VINTAGE PEPPER SHAKERS STUFFED INTO A BRASSIERE," "THE KEYS TO AN IMPOUNDED LAMBORGHINI," and "TED CRUZ BITCHFACE" are included.