Fashion no image

Published on February 25th, 2014 | by Richard Black


Going to the Zoo, Fashion in the 80s and Why I Will Never Have a Prince Albert

This weekend I had the pleasure of going to the zoo with the Fam. All in all it was a pleasant trip. There was a brief warm snap on Sunday. The temperature was in the mid fifties and the cheetahs didn’t jump our of their enclosure. No one lost a hand or even a digit which is a prerequisite to any successful outing in my book.

Darcy held it together for the bulk of the time but lost her shit when we were too late to ride the train. I plied her with promises of ice cream later and everything was all right. Three and a half is really is a magical age and just about any problem can be ameliorated with a bowl of ice cream.

By the time thirty nine and a half rolls around it takes a little more than frozen dairy products to take the edge off and cope with life’s little disappointment. I’m thinking about getting into horse tranquilizers but that’s really beside the point.

Suffice it too say that a decent time was had by all at the zoo. Even better we were all in bed by 8:00 on a Saturday evening which is either incredibly lame or fantastically glorious depending on one’s point of view.

As often happens on the rare times I venture out of the house  and observe my peers I come to a number of conclusions, most of which are catty and bitchy and incredibly self serving.

The first is that I’m remarkably attractive specimen, stunning really. Compared to most of the people I see these days I’m really quite the catch. Sure I could afford to lose a few pounds and the thatch up top is getting thin but I’ve never had a tramp stamp, remain disease free and even come with a full set of teeth.

This thought is inevitably followed by another which is really more of a question. If I’m so good looking then why didn’t I have more sex in college? The obvious answer, of course, is that I was so incredibly good looking that women were struck momentarily blind in my presence. There is the remote possibility that I was just an incredibly normal looking guy twenty years ago as well as a bit of a douschbag but instead of dwelling on the subject I’ll get to the task at hand.

If I were a better person I’d look around at the people at the zoo who are willing to blow $48 for dipping dots instead of dental care without judgment, but I do. I’m a judgmental person, some might say I’m an asshole. However you choose to phrase it I’ve come to peace with that particular aspect of my personality and I suggest that you do the same.

The fact that I’m, at heart, a crabby 110 year old man has even come in handy from time to time. For example, if I were of a more mature mindset I would have viewed the three high school kids in tight jeans and identical Flock of Seagull haircuts with something like appreciation for the cyclical nature of fashion.

Instead I remembered that no one looks good in a pair of jeans that must have been painted on, at least not anyone who doesn’t suffer from a severe eating disorder and a new set of tits to boot. I like looking at another man’s junk or a camel toe as much as the next guy but please ladies and gentlemen have the figure to back it up.

The 1980’s were awful enough to live through but apparently I’ll get to revisit them again in all of their horrid glory.

If large bulky sweaters with enough shoulder padding to make an NFL linebacker look dainty come back I’ll probably never leave the house again and if I ever see a pair of legwarmers outside of a dance studio I’m moving to Europe.

Of course this is just another sign that I’m getting old. My father said the same thing about jeans when I was a lad. “The next thing I know you’ll all be wearing a duck’s ass haircut the way they did in the 50s.”

We didn’t. Instead the poor misguided souls of my generation went for a spike and a tail and then the mullet, both hair styles that I wore well past their heyday and ones that should have been banned by the Geneva Convention.

The truly horrid part of the fashidemic, a word I’ve just coined (patent pending), is that the kids these days are mixing the worst of every era. I’m not sure where it came from or what brain donor came up with the idea to put on a pair of skintight jeans and let them sag below his ass cheeks but he’s probably collecting dog shit to eat in his yard to eat with a bag of pita chips.

The piercings are getting out of hand as well. I had four when I was in my prime but all of them were in my ears. Now there’s nary an outlay of flesh that couldn’t do with a bit of metal. I don’t really care about pierced nipples and genitalia. I assume that once my wife leaves me I’ll be so happy to see a pair of tits that or clitoris that I won’t mind working around the occasional post or ring.

Facial piercings have always eluded me. I’ve never thoroughly understood the need to ram a stud through my eyebrow or lip but then again I’ve also never really tested the waters of BDSM or trepanation either. I’m sure it’s great and all but I have enough issues to deal with and creating a relationship with  pleasure and pain or putting a hole in my head isn’t one I’m interested in developing.

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