Mood:
accident proneNow Playing: Flock of Doug
It's springtime at last. The sun is shining, birds are tweeting, flowers are blooming, and George F. Will is angry at pants.
In particular, he takes issue with the wearing of blue jeans by adults. To George Will, for whom everything started going to hell around 1920, it's a symptom of the decline of Western civilization.
Here's the gist of his complaint:
Denim is the infantile uniform of a nation in which entertainment frequently features childlike adults ("Seinfeld," "Two and a Half Men") and cartoons for adults ("King of the Hill"). Seventy-five percent of American "gamers" -- people who play video games -- are older than 18 and nevertheless are allowed to vote. In their undifferentiated dress, children and their childish parents become undifferentiated audiences for juvenilized movies (the six -- so far -- "Batman" adventures and "Indiana Jones and the Credit-Default Swaps," coming soon to a cineplex near you).
He goes on to proclaim:
For men, sartorial good taste can be reduced to one rule: If Fred Astaire would not have worn it, don't wear it. For women, substitute Grace Kelly.
Why, my dear chap, if you're going to motor down to Hyde Park in the Dusenberg to hiss at Roosevelt, nothing less than a top hat and spats will do.
Now, blue jeans strike me as a petty thing to be kvetching about, given the horrendous state of the economy, the war, the environment, global warming, etc. (I suppose if you have a stick up your you-know-what, denim does tend to chafe a little.) Fashions change continually to reflect society's needs, so Will's diatribe is nothing new. I'd be willing to bet that back in the '40s, old-timers were scoffing at fedoras and lamenting the decline of the stovepipe hat and whalebone corset. And before that, people were bemoaning the disappearance of powdered wigs and knee breeches. These kids today...going out in public with NO BEAUTY MARKS!
I'm willing to concede that men and women look far more dashing in evening dress, and that fashion was a tad more elegant back in the day. But it certainly wasn't practical. You see old photos of men in woolen suits, ties and hats at baseball games and movies and on airplanes. They look sweaty and miserable. Women had to squeeze themselves into girdles and corsets and stockings and slips, enduring the poking of multiple struts, stays, and hooks. Physically and socially, it was a much more repressed, button-down world.
Blue jeans remain popular because they've gone through the Darwinian fashion selection process: Survival of What Fits. They're comfortable, they're flattering to the derriere, they're easy to wash, and fuss-free. They're more versatile for a 21st century population whose lifestyle includes baby spit-up, jumping dogs with muddy paws, leaf raking, dusting, gardening, vacuuming, pumping gas, hauling groceries, internet surfing, fetching Frisbees off the roof, and playing Pirate Ship with the kids in the backyard. (Try doing all that in pearls and a poodle skirt.) Bowties and tweeds may work well for light newspaper punditry, but what does George Will wear when it's time to paint bookcases and clean the gutters? Or is that for the servants to worry about?
Not only that, I must disagree that jeans can't be elegant or fashionable. Is there anyone who doubts that if Grace Kelly were alive today, she'd be rocking a pair of skinny dark $600 jeans, a silk top, and a pair of sky-high heels? (And didn't Fred Astaire wear jeans during the "Texas Millionaire" number of Daddy Long Legs?)
And what about this dude? Is he not the epitome of modern urban hipster wenham-denim cool?
And don't tell me that men don't wear hats anymore...
And look! THIS pair of jeans just oozes refinement and taste.
Yesterday morning in the shower, which is where my stupidest ideas take wing, I thought: wouldn't it be great to have a delicatessen with sandwiches named after David characters? Like those lunch places in New York and L.A. where you can order an "Al Pacino" or a "Steve McQueen", and there's signed photos all over the wall. Usually the sandwich has some vague symbolic connection to its namesake.
Sample sandwich menu:
"The Dilios" - 5 pounds of meat on a white bulky roll (fiber is for wusses), slathered with horseradish sauce, jalapenos, and Scotch Bonnet peppers, and sprayed with Mace. Think you can stand the heat, ya noodle-necked Athenian girly-man?
"The Ethan" - Pastrami on marble rye. You're not hungry? Take. Eat.
No? Then I'll eat it for you.
Oh, you want it after all? Here. It was never mine in the first place.
"The John O'Brien" - Philander-adelphia steak 'n' cheese sub.
"The Faramir" - Lightly grilled hero.
"The Neil Fletcher" - We go into the restaurant next door and steal beef out of other customer's sandwiches. Then we top it with a little ham and plenty of cheese, and serve with Moxie.
"The Carl" - A side dish of curly fries, cooked in our deep friar, then garnished with garlic and holy water.
"The Eden Fletcher" - Jerk chicken, flogged with barbecue sauce.
"The Luke" - Free range bison peppered with buckshot, Swiss cheese, and 1/4 pound of oozing ketchup. Served with a side of hot tomato.
"The Josh" - Root vegetables mounted suggestively atop a rumpled bed of lettuce. Served with tea brewed in our coffee maker.
"The Brand New Day Guy" We toss your sandwich out the window. Because we quit! Screw this job.
