The epitaph on my tombstone could well be inscribed: "He was Ugly...and His Mother Dressed Him Funny." Okay...I wasn't exactly ugly. And truth be told, I can't really blame my Mother. She allowed me to pick out my own clothes every year just before the school year began. What a damning example of poor parental oversight that was. I mean...really...she should have known better.
I never had any fashion flair. I was always behind the fashion curve. If there is a song that encapsulates my taste in clothing through most of my youth, it would have to be the old Tower of Power hit "What is Hip." Take it from me, I never knew. Some of the clothes I wore growing up are so cringe inducing, in retrospect, that it's no wonder I still feel uncomfortable looking at old family photos.
What was I thinking?
It's so much easier dressing as a 50 something male than it was back then. I saw a diary here this morning whose title asks "When did you first become aware of clothes?", and it triggered these memories. For me, the unfortunate answer to that question is that I most often became aware of clothes after I picked them out, and discovered that nobody else dressed like that, but I was stuck with them nonetheless.
Being Sunday, a slow news day, I thought I'd take a trip down Memory Lane, and visit some of the ghosts of fashion faux pas past.
Should I begin with the Woody Allen glasses I first selected at age 12? Or the platform shoes that an already tallish teenager purchased in the early 70's?
First off, by way of half-hearted defense, let me say this: I never owned a white belt, or a single pair of white leather shoes. And I always insisted upon real Levi jeans...no Lees, no Rustlers, and certainly no Sears jeans. Having said that, it goes downhill pretty fast. My clothing closet is chock full of skeletons, and they are wearing chiana shirts, brushed cotton bellbottom pants with cuffs (in an assortment of hideous colors), eye crossing paisley patterns that would have made great draperies in a Victorian home, cut off jeans that presaged "Reno 911", embarrassing swim trunks and tank top T-shirts with unfortunate silk screen designs.
And then there were the salt and pepper corduroy pants...don't ask me why. I never went to Catholic School.
Would it have been too soul crushing for my Mother to have pulled me aside at the clothing store and said to me..."You know, if you aren't Rod Stewart, don't try to dress like Rod Stewart. And by the way...Rod Stewart doesn't shop at JC Penny." If she entertained that thought, she bit her tongue and let me procede on my own.
And procede I did.
Bell Bottom Blues
I never looked cool in bell bottoms. Maybe it's because maroon just wasn't my color. But then, neither was off white. The cuffs, and the heavy brushed cotton material didn't help, either. I don't think I ever owned any mustard yellow bells, but I'm not willing to take a lie detector test on that matter. Oh...and the striped ones didn't really suit me any better. Why couldn't I have just stuck with bell bottom jeans? Don't as me.
Book 'em, Dano
There's something about a man in a rayon Hawaiian print shirt. And I had some loud ones. Actually, they were a fad in Southern California back in the day, but mine were especially blinding. As proof of my fashion difficulties, I'm still waiting for the Hawaiian shirt to make a comeback. Hopefully, though, in a different fabric than rayon.
Does this Tank Top make my ass look big?
No...but it does make your shoulders look narrow. That's because my shoulders were narrow. Too narrow for tank tops. The "off the shoulder" look worked for Jennifer Beals, but not for me. And whatever made me think that it would be cool to wear a tank top emblazoned with a Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill bottle? Wasn't it bad enough that I actually used to drink the stuff?
Those Shoes
Whoever managed to convince guys that they would look good in platform shoes, with high, if chunky, heels was a marketing genius. I saw them in the store and snapped them up. In retrospect, they looked like something that I mugged Minnie Mouse for on the way to school. Sort of high topped with laces. The absolute nadir of my fashion hit parade, they should have gotten me expelled from school. But they didn't.
Down With Cotton
Cotton breathes...but for several years it seems like I didn't. Long sleeved chiana shirts, in hedeous prints. Rayon shirts that wrinkled if you looked at them and made you sweat like a pig. Acrylic Tees that clung to you like a body stocking. I owned them all. And some of them had snaps instead of buttons, just to up the ante on the fashion offensiveness.
Mama, Don't let your babies grow up to be Urban Cowboys
I was a big spaghetti Western fan, and went through a phase were I wantd to have that "Clint Eastwood" cool. As a corollary to the Rod Stewart rule, don't try to dress like Clint if you aren't Clint. In my tan corduroy vest and cheap knock off flat brimmed "cowboy hat", I looked like a cowboy alright. An Amish cowboy without the facial hair. Then there was the blue and white checked shirt with western yokes and faux mother of pearl snaps down the front. It would have made a good table cloth, but looked ridiculous on me. Later, in college, I did finally buy a pair of great square toed, natural leather Frye boots...perhaps the best footwear I've ever owned in this life. But I ruined the look with an affectation for wearing a red bandana tied around my neck. Real Steve McQueen material, I was.
I could go on...and noooo, I won't share any pics. I think you get the idea. If I ever owned a leisure suit, it's such a painful memory that I've long ago suppresed it to the point that neither hypnosis nor gestalt therapy could ever dredge it up again. And if anyone has photogrphic evidence of that fact, I will hunt them down and kill them. I swear.
On more than one occasion I suffered the slings and arrows of friends and classmates as a result of the unfortunate fashion decisions I had made. I still bear the emotional scars. (Well, not really, but I do find it awkward to look at some of those old photos)