When I was a young man in high school, I wore almost exclusively dirty jeans, dirty shoes and a dirty shirt under another dirty shirt.
It was the sort of fashion statement that would make Gail Carriger stare endlessly into nothingness, possessed of such depth that, were you to look into her eyes, you would see a mind desperately trying to find a reason to still consider this world worth living in and failing badly.
Now, I can’t say what made me dress this way. Maybe it was because I was trying to hide how heavy I was. Maybe I wanted to be left alone. Maybe I just spent more money on video games than clothes. All these are technically true. But I have now lost about 75 pounds. I enjoy making fashion a part of my repertoire. And though I still spend far too much money on video games, I also have enough that I can spend far too much on clothes, as well, thus solidifying my total lack of conscience for anything non-material.
One of the best parts of being a writer is that you can wear essentially anything you want and not be called out for it. A lot of my shirts come from threadless.com. When asked why I wear have an entire subset of my closet devoted to garments with penguins on it, I can say “I’m a writer” and people say “ah.” I’ve recently developed a fondness for obnoxious shoes. When people ask me who I think I am that I can wear purple sneakers to a wedding, I can say “I do creative things for a living,” and then I splash a merry jig in the pool of tears left by the weeping bride as I destroy her most precious day.
Such flamboyancy and total disregard for anyone else has driven me to purchase the following:
I’m not sure if, in my wild praise of webcomics, I’ve ever told you about my deep, undying love for The Gun Show by KC Green (warning: strips frequently NSFW), but he’s the kind of man that’s hard to praise. Because reading his comic is a lot like watching one of those movies where a crazy genius scratches formulae upon the walls in feces and you think he’s totally nuts but you punch a baby or something and the judge assigns you to community service and you have to watch the old guy as he makes poo poo formulas and then you realize he’s actually super crazy, but also pretty smart and you’re like “woah” and he’s like “yeah i know totally but now i’m dead because this movie is poignant.”
Anyway, that’s about it.
KC Green is the kind of man that’s made me realize I don’t like Tim Allen.
I didn’t like him when he was an angry suburban husband desperately trying to scale the tower of mediocrity that was the 90s sitcom, upon the top of which sat firmly ensconced Bob Saget, who later actually turned out to be kind of funny. And I don’t like him now that my most recent memory of him is a shitty sitcom which revolves around the joke “women are crazy and men are dumb.” I don’t like him enough to buy a bracelet stating that I don’t like him.
And because I have, then maybe this world is good again. Maybe Gail Carriger can go back to living her life, riding swan boats across the lake, oared by a genteel octopus.
Maybe.
This bracelet cost $20. I bought a bracelet that said “Fuck You Tim Allen” for $20.
I can do these things because I cannot be questioned.
Do as you damn-well please, Sam and be proud of it. Although I am grinning madly, you did give me incredible insight into the minds of my boys who dress everyday as though they cannot be questioned. The best was the blue, rubber bracelet my 5th grader came home with last year. It said, I LOVE BOOBS. On a side note, he has the ability to grin as madly as I. Whenever a tight-ass scowls at him and declares it inappropriate for a child his age, he bats his beautiful blue eyes and insists he wears it in support of breast cancer victims, and don’t they support finding a cure? Then we share a wicked grin, because I know my son loves boobs. Oh, and congrats on losing that 75 pounds! That’s not easy, but you’re lookin’ hot!