It is only a lack of both money and Soma that keeps me from looking like Paula Abdul sometimes, I swear. With her kray-kray ruffles and pleather and gloves and scarves and shit. Or André Leon Talley out there, wearing the whole hides of things, so disgusting. Wearing a cape of elephant shrews and culottes of manta ray.
People hate, but they’re out there, loving life. Doing what they like. Doing their things. Trying to be ill.
I fell in love this week, with the Norwegian Curling Team’s pants.
No, I don’t love them “ironically.” I love them honestly.
I don’t think they’re ugly. I am a tacky person. I think they are fantastic.
I would wear them on the street, I would shake them to the beat. I would wear them to read Yeats, I would wear them on a date. I would wear them out to dinner, or to a prayer for all you sinners. Why have you sinned? Because you hate my pants! Ten Our McQueens, ten Hail Chanels! Oh, so Sad. McQueen. Sad…
I looked up where to buy these magnificent pants. It turns out they are golfing attire. Who knew? The company that makes them–Loudmouth Golf–makes at least one other pair I need to have. The Evel Jean. There are other pairs I want to have, but I can wait.
Looking at the different catalogs with all of the different pants, shorts, hats, gloves, keyrings, and other paraphernalia in them, I realized something. Like a bower bird, I wanted so many of these tacky, bizarre things to keep in my nest. Sharp-ass cleats with kilts on them, over the laces, to keep the dirt and grass off of them? Mmm-hmm. Belts with holsters to keep your tees in, like you’re Josey Wales or some shit? Yes. Pocket knives, with tee cleaners? Yes. Covers for my clubs that look like alligators? Oh yes. That shit is fresh. Argyle, oversized houndstooth, neon gingham, clashing plaids, yes, yes, YES.
I know who my people are now.
My people are golfers.
I don’t know how to explain how I feel: relieved, to come into a company of people who like things just like I do; intimidated, to know I have no skills to get me by in this new community; excited, to learn something new; saddened, to pick up another expensive, time-consuming hobby. Serious, every time I find something new, it costs bank. I’m not embarrassed to tell you I’m a hundredaire, but that doesn’t go as far as you might think! Oh no; I don’t have a dog named Dollar. I did once have a rat named “Cent,” but I sold him to the hobos for a boot for Christmas supper. It was such a fine roast boot! It was what Cent would have wanted. Dear, dear Cent. Don’t cry for him. Really, that rat was an asshole anyways.
But I digress.
I’ve been trying to pass as a classy person. I need to give up the ghost. I know two people who golf now. I just need to get a fourth, and this will give me the excuse to run around in golf clothes for the rest of Saturday after the round.
I do need a new pair of camo fatigues in the meantime. At least until I can get my hands on these sweet, sweet Loudmouths. (Oh, and when I wear them, THIS is the song I will sing constantly.) I can usually get away with those with just a few GI Joe comments. I’m not a vet, but I am a real American hero. I put up with jerky people on the daily, no arrests or injuries.
Just now, I realized the tacky came to me early. I don’t blame my folks. My father has no taste. I have bad taste. Huge difference. He cannot distinguish between items of clothing. I can, and I choose the dark side of prints. And my mother has no theory of dress. I do! Oh, do I ever.
No, I blame a worse source for beginning my descent. Just look at these suave gentlemen, telling us where it’s at. It’s at five, bitches, and yes, that is my favorite number Gordon. you handsome bastard. It is.