Anything You Can Douche, I Can Douche Better

There is something truly incredible about the men of Los Angeles; something that defies all logic or understanding. Because just when I think that I've seen the art of douchebaggery reach its highest, or rather, lowest point, and without even seeking it out, I come across someone (or two) ever so much worse. It's as though L.A. has become the epicenter for dressing yourself like an asshat and then acting as though you're walking around in classic Armani suit. I'm not certain whether to laugh or to cry. But, ever since I read in my April Esquire magazine about "end of the douchbag era" (courtesy of Stephen Marche's 'A Thousand Words About Our Culture' column) I've been waiting to see signs of this downturn. From where I'm standing, however, I fear the Marche may have posted the proverbial "Mission Accomplished" banner on his cultural aircraft carrier just a tad too early. The douchebag movement is apparently alive and well here in the City of Angels - and may even be gaining momentum.

Skinny jeans, over-sized v-necks, highlighted hair and eyeliner are apparently not enough. Because while sitting in an Irish Pub (yes an actual Irish pub - the only place you'd be less likely to spot the common L.A. douche than a Men's Wearhouse) on the north side of town this weekend, I was confronted by a brave new step forward in fashion dumbassery - the coordinated kung fu headband. At first, I thought it was some sort of joke - as though some group of kids were having a theme party and the pub was simply a stop on their bar crawl. Sure they wouldn't fit in, but that was sort of the point of such an adventure anyway, right? I couldn't think of any other reason why two of these young men would be wearing tied headbands that matched their outfits: one white and one black. It was like some post-modern good vs. evil chode war - or as though the Karate Kid and Criss Angel had a love child (or two).

At least one of them had the good sense to use a handkerchief (of course that same dickwad did not have the good sense to keep his pants from falling off his ass - despite the fact that he was wearing a belt - but that's a different story). The other looked as though he had crafted his from an old white undershirt. I can almost imagine the scene at his house:

Assclown 1: "Yo, you ready yet?"

Assclown 2: "Almost... YO! Sweet headband!"

Assclown 1: "Yeah, chicks love this thing - Spencer was totally rockin' one last week at the club... I got black to match my jeans and eyeliner"

Assclown 2: "Dude, I don't have a white one to match my shoes..."

Assclown 1: "Yo, just cut up an old shirt!"

Assclown 2: "Sweet!"

You know, now it looks like I just transcribed outtakes from "Dude, Where's My Car?"

But seriously, Mr. Makeshift Headband was a serious limp and one crane technique away from being Daniel Laruso. I had to fight the urge to go over and ask him if he was from Reseda and how Mr. Miyagi was doing these days.

In all honesty, all of it would have been fine if they were joking. You know, a Karate Kid theme party wouldn't be such a bad idea - I'll bet you could even get Elizabeth Shue to show up depending on which bars you went to and if you had bottle service and a decent amount of cocaine. Hell, I might even have joined in with some movie quotes and maybe bought the group a round for their sheer audacity and brilliance. But, no. This was no tongue-in-cheek send up of 80's pop culture. This was latest ring quest of another Frodo and Bilbo Douchbaggins - lowering the bar to impossible new depths, and turning an otherwise tremendous local pub into a weak hipster rest stop. As they laughed at their own unimaginably stupid jokes, and strutted around the bar like peacocks, their woefully underfed Ingénues in tow, I struggled in vain to ignore them and was left trying to glean some sort of lesson from having to bear witness to this latest fashion tragedy.

Much like economic turn around - we must be cautious to announce the end of the douchebag era before it is truly nigh. In all likelihood, it will take years to undo the damage done by Afflication, Armani Exchange, Diesel and most of the Persian and Armenian guys I've ever met. Because just as one tool recognizes the errors of his ways, buttons up his shirt, takes off his jewelry and turns his car stereo down, another will take his place; under the same misguided delusion that such behavior is all that's standing in between him and a life of perpetually available sex with supermodels. No, it's going to take a nation of us to stand up; to continue to rage against this rising tide of overgroomed and undersmart scrotes, to finally point and laugh and yell: "What the hell are you wearing?"

Or just one of us to sweep the leg.