A Plea For More Denim

Okay, so I’ve mentioned this a few times in previous pieces, and seeing as how the subject trend has not withered and died under the weight of its own absurdity (as I had hoped), it’s time to take it head on: What the hell is up with “skinny jeans”?!

No, seriously, I don’t get this. I really don’t. After nearly three and a half decades on this planet, and exposure to what must certainly be hundreds of thousands of different forms of attire – I honestly cannot conceive of a less flattering and more ridiculous way to clothe one’s self. It’s the ultimate failure of both form and function. If there is a mountain of ill-advised fashion choices, this is its summit.

When I speak to friends about this, they always open with the same question: do I mean for men or for women? And to this I answer: both. Of course, it is much more inexcusable for men - but you ladies aren't getting away scott-free.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the form of a woman's leg, and it's display in public - but, there's nothing sexy about seeing anyone in something that looks like it's about as comfortable to wear as a sandpaper tank top. Besides, anyone who's read me before knows that I'm a big fan of the country bar, so I'm no stranger to women in tight jeans. But there's a place where the tightness must stop - and that place is called - the knee. I mean, honestly, if you think that showing off the shape of your calves is going to rescue an otherwise unflattering display of the rest of your lower half - you should probably just go with a skirt. And before you go telling me that "hey, they actually are comfortable" - it doesn't matter, the fact is, they don't look comfortable, and because I'm not a masochist - that's not hot.

Listen, if you're a girl, and you've got legs that are so fantastic that they absolutely must be displayed in their entirety - you've got plenty of options: leggings, mini-skirts, and fitted capris just to name a few. So what's the deal with skinny jeans? I imagine that even the most svelte young women must find getting into these denim torture devices to be an experience that requires equal bits of flexibility, determination and prayer. Additionally, there simply cannot be a sexy way to take them off - which ought to be reason enough for adult women to avoid them.

My point is, ladies, if you want to be trendy - get the latest handbag, and leave the leg hugging to that special someone in your life, and not your pants.

Now, gentlemen - unless you are very good at ballet, or even better at road bicycling, swimming or professional wrestling, there is no good reason for you to ever wear skin tight clothing - especially on your legs. These exceptions are not instances in which it is any more pleasant to look at, just those occasions in which the assault and battery that it inflicts on my eyeballs has some manner of justification.

I have never met a girl over the age of 15 who thinks these are even remotely o.k. to wear. And for the record, only two of the few "tween" girls I polled believe that skinny jeans on boys are acceptable (and I have the sneaking suspicion that these same girls would think that white spandex body suits were "hot" if the Jonas Brothers were spotted in them). It is also important to note that they were talking about boys the same age. If you're a grown man and you think that wrapping your legs in skin-tight denim is o.k., perhaps clothing isn't your biggest problem after all.

Don't get me wrong now, I'm not advocating overly baggy clothing on men, either. Seeing a guy swimming in a white t-shirt that goes down to his knees, a sports jersey (not at a sporting event), or pants that could fit two of him in them is the easiest way I've seen to spot a moron since the dunce cap. But, really, how hard is it to find clothes that fit?!

My disdain for these jeans may have something to do with the increasing inappropriateness I feel regarding the display of a man's bare legs as I get older. In that, the only times I think it's appropriate to wear shorts as a grown up male are when you at the beach/pool, participating in a sporting event, or at home. The male leg is like the engine of a big ship - you don't need to see it, you just need it to be strong and reliable... and seeing it sort of makes the ship seem a little cheap and silly.

The two "groups" of men which seem most predisposed to this inexplicable form of self-mockery are "rockers" and "skaters" - both of whom seem like unlikely adopters of such a trend.

For rockers, I understand there is some cache to being skinny and wearing fitted clothing, but can't it just stop at leather pants? Isn't the crazy black hair, the piercing of every conceivable bit of skin and the black nail polish enough? Take it from someone who's spent some time on Hollywood Boulevard, it is. I need to see the shape of your legs like I need to Chelsea Clinton giving speeches on college campuses again. Besides, with all that black on, isn't a little extra ventilation for some of your sweatiest parts a solid idea? As far as I know, the "rocker" motif is about "looking" different, not smelling it...

For skaters, a group who defines themselves by participation in an irreverent but strenuous (and challenging) athletic activity, choosing apparel that restricts movement seems like a more baffling selection than Sarah Palin. I mean, truthfully, if you're trying to dress for difficulty, why not just go with a suit of armor? These things practically scream chafing... and that's just from walking. It just seems so insanely contradictory to see a teenage boy with good enough sense to wear a helmet while skating, but bad enough judgment to wear skin tight denim so that he looks "cool" while doing it. It's not as though you need to do anything more to identify yourself as a "skater" if you're already carrying a skateboard!

* * *

A long time ago, I once succumbed to a fashion trend, the sight of which still mortifies me to this day - and that was rolling the bottom of my jeans tight against my legs, what used to be known as pegging. And all this showed off of our legs was the ankles. Skinny jeans are a full blown fashion cataclysm, and for some reason, they've outlasted the poncho, the Kabballah bracelet, Crocs, Uggs and even Affliction. It's as though the ridiculousness of a trend is proportional to how long we'll be forced to suffer it.

In the end, I expect skinny jeans, like all unfortunate fashion movements, will run it's course, and I will have to find yet another reason to mistrust and dislike teenagers (don't worry, there's an endless number, and they're coming up with new ones all the time). In the meantime, I'll keep my fingers crossed that summer comes soon, good sense prevails, and, for the first time I can recall, I'll actually hope to see more people in shorts.

Calling Grizzly Adams

I've recently had a style epiphany. This is the sort of thing that really only happens to men, mostly because "fashion" is an item that's fairly low on our priority list (for reference, it falls somewhere between Christmas cards and the WNBA Playoffs). And for those who know me, you'll know that I consider myself fairly fashion conscious - meaning that I have a subscription to Esquire magazine, own at least 5 pairs of jeans that do not have the words "LEVI", "Wrangler", or "GAP" anywhere on them, and drive 25 miles each way every two weeks to get a $50 haircut. Which makes style epiphanies all the more rare and wondrous for me. But, seriously... seriously when did everyone start having a beard again?

I mean, I really thought this was the sort of thing that we outgrew as a culture and not one of those fashion "trends" that would come in and out of style every couple of decades; things we never want to see again, like the mullett and copious amounts of pubic hair. The whole thing just seems unsanitary, doesn't it? Centuries of razor technology and you've still got the grooming habits of Cro-Magnon Man? What's next, a leopard skin singlet?

Seriously, a beard has got to be the most reliable indicator of douchebaggery since the visible gold chain. For reference, there are really only two ways to go with facial hair: (1) you just let it grow unfettered, or (2) you groom it into one of a myriad of "styles" - both of which seem equally ill-advised and horrible.

The Grizz

Just letting the hair on your face grow unchecked is the easiest way to say "I don't care" since Crocs came out. It's like wearing a little notice to strangers that you have a job that requires you to "punch in" and wear a name tag. Of course with that bush strapped to your chin, you could be a superstar actor between blockbuster films or a maybe a comedian, but let's face it, you don't look like Tom Cruise even with the better part of your face covered, and the only funny thing about you is how you look with that Chia Pet chin of yours.

I'll bet you'll tell me it's worldly, or that it's your way of defying the establishment, but in reality, everyone you see is checking out your clothes to evaluate whether you're homeless or not - and there's nothing worldly about that. You don't live in a cabin in the wilderness where you might need it for warmth - you live in a crappy apartment in Van Nuys... so what gives? Razors too expensive? You're wearing a $200 pair of jeans! And as far as counterculture goes, that become mainstream fifteen years ago, wake up and smell the Seattle. You're not making a statement, you're making a scent. Do you even comb that thing? I think you might have some noodles stuck in there from last week.

I've never met a woman who thinks this is attractive. Wait, scratch that, I've never met a women who regularly shaves her legs that thinks this is attractive. Amongst the many other ridiculous things that it is, a free-growth beard seems to be ticket to a lifetime alone - or with the kind of girl who thinks Renissance festivals are "cool".

The Groomed

Thankfully, this type of facial hair is far more common in southern California than the other. But while it is marginally less dispositive of one's predisposition towards hourly employment and a general lack of direction, it is much more indicative of someone's overall douchery.

Note, however, this usually doesn't apply if you're over 40. Once you're a grown man, you've earned a goatee, mustache or tastefully trimmed beard. It may even look good on you. But, if you're over 40 and you have a soul patch, a Fu-Manchu or have trimmed any shapes into your facial hair - age aside, you're still a douche.

A quick aside on my descriptive terms... according to the Wikipedia (the global oracle of second-hand knowledge):

Douche bag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term in most of the English-speaking world. The slang usage of the term dates back to the 1960s. The term implies a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and malice.

...but, to be honest, if you don't know what a douche is - much like the knowledge passed on in Rounders about "suckers" - you probably are one. Enough said.

Seriously, though - groomed facial hair on anyone under the age of thirty just makes you look like an ass. When did this come back? The last time I remember 5 o'clock shadow being cool Don Johnson was running round in a white linen suit with a pastel colored t-shirt and George Michael was still widely thought to be straight. Unless you actually own and ride a Harley, six inches of goatee just looks silly. And no, your Kawasaki Ninja does not count. And please don't get me started on lamb-chop sideburns or anything that's pencil thin. People who grew up in the seventies are still embarrassed about those 'burns, and anything that looks like it could be reproduced on your face by a little eyeliner and some free time is probably not as manly as you think.

* * *

I suppose that the reality of this is that it's much like bolt-on exhaust pipes, skinny jeans for men, and The Hills; things that I'm simply too old to understand. I imagine there comes a time in every adult's life when they realize that, in some part, they've been left behind - and that there are no longer any music videos on MTV. But I'd like to think that I've still got a sense of what looks and what doesn't look ok.

In a world where emasculation seems to lurk around every corner, I can certainly understand the need, the compulsion, to establish one's manhood at every opportunity (which, as it turns out, makes skinny jeans all the more perplexing to me). Many great historical male figures cut their profile with a signature bit of facial hair. But it's important to note that these men were also wearing union suits and codpieces for underwear.

Want to man up? Try fixing something in your girlfriend's house. Want to look dangerous? Get a leather jacket. Want to rebel? Get a tattoo. And if you really want to spend time doing something to your face that will make you look all grown up, for God's sake, shave.

Midnight in the Garden of Pretty and Evil

Hollywood is arguably the birthplace of the nightclub, in that it seems to have inspired nightclubs the world over. I have been to nightclubs in hundreds of cities, and no theme is more consistently represented than “Hollywood” – from its famous “Roxy”, “Viper Room” and “Sunset Strip” to its velvet ropes, monolithic and dour bouncers, and VIP back entrances; each reprised a thousand times over in small-town suburbs and big time “second” cities. But, as with most things, the “idea” of Hollywood nightclubs is far more glamorous than the realities.

I can vividly recall my first Hollywood nighttime outing. My mind raced with images that had flashed on my TV screen: pretty people, neon castles, flashy bartenders and listening to music so transcendently good that I would have no choice but to dance the night away. I remember the concern with which I decided what to wear – hoping, desperately, to be cool enough for the scene. But what I will truthfully never forget was the crushing disappointment of the actual experience.

My first thought, and the corresponding first words that came out of my mouth, as we arrived in the vicinity were: “This is Hollywood? I thought it would be…uh, cleaner.” The sidewalks were dirty, like wrong-side-of-the-tracks post-natural disaster dirty. The corners and closed storefront alcoves were filled with homeless, prostitutes and all manner of unsavory characters. The streets contained an even mix of both exotic sports cars and mid 90’s-era Toyota Corollas (and various cars of that nature) – which was somehow more disheartening than had the streets been filled fully with either. Valets hustled to park lines of cars, while lines of would-be party goers snaked around the blocks from the sporadically placed entrances. And the hordes of pretty people? Replaced by crowds of wannabes and posers – all trying to be something they clearly weren’t with a desperation that was palpable.

But aside from its general failures to live up to the preceding reputation and hype, there are some unique characteristics of the Hollywood club scene which keep me from going more than once annually (usually to remind myself why I don’t go anymore).

Parking on the Dance Floor

There is one essential thing to know about dance clubs in Hollywood, and that is that, for the most part, people do not dance there. Which is not to say that there isn’t a “dance floor” or other designated dancing area, because there is. It is also not to say that there is not music to dance to. In fact, some of the best DJs I have ever heard have been in Hollywood night spots. But, as above, no one is dancing. Of course, in other cities’ nightclubs this looks a little silly, because that would mean that there’s no one on the dance floor. Not in Hollywood. No, what you are supposed to do there (or at so far as I’ve been to glean from observation) is to stand about on the dance floor as if it’s simply a good place to listen to the music and if anyone does start to dance, you are to cast sideways glances at them, as if they have two heads.

In the very few places in Hollywood where dancing does take place, it must be very crowded. And by “very” I mean, eight-people-touching-you-at-any-given-time crowded. The primary motivation behind this phenomenon (as well as the dance floor parking policy) is the first rule of Hollywood clubbing: you must look cool at all times. This prohibits, amongst other things, overtly enjoying the music (i.e. toe tapping or swaying to the beat), removing your hat or sunglasses, or smiling.

The does, however, give you some insight into the authenticity of a “Hollywood”-style club. If there are people on the dance floor, dancing, smiling and generally having a good time with at least some casual disregard for their appearance, you know it’s a complete knock-off[1].

A Place for Friends

One of the most unique characteristics of the western Los Angeles night scene is its functionality as a device to meet new people. Which is to say, that it has none. You see, people in Hollywood go out exclusively to hang out with people they already know. Now, for those of you not from L.A., you’ll recognize this behavior as what you call “having some friends over” – but in order to do it here, you’ve got to get dressed up, brave the traffic, be on “the list”, then enjoy seeing your friends over $15 well drinks, $9 domestic beers and one seriously angsty cocktail waitress (who is truthfully expecting a $20 tip each time she swings by).

This behavior can be visually observed as groups of friends “circling the wagons” and chatting amongst themselves for the balance of the evening, not unlike a high school lunchroom. And from experience, let me just say that I do not advise trying to break into one of these circles. Because if you do, you’ll stop conversation in that circle faster than an audible fart (and be the recipient of the aforementioned sideways glances from the rest of the club).

Now, I’m a friendly soul and found this out the hard way, but it comes to this: if you go to the nightclub in Hollywood alone, that’s how you’ll be leaving.

What Not to Wear

Hollywood nightclubs are a lot like high school: in that they are mostly designed to make you feel as though you’re not cool enough, not pretty enough and not rich enough to be there. The atmosphere is intense enough, that even the “cool kids” feel this way. The idea is to spend as much money as you can trying to look as though you spent nothing on what you’re wearing. For example, you roll out in your “plain” Rag & Bone Jeans ($275), “plain” white James Perse t-shirt ($50) and your “plain” casual Fiorentini + Baker shoes ($360), and you’ve spent nearly $800 on looking like you don’t even care enough to put on a decent shirt[2]. Nice, huh?

Which is not to say that you are allowed to actually dress as though you don’t care, because you’re not. You’ll likely not even make it into the club so attired, and even if you do, when someone realizes you’re wearing less than $100 worth of clothes, you’ll get kicked out like you knocked up the owner’s favorite niece.

This preparation is, however, essential in Hollywood, because your face is the third or fourth thing that any potential mates look at (after your shoes, watch, and sometimes, your outfit). And if you think that’s shallow, just wait until you get to the “conversation”; which consists of a net-worth focused interrogation, and features such inspirational queries as “So what do you do?” and “So what do you drive?”[3]

In that, clubbing in Hollywood is sort of like interviewing for a job that you don’t really want.

Bright Lights, Big City

In the end, there is some modicum of entertainment in simply observing the living caricatures that populate these scenes: the “actresses” and “models” (read as: baristas and waitresses), the “producers” (read as: sleazy old guys who actually made their money in plumbing but always seem to have “a friend in the business), the “musicians” (read as: the grooming and bathing averse) and “visitors” who come from the suburbs for the feel of an “authentic” party experience (and end up leaving with a $500 bar tab and wondering why they didn’t just go to the corner pub).

In fact, you might just discover that the mystery of a street with so many parties going being called the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” isn’t much of a mystery after all.

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[1] The proper response to this is to look around in disgust, and briskly remove yourself from the premises (as though you’re heading off to a much cooler party).

[2] This, of course, does not include the watch you’re supposed to be wearing, which can set you back about a cool $10,000 (if done properly)

[3] I’d love to be able to tell you that this is all just me taking some poetic license and engaging in a little harmless hyperbole… but this is, unfortunately, all true… and based on personal anecdotal evidence.

Blasts from the Past

Recently, I think may have accidentally run over someone's beloved pet, or perhaps I wasn't paying attention and let a door slam on an old lady. I can't really recall doing any such thing, but since karma has kicked me in the nuts twice in the last 14 days - I figure it's got to be something. You see, in the past two weeks, I've been contacted by two women, out of the blue, each of whom I had dated more than eight months ago.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I should be stoked - a little "recycling" never hurt anyone, right? I mean, in a world where "creepers" abound, it's easy to see why a nice guy like me would get a call back every now and then. But no, you'd be wrong, both of these calls opened with the bald assertion that the caller had no interest whatsoever in getting back together with me. What's worse, both of these women broke up with me.

Here's where you know I'm telling the truth, because that assertion is baldly emasculating enough that there's no way anyone would offer it up as a fabrication.

Can someone please tell me what the hell is up with this? Because I can see the motivation behind getting back in touch with someone who broke up with you (albeit a tremendously selfish one) to let them know that you're successful and happy - despite their rejections. And I can see the motivation in getting back in touch with someone you broke up with to see if you can give things another try; second thoughts, etc. Which left me to wonder just what sort of explanation would follow a declaration of my continued, abject undesirability.

The first young lady wanted to apologize, which was almost... almost ok. But then she followed it up with wanting to "see how I was doing" and if I "needed anything". Well, let's see, in the intervening eight months since we last said a single word to each another at the rightful end to the worst weekend trip to Las Vegas ever, I spent two of those months just crying all day, 45 days contemplating a suicide attempt within walking distance of her house, another month and half building a candle-lit shrine to her in my living room (which is turns out is a seriously bad place to put a life-sized wax replica of the love of one's life) and the rest of the time just waiting by the phone for her call. I mean, that must have been the answer she was expecting, right? Honestly. how far up your own ass do you have to be to believe that if a man is deprived of your attention for any appreciable period of time, that he needs to be periodically checked up on for health and well being?

I told her I was fine, and that I really wasn't interested in being friends with someone who let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I really wasn't good enough for her. In her defense, after hearing her dating resume, I probably should have known. A group that included: a couple of celebrities, a few professional professional athletes, and at least two gentlemen whose net worth placed them in the I'll-just-pay-cash-for-this-Lamborghini club was not ready to welcome me as a member. And that's not really the point here. Rather it is that there seems no need to call and apologize for being a horrible person, 8 months later - because no matter what I say, I am not really going to forgive you, and, more importantly I stopped thinking about you seven and a half months ago! What kind of person calls to remind you of something terrible, unexpected and callous they did to you? Let's just say that I hope she wasn't trying to improve her karma score - because her call has the distinction of being the single most self-serving thing I've experienced in Los Angeles (and if you've dated in LA, you'll know that's really saying something).

The second young lady called to let me know she was moving back into town from Utah, into the house of a new boyfriend. So you know, she was no stranger to a little phone-based drama, as she had broken things off with me via text message. But, we hadn't spoken in months - the last time, she called to let me know she was leaving town (for good... ha!), and after I agreed to meet with her before she left because she seemed genuinely upset, I never heard from her again. Classy, right?

Since then, I had taken great lengths to avoid the drama that trailed around behind this girl like a comet's tail - including not going back to the bar we used to hang out at - and had nearly forgotten about the entire sordid affair. But here she was, calling me to "catch up". Really? Catch up? So I pressed her... why did she really call? And then I got it, her mother had asked about me. Ah, and there it was. Because, it is not hard to believe that someone's small town Utah mother would ask their daughter about the lone professional that had punctuated her daughter's dating landscape of neck tattoos and ill-conceived facial hair experiments.

Which is all understandable, but again why are you calling me??? Unfortunately, this poor girl had no idea she was the second of two, and had to bear the brunt of my frustration boiling over. No longer able to pretend to be indifferent, I unloaded, and told her that I was not really interested in telling her how I was doing, or catching her up on the many endeavors I was involved in, any more than I was interested in hearing about what new boyfriend's favorite beer was, or whether or not he had scored some "excellent weed". I also let her know that she had earned a spot on that list of people I'm looking forward to sending a free copy of my book to, just to let them know that they bailed on me a little early. Her actual response was: "I can't wait to read it!" Wow. Sometimes the jokes just tell themselves, folks.

I've asked some female friends about this behavior and they're as dumbstruck as I was - or at least they're saying that. I suspect this may be one of those things that all women have agreed to keep secret because it adds to the mystery, allure and utter inexplicabiilty of the feminine psyche - like going to the restroom in groups, waiting periods for calling, and the acceptability of spending more than $1000 on a handbag. The fact that the two women involved were about as different as they could possibly be (age, education, employment, etc.) keeps me from thinking that this is the sort of behavior I can write off to just a crazy idiosyncrasy. Perhaps one of my dear readers can respond with some sort of explanation.

In the past few months, I have enjoyed some very unexpected reunions (via Facebook and other social networking sites) with some long-lost and dear friends from my past - including elementary, middle and high school, college and even law school. I suppose it should come as no surprise that some unwelcome reunions might occur alongside. But the moral of the story is that: in case you're wondering whether you ought to get back in touch with someone who you've previously dated (and broken things off with), just to say hi and that you're happily involved with someone else - don't... the ass you make may be your own.