Fashion RAMPAGE!!!!!!! (UPDATE!)

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Thank you Jorge Vega of Everyday Cosmic Comics for pimping up one of the better pictures from the following collection:

Four month mark, by the way. Only 8 months of The Moose in the Closet Year I left. A third of the way through. 99 Stories from Moose Year I proper (and a couple of ones that don't count). At an average of a page and a half each, that's about 150 pages of my novel in four months. By the time this is finished we should have 450 pages of material in a year. That's some fucking experiment - and I being that I keep adding stuff that wasn't part of the original plan, I should have plenty of stories to fill this out.

This site is organic, you know. I plan it out as best I could and sometimes I get reminded of something so fucking funny that I just need to roll with it. After depressing Chris Piers with yesterday’s story, he told me I owe him the coat picture. So I started rifling through the pictures I brought home with me from my trip to Brooklyn this past weekend and I noticed something. My parents really tried to instill a sense of hip fashion into me that I completely squandered and instead wore the most ridiculous outfits imaginable once I started dressing myself. Observe and I’ll tell mini stories as I got through them.

Smooth. This one is in our apartment, not much to say here except I’m rocking a Captain America shirt and a cowboy hat. I don’t even remember the apartment looking like this at any point, they must have repainted/floored, etc a short while after that. Now idea who the guy is, either, I would guess he’s the owner of the hat.

This one is in our back yard. Rocking a Pac-Man shirt and jeans – fly. The little girl I’m feeding is my downstairs neighbor, Lisa. She was like a sister to me growing up. We had that swing set until it rusted and literally fell apart. Whenever you swung on it the whole thing would come off the ground and rock with you. Eventually the rusted bar just crumbled on a downswing and the whole set came crashing down. The yard always had that distinctive cement path running down it and the aluminum wall in the back that housed every spider in the neighborhood. One summer we broke up the concrete, laid down Astroturf and put this little pool back there, a two and a half foot wading pool to keep cool in the summer. The aluminum wall was replaced with wood. The whole yard lost its identity; it’s actually kind of sad.

This last one is down at the old Brooklyn Heights Promenade Park, before it went all modern. Check out that bomber jacket – fresh! Every weekend in the summer my mom and I would take the mile walk down there, get some mint-chip ice-cream cones at Baskin Robbins and go to the park. I would play for hours on that jungle-gym pretending it was a space-ship. Occasionally other kids would join me but the only-child mentality meant I had no problem playing by myself.

And then I started dressing myself.

Just kidding, I’ve mentioned this in the past; my elementary school (P.S.58) had a dance festival in the school yard every year. The sixth grade has a special dance where our teacher, Mr. Ringston, designed tuxes for the boys and dresses for the girls and made them himself. And this was my tux. I danced with the tallest girl in the school since I was the tallest boy – we discoed to “More Than a Woman”. In a school yard. In front of all of our parents. In those ridiculous fucking tuxes (the bow-tie was blue, by the way). The really funny part, the clothes I picked out were worse. Observe:

There are several great things about that picture. Ignoring my cousins who are also rocking suspenders and the odd framing of the picture, there is the righteous mullet I’m sporting. The top button of my silk shirt is clasped. The suspenders are stone-washed and I have a belt on securely fastened around my nipples, apparently. My package is the center of the picture. Then there’s the stuff you wouldn’t know unless I told you. Like, for instance, that wall we’re standing in front of is the wall to the trash processing plant in Red Hook, conveniently located across the street from my Grandma’s old house.

The next picture doesn’t just get better, it gets hardcore.

Uh-oh, black suspenders. One of the things that cracked me up about all of these pictures I took home is the fact that I’m a poser, as in, I pose in every shot. Combined with the fact that I’m a poser. So I’m a posing poser. Anyway, rocking the belt again and a San Antonio Spurs shirt with a Charlotte Hornet Hats. The punch-line? I’m a Knicks’ fan. And it’s impossible to look hard when my baby sister is standing next to me, in diapers, holding my leg. Parents’ apartment again, in case you’re wondering. Hasn’t changed much since that picture.

Before I show The Coat picture I want to say it’s the best one I could find. It’s not in its full glory, unfortunately, but that’s good. It won’t completely ruin the image in your mind but it’ll be enough for you to know that it existed. I give you, my African Flag, hooded trench-coat:

I’ve already talked plenty about it and the whole story behind it so I’ll go right to the next picture from my “dope-smoking, slacking, bum days.”

Ah yes, the trippy Chesire Cat T-shirt, the plaid shorts and the white afro. The pinnacle of fashion, right there. It gets worse when I dye the wafro red. Next to me is RJ and next to him is Luis. You might be asking why we’re standing there with my sister, dog, and cousins Andy and Amanda staring at us like we were pop-stars. Short answer: no fucking idea.

And finally I’ll end this with a recent picture to show that I’ve finally found a style I’m happy with. Of course, the style consists of wearing clothes a 1970’s llallo addict would wear but fuck it, better than suspenders and African Flag trenchoats:

That’s G and Robin with me, by the way; about to go out to Smith Street for New Years. Whoever took that picture was apparently the same person that took the picture in front of the dump. Must have a lazy eye or something.


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