Dogs, Mullets and Style

My honest reaction: "Oh my God! YES! Aw, only 18?"

I needed to feed my ferocious hunger for chocolate soy milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch this morning.  It’s not as disgusting as you might think…

I don’t know what came over me this morning before dawn, but I needed it.  So, I made my way to the local shoppe.  It’s quaint, open 24-hours and full of happy, shining people.  Wal-Mart is a great place.

As I picked up my usual grab of foodstuffs and pool novelty items, I decided to follow a gaggle of Wal-Mart employees to their destination.  I had never seen so many Wal-Mart stockers at one time.  It was like seeing the Northern Lights.  I was drawn in.  They were all heading to the “Christmas Shop” which was just the interior Garden Section converted into a Xmas-y Wuenderland.  I poked around, and seemed to be annoying people by my mere presence. Just how I like it.

I was curious what products necessitated twenty-five laborers to shelve and rotate.  Then I found this little guy.  The squee I let out might have alerted the employees, but it WAS 7am, so they were all probably zombies that early in the morning/that late in their shifts.

From what magical place did you come from doggy?!?!?

I know that there are people who devote their lives to dogs, dog pageantry, dog grooming, dog walking, dognapping and puppy breeding. But this little fucker has to have come from somewhere else.  He came from somewhere divine.  He was not made.  He was, is and will always be.  This picture isn’t the culmination of several people’s hard work–or even perhaps hundreds. It’s the apex of civilization.  It’s the highest point our society will ever reach.  I love you puppy.

All kidding aside, what really excites me is the possibility that I will one day be able to see this go down.  Because I’m sure this won’t be the last time we’ll need doggy Christmas cards.  Seasons will change.  Years will pass.  This dog will grow old.  It will grow tired of the doggy model circuit.  He’ll turn to hard drugs.  Eventually he’ll be found in a Ft. Lauderdale hotel room with a needle in his eye, dead from an overdose and 3 or 4 passed out/possibly dead doggy hookers strewn about the floor.

I hope to be invited to a doggy photoshoot by a friend or a family member, and I will get to witness part of the JOY creation process.  Maybe I’ll even get to strap that lil’ scarf on his neck or even staple the hat onto his skull.

As I stood in aisle 154, I stared into the puppy’s eyes.  I realized that not only was this dog everything I wanted to be, he was also mocking me.  What he has is unattainable.  This dog…

Unlike Mr. Perfect here, I have no sense of style.  My style of dress is less purposeful than my location allows, but I make do.  Look at his fucking scarf!  It’s candy cane themed AND has a mistletoe on it.  He’s making us all look bad, especially me.

My mother always found excuses to dress me in whichever way she pleased.  Since I never really cared about anything between birth and 10, my mom had a decent boy canvas for a good 10 years.  I never really complained much.  If I did feel like being subversive, the subtle, “I don’t know where it went. Musta lost it,” always provided sufficient cover.  However, it did give me the dubious distinction of being the most forgetful in my family… If they only knew.  From the age 10 and on, I really just hated fashion.  I hated trends.  I thought they were fleeting and nonsensical.

I can’t see myself doing anything fashionable.  It’s not in my nature.  I gather clothing items randomly from people or out of necessity, but my wardrobe is limited and laughable.  I still wear shirts from sixth grade. As so many people take pride in what they have and what they wear, I take pride in what I don’t do.  I’m sure it sounds stupid.  In a society that tells us to, “Go. Do. ‘Live.’ Consume,” I’m prone to just retract.  I have a lot of friends like that.  I love them for it.  It’s what makes me want to be their friend.  I don’t want someone who lingers near frivolous things because 9 times out of 10 they’re just as fickle.  Perhaps, they’re (I’m) just misguided.

Just like my mother telling me what to wear, I feel like we try to throw things on each other without really thinking about how stupid taste-making really is.

The perfect example of this is the mullet.  For an entire decade, some of our greatest musicians, movie stars and personalities had mullets.  No one questioned it.  It was just accepted as an appropriate form of badassness.  People were down with the mullet.  It was probably the most legit hair style of the twentieth century.  Prove me wrong.  Now, it’s just a joke.  You only wear a mullet if you’re on a hockey team or lovably ironic.  Both can get fucking annoying.

In the 2k0s, I don’t think that trend-setting is that directed like a lot of people feel.  I don’t think that the media and corporations set the agenda of our frivolity.  I think we dictate things more now than ever before.  In this age of communication, this system has become more likely than a hierarchical model of consumption.  We all don’t watch the same TV, read the same things or listen to the same music, but somehow people still manage becoming more uniform.  Even if you’re inclined to feel differently, we use our free will everyday.  But, we’re all watching each other.  We need the machine as much as it needs us.  we desire validation.  We need to see others doing what we’re doing because we’re afraid we’re not doing it correctly.  We cannot disconnect, even if we’d like to.  We all want to fit in.  We want to see other people try the stupid shit we try so we don’t feel “faggy” or “lame” ourselves.

I don’t think we’re always conscious of it, or we’re constantly thinking this way, but I feel we all do it from time to time.  We want people to join our little experiments, but don’t count on me if you want to start wearing your clothes backwards again.

This blog’ll make ya JUMP JUMP!

Dago

PS: Follow me on twitter. I have a lot more fun there than on Facebook or Myspace.

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