[LEMONS] 11.09.2003
I'm sorry. They are. There's no other way to say it. Neighborhoodies make me want to go out and buy Dockers and a Dodge Stratus, move to Tracy and join a country club.
Now, don't get me wrong. I do love hoodies. I essentially live in hoodies. And I'm completely down with personalizing them. But the DIFM (do-it-for-me) culture they represent seems completely at odds with the aesthetic. Spending a fortune to look poor is lame. Want to put iron-on letters on your hoodie to say something cute? Go buy an iron, you fucking yuppie.
Or at least have the courage to be authentic. Wear a Marina or Cow Hollow or Lake Merced hoodie. You know, somewhere you'll live after you get out of grad school. (But you don't know where Lake Merced is, do you? Just wait, your real-estate agent will point it out in a few years if you stick around.) If I see another pre-fab pinhead in a Lower Haight, Mission, Fillmore, or, God help me, Tenderloin hoodie purchased for five times the price of making it yourself, I'm going to yank that iced latte right out of your hand and pour it down your $100 pants. You don't even want to know what I'd like to do with that $85 Von Dutch asshat of yours. "Hey, look at me! I'm poor!," they scream. "Not really. Look closely," they whisper.
And finally, quite frankly, I don't care how much irony is involved, wearing matching his and hers anything is still gay. Fannypack gay. Pleated shorts gay. It isn't original. It isn't funny. It isn't ironic. It isn't cool. It's gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay. And you should know better.
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