Indulging in a bit of nostalgia in this recent post had me briefly revisiting an old photo album, something I’m not wont to do because dwelling in the past is not usually conducive to living in the present. Still, it has its fun and merits every once in a while, and the older I get, the more past there is to dissect. Speaking of dissection, let’s do a bit on this photo because there’s a lot of things happening here, and none of them are very good. In case you didn’t notice, here’s what I see:
- I’m pointing to my ass in a lame visual joke to pretend I’m getting a tattoo there. (Pause for guffaws.)
- There is a cigarette in my mouth, and this was probably one of those Bidi cigarettes that my friend Chris and I favored at the time like children.
- My hair. My hair is platinum blonde, because everyone should be blonde at one point in their life. That was mine, and it only worked well once the roots started growing in. And even then, it probably didn’t work.
- That signature seven-button polo shirt from Structure, where I worked at the time. Why seven buttons? That was the tag line promoting them, and there was no satisfying answer.
- The platform shoes in black suede, which wouldn’t be out of fashion today actually.
- There is a plaid flannel shirt tied around my waist. THERE IS A PLAID FLANNEL SHIRT TIED AROUND MY WAIST.
Questionable lewks aside, that was a fun summer. It was 1997 and I was visiting my friend Chris in San Francisco on my Royal Rainbow World Tour (the ultimate exercise in sublime delusion). We were young, we were foolish, and we clearly didn’t give a fuck what we wore or how we wore it. Some things never change.
