June 28, 2006
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I feel spiffy, oh so spiffy. . . . .
My sweety once said I was a clothes horse, and I took umbrage at that. She’s good at that–in fact, during the fall of 2002, so many people had taken umbrage at her remarks that there was a severe shortage on the East Coast, and umbrage futures soared to record highs on the New York Commodities Market. But I digress….
I have long since returned the umbrage–at uxorious rates, I might add–and now revel in my equine sartoriality. Take today. In two hours, the Wasilla market opens, and since there is a better class of folks there than the drunks and dopers and assorted unindicted co-conspirators who are my usual customers at the Strip, I have eschewed my usual frayed jeans and garish t-shirt and ball cap in favor of this: starting at ground level, Arnold Palmer signature suede walkers–comfy, not terribly bling, but nice. Bill Blass casual slacks, with generous pleats and full cuffs and a nice break over the heel–old man pants, in other words, but I like them. They are held up by a nice leather belt in an alligator texture. Next, we have the Bill Blass checked sport shirt, and the whole is topped off by an imported Austrian fedora. My watch is a Sergio Valente calendar tank watch, set with a wee diamond at the twelve o’clock position.
Now just a darn tootin’ minute, protests someone from the peanut gallery. You are always going on about your poverty and shit–what did you do, pull off a daring daylight robbery at the local men’s emporium? No way, sez I. Here is my secret.
The shoes, pants and shirt came from a local thrift shop–total cost for them, less than ten bucks. My sweety got the hat and belt online for me at a big discount years ago, when we had lots more dough–she was making thousands off the books growing pot, I was doing $200-300 a day as a street peddler in Talkeetna. This was before they ran me out of town.
The watch I got on sale–one of the local box stores has a close-out sale once a year–and paid less that $13 for it.
Oh, and I smell faintly of Tommy Hilfiger Body Lotion–which I got out of the local dumpster. Smells pretty good.
The lotion, not the dumpster, ya big silly.
Comments (3)
What a HOOT, Greywolf –
We got to enjoy a picture of your ghoul selling knives … now please give us a picture of you in your “we-be-goin’-to-town” digs, will you?
Aaaah, the sweet smell of… garbage. You got it out of the dumpster, so no matter how sweet it smells, it’s garbage, right?
Hey, garbage sorta rhymes with umbrage… just a stray thought.
Some of my fondest childhood memories are of dumpster diving.
One time we found a HUGE stockpile of buttons – all still on their cards like new.