In a flurry of scatterbrained stupidity, I went to work today an hour and fifteen minutes early. As soon as I noticed my mistake (okay, as soon as Ashley was all What are you doing here?) I hightailed it out of the office and headed downtown to check out the American Apparel store that opened up a while back.
I’ve never really been hip to the whole American Apparel ethos; I’ve read about their wacky CEO and his wacky sexual harassment lawsuits and his wacky masturbating in front of reporters and his wacky living wage and myriad perks for his workers (here‘s a good overview of Dov Charney’s deal). I think their ads are dumb, too, but then again I’m not really the target demographic for most of them. In other words, I’m not a hipster who used to jerk off to the bra page of the Sears circular.
The one thing I do like about the store, however, is their white-framed storefront and their typography.
So walking in was fun. Browsing? Not so much. I mean, it was fun in a completely voyeuristic way; walking in and seeing solid, organized blocks of bright colors everywhere is kind of a thrill (if you’re a loser like me), as is imagining the people who can actually wear the clothes in that store. Because there was a whole lotta gold and silver lamé. And acrylic cable-knit leggings. And spandex dresses.
And I can’t pull any of that off, though I sometimes dream of moving to another city where no one knows me and just wearing the craziest shit like I’d been doing it my whole life.
Anyway, all this is to say I thought the clothes sucked. There were some cool tri-color zip-up hoodies that looked comfy, but I wasn’t about to throw down $40 for one, even if it was made by happy non-sweatshop employees out in California. Most of their shirts were made so thin that they were see-through; I know hipsters like to layer, but damn! I can’t really consider your shirts inexpensive if I have to buy five of them to cover up my bra.
I guess the highlight of the trip was parallel parking and wasting 30 cents in the meter. I haven’t done that since I lived in Birmingham.
Oh, and I should really mention the ironic stuff they had playing on the TV monitors: A rodeo on one and an old ’80s-ish video of middle-aged dorks line-dancing.
Sometimes I hate my generation.
You’re too funny. I wanna start wearing crazy shit. The trannies are supposed to be taking me shopping for spandex dresses and moisturizer, but they never come through. Never trust a tranny.
Holy moley! I used to live in Birmingham, between ’83 and ’88! I lived in the “UAB student ghetto,” just south of Five Points. I could walk out my front door, look up over my left shoulder and see the Vulcan. Small world.
Fritz, if you start wearing spandex dresses, I will build a shrine to your chutzpah. Those things are built for young, waify women; if twentysomething queer dudes can pull them off, then they deserve my eternal praise.
Mike, crazy! I lived on 18th Street South, right off of UAB’s campus and just north of Five Points. In a crappy, overpriced converted hotel called “University Place.”
Man, I regret not getting to know the area better than I did. I felt like a squatter. I was only there for three months.
But you’re right — small world!