Let’s face it.  The 70’s are like shooting fish in a bucket.

Ode to a Sweatervest

O sweatervest that hast no voice, confide to me a voice,
O harvest of the closet — O boundless knitted sack,
O lavish appliqued scarecrow design — O infinite teeming autumnal embroidery,
A song to narrate thee.

All gather and all harvest ..

Harvest the yarn of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every heathered skein under thee,
Harvest the felt of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each sheet in its maize and orange glory,
Gather the gingham to myriad hat and scarf shapes in the odorous design,
Buttons to their plackets, swirly green leaf patterns of Michigan, to the fronts;
Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, knit then embellish
The golden curly fake straw hair of Georgia and the Carolinas,
Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,
Cut the boxy shape in the Middle States, or add brown yarny trim to the Borders,
Knit the crows and puff the leaves, or embroider flowers from the fields or bunches of pumpkins from the vines,
Or aught that defies fashion in all these States or North or South,
Under the beaming “Pumpkin Patch” sign and under thee.

– Pepe (heavily inspired by Walt Whitman)

I was so moved by this sweatervest to create poetry that I nearly didn’t notice how Alexis has masterfully combined the garment with capri-length red-and-white checked baggy overalls.  View the full outfit here

And if you’d like to read Walt Whitman’s Ode to the Harvest, without my, er, edits, you can view it here

There was this time just after the 80’s when the we felt a rustling of change in the stratosphere.  When Pearl Jam and Nirvana were starting to steal the airwaves from Debbie Gibson and New Kids on the Block.  The Berlin wall had just come down, the technological revolution was starting, and “independent” became the new buzzword.  For some inexplicable reason, this was also the time when drapey, baggy shorts crafted from shiny polyester became acceptable as businesswear.  Suits with matching jackets and shorts were seen on everyone from Julia Roberts in her Pretty Woman hotel exit scene, to the girl next door to, I’ll admit it, me.  Somewhere during this time a designer dreamed up this outfit.  Not content to simply slap the face of fine fashion with the shorts and jacket combo, this designer decided to cut the short-sleeved jacket from an aztec-inspired monstrosity of printed poly rayon and add a mock blouse to the mix.  There are not many things I like less on garments than faux/mock bits of ridiculousness.  As far as I’m concerned, if it’s going to look like a pocket, it better fucking well be a pocket.  Why this “blouse” which is really just a triangle of fabric tacked to the interior of the jacket opening needs to have functional buttons is beyond me.  All I know is I want to grab it by the scruff of the seams and scream, “What are you!”  “Why are you here!”  “Tell me the truth goddammit stop lying for once in your life and own up to it.  You are not a blouse. I know it.  They know it.  The whole world can see it.  Just. Be. Honest!”

Or maybe I’m just pissed off because I look so stupid in this picture.  What’s with the double-chin?  Yuck.

Mommy make it stop!  Please make it not be a shit-brown background with gigantic muted blue and tan roses and swirly swashes of orange and puke green.  Please make the atrocious pattern not be printed on stretch mesh.  And please please make it not be fashioned into a shapeless floor-length sack dress with short sleeves!  I need a few minutes to recover from this one.  Or at least some vodka.

Alexis is smiling so sweetly while she models this hairy leopard print blouse/jacket.  Little was she to know that seconds later this garment prickled to life and devoured her, limb by limb, in a symphony of carnage the likes of which humankind hasn’t witnessed since the Gauls vs Romans.  I had little time to mourn the loss of my friend, and, after a brief flirtation with guilt-ridden thoughts that perhaps I shouldn’t have asked Alexis to model this dangerous-looking ensemble in the first place, I decided to hightail it out of Baltimore before the police and Salvation Army started asking questions.  I made a beeline for my car, but only after quickly scanning the display case at the counter for vintage accessories, selecting and purchasing a cute 1950’s mother of pearl cocktail purse (so “now”!)

As I made my way through a labyrinth of Baltimore brownstones unaided by GPS my subconscious alternated between stylized visions of The Wire, and painful flashbacks of that day’s thrifty massacre.  I tried to remember how it all started…

“Oh my.”  I said, “You need to try on that hairy one?”

“Which hairy one… this?” Alexis responded, indicating an outdated, but not thoroughly off-base angora sweater.

“No.  The hairy one.” I emphasized, motioning to the murderous caftan.

“Ooooh.  The hairy one.”

And seconds later it was the end.  If only I’d let her try on the angora.  Sigh.

Disclaimer:  No Alexises were harmed in the writing of this blog post.  I can’t make the same promise about leopards.  Or Omar.