Leper Pop Red Carpet Report

Personally, I don’t know why anybody should care about who I am, or anybody else is, wearing tonight for the Oscars.

The media has been hounding me all month. They simply refuse to wait until I emerge from my ’68 Chevy Nova and appear on the red carpet to discover how I constructed the delivery of my feigned self. People need to know what is going to happen before it happens so they can plan the appropriate, socially acceptable reaction. Look around to see if other people like it before smiling with acceptance or scoffing in disgust. No sense being an individual. The stars are on display to be judged, praised and ridiculed to the extent of which contemporary, ephemeral standards of eminence allow, from their garments, hair style and choice of escorts to the manner in which they attempt careen above the rest. The efforts behind whatever achievement they hope to be served are secondary to the pose they’ve molded from the compost of insecurity laced vanity that crams their minds.

And those of us who care about all this are just as decayed inside, or worse. These stars are entertainers, after all. Paid by us to entertain us. Hardly more worthy of the magnificence the term “star” affords than anybody else we pay to help us survive. Yet, we allow them to wear this banner of brilliance even though their service to us is no different than the other servants we let. The fast food worker thanks US when serving us our fries and hopes to provide services again to us in the future (whether the "Come again" plea is sincere or not). Shouldn't these actors be thanking us in a similar fashion, instead of pompously honoring themselves behind masks of grandiose insignificance? Yes, but we lick their bottoms, nonetheless. Should we not also lick the plumber’s, garbage man’s and feet scraper’s bottoms? The good ones shine in their own way, but nobody cares what they are wearing when they accept their employee of the month gift cards.

This ruptured value perspective disgusts me. I have figuratively brought myself to a state of internal vermin with this discussion. Consequently, I choose not to be a red carpet star tonight. Instead, I will watch the Blackhawks play ice hockey. But, I also understand that high fashion is an important component in our society, so I won’t let you down. Here is who I will be wearing.

Champion (Authentic Athletic Apparel) – dark blue Toledo Rockets long sleeve tee.

Levi’s – 501 Button fly jeans (women hate dealing with the buttons which is the ONLY reason I never get laid).

Hanes – ankle high white socks.

New Balance – 479 All Terrain shoes

Fruit of the Loom – jockey type grundies – black (it is a formal affair, after all)

Project Costco

GQ is usually not sitting out on my coffee table. Neither is coffee. Usually there are a couple newspapers, a couple magazines (the ones you read, not the ones you shoot (I need to be careful to differentiate since I’m sure I’m on the FBI’s watch list after mentioning that the Unabomber had some good stuff to say (but again, I’m all against the blowing up people part))), and where was I? Oh, yes, the coffee table… newspapers, magazines, a set of coasters given to me by Mr. and Mrs. West Coast Ray about 14 years ago, an ant farm, some WWF trading cards, and a rape whistle. But I digress.

But it’s a good thing that I don’t subscribe to GQ because the editors would have likely canceled my subscription after they found out that I decided to do my last round of clothes shopping at Costco right in between filling my cart with case of Stoneyfield yogurt and a brood of marinated chicken breasts.

I was on my way to checkout when I passed the underwear aisle. Boxers or briefs, you ask? Both. Boxer, briefs and boxer briefs. I wear them all. My daily choice depends on what else I’m wearing and how my testicles feel that day. There’s no law requiring monosubligculous, so why not play the field? [Ed. Note: monosubliguculous, a Greek word meaning “one who wears one type of underwear” – get out your Latin translators folks] I am truly a polysubligculist. Recently I’ve noticed that my briefs are not as structurally sound as when they were back when I got them in the 90’s. There’s been some scrotal seepage, especially on the warmer days we’ve experienced lately, and I decided I could remedy that problem with a quick purchase at Costco. I found some swell looking boxer briefs that would surely make me look as hot as the guy on the front of the package (no pun intended), called the Mrs. to make sure I wasn’t buying the wrong kind or paying too much, and tossed a 3-pack in the cart right on top of the 24-pack of frozen pizzas.

I also noticed they sold all sorts of clothes there, and thought I could use a couple polo shirts to fill out my weekday daytime generic businessman wardrobe. You see, our company just broke up so I had to get rid of the branded polo shirts I used to employ in the summer. In the Costco polo section, right next to the ponies, saddles and mallets were several brands of shirts at what seemed to be reasonable prices.

Now I’ve been going with the goatee for about half a year, so I haven’t been able to sport the currently hipster accessory known as the ironic mustache. But I did have an opportunity to create my own new look – the ironic golf shirt. I found a couple shiny polyester shirts from Hathaway, made another quick phone consultation, surprisingly got the thumbs up, and tossed them in my cart right next to 55-gallon drum of guacamole. What is ironic is that I don’t play golf. I don’t even watch it – it’s like The Weather Channel for people who just want to watch nice weather on television (disclaimer – I think I stole that last line from a comic, but can’t remember who to credit). The irony was not lost on my co-workers who realize that if I went missing the last place they would look for me is on a golf course, and questioned why I looked like I had just stepped out of a golf cart rather than just off my bicycle. I took an imaginary golf swing just like Johnny Carson, with my scrotum happily contained, and went back to my office to start on that case of yogurt.