Picture it: New York, 2010. I’m home on my annual oh-my-god-WHY-would-I-leave-the-greatest-city-on-earth-for-montre-fucking-al trip, strolling down 14th street, wearing something vaguely inappropriate when I see it. A retro mirage.
That’s right ladies and gayntlemen. My little trip serendipitously coincided with fleet week. Oh joy, and rapture! They’re here! With their cute little butts in their cute little pants! And their southern accents! What can I say, I love me a man in uniform.
Now, I personally have strict a “look don’t touch” policy regarding fleet week. Why? Well, while I’ll always appreciate a good service man, invariably you’re gonna get these guys out of their uniforms and they’re either gonna be a) pimply 17-year-old virgins/unwed fathers or 2) pot-bellied middle-aged sleaze-hogs. Oh, and I have a general aversion to all things known to cause STDs. It’s just this little peculiarity I’ve always had. Not like any of this stops me from dressing like this during this joyous festival
(yes, those are anchors), or hamming it up even further by carrying a bag like
It takes me back to a better time in the history of style…before casual Fridays lead the masses to believe it was ok to leave the house before changing out of their pajamas, when the standard of beauty was a strategically clad Vargas girl, whose skirt would blow up revealing something exciting, instead of something we’ve all seen a thousand times before.