a plentitude of occasions
great happenings in quick succession
many miles driven
fortunately for you, reader, I will curate the past four weeks carefully and present to you only the most delicious morsels from the heady stream of excitement that is my life:
an episode concerning the contemporary gauche
new year’s eve found the author in dire need of sartorial accessories, for his current outfit was lacking in the “formal” qualities that were (to his knowledge) required for the gala he was committed to attend later in the evening. Along with good friend and temporary chauffeur [the author is highly proud that he spelled that correctly on the first try] Ms. Melissa Rachel Black, our intrepid voyager found himself standing awestruck in the foyer of the largest and most chaotic retail establishment he had yet experienced. The branch of “Forever 21” located upon Santa Monica’s 3rd Street Promenade is comprised of three expansive stories, and at the time visited was seemingly the site of some international shopping championship, given the volume of shoppers (competitors?) and the speed at which they shopped (raced?).
okay, I give up. way too hard. uncle. maybe someday I’ll have the literary muscle to ape such a style for an extended period of time but not yet. I’m still at the knees-down pushup stage of writing. welterweight at best.
so the forever 21 was fucking huge, so big as to actually sport a small men’s section, which was our goal. I required a tie for christopher’s party and those offered at Urban Outfitters were overpriced, while H&M was sold out. I had little hope for Forever21, because their men’s section was pretty much a few large tables upon which were piled shirts, pants, and other garments. I didn’t see any tie-like objects, but after asking a sales associate who was attempting the sisyphean task of forging order out of the chaos I was rewarded with the sight of his arm reaching deep into a mound of merino cardigans and withdrawing with a small black box clutched in his hand, like a raccoon finding a grub in a rotting log. Within the box was my treasure, a fine tie at the eminently affordable price of $9.98.
which now only left the actual purchase of the tie. The store was closing in 5 minutes, and apparently the championship mentioned earlier only encompassed the brutal sport of shopping, and not also the subtle art of queuing. The three lines emanating from the three active registers quickly combined into one massive column of shoppers, each holding their chosen items close in eager anticipation of ownership transferal. I found myself behind a young woman, maybe a sophomore in high school. I noticed her because either she had recently suffered the tragic loss (housefire?) of all her clothes or she was the winner of the aforementioned shopping competition, if judged on pure volume of purchases. seriously, the only situation where you should be holding so many clothes at one time is the few seconds it takes to load and unload a washing machine. She was accompanied by her bear-like father, wearing a poorly-cut suit and sporting a bright and shiny bluetooth earpiece. When it was obvious that the wait was going to be extended, and the girl had commenced whining in a shrill manner that her arms were tired from holding “ALL MY STUFFFFF,” her dad decided he would take her spoils and find a place to lounge until she reached the front of the line. The father, who had up to this point made a few overly-loud complaints about his daughter’s piglike pile of love-subsitute, began to relieve her of it. With each item he removed from the pile, he got more and more vocally unhappy with her choices and their aggregate volume. “You need THIS? … You already HAVE this! … These are the SAME THING!” “No they’re not daaaaaa-aaaad, one’s short sleeve and one’s LONG SLEEVE!” And so on, ad nauseum. Finally, only one piece remained. He took the last item, a baby-blue short sleeved shawl-necked shrug with rhinestone edging and blah blah blah off of the pile, and froze. His excavation had finally revealed the final straw, that which broke the clothes-horses’ back. A pair of turquoise faux-Uggs boots. “WHAT. ARE. THOSE.” “booooo-ooooots!” “You. don’t. need. those.” “But, daaaaa-aaa-aaaaaaaaad! [i shit you not, she attempted the triple drawn-out whiny teenage squeal and it is a testament to her embrace of such an identity that she actually pulled it off]”. It was decided after a minute of deliberation that she would not purchase these specific boots, but after hard lobbying by the whiny-bitch caucus Father conceded that she had the option of purchasing “a better pair” in the near future.
Soon after that, I learned that there was a miscommunication and the party had no specific dress code—I would have been somewhat overdressed anyway.
COMING UP NEXT: another episode in my stupifyingly exciting life—80% truth, 20% its-gotta-be-funny!