Fashion Thinktank of Techmology
With egg on my face, I sheepishly removed my corduroy coat, and humbled myself for the enlightened fashionista-scolding that was about to bare down on me. Thusly prepared for their upbraiding, I remained standing in the doorway in my corduroy pants…
“Are you seriously about to leave the house in a corduroy jacket and corduroy pants??! Thats like a Canadian tuxedo!”
Ahem. A wha? Bewildered a tad, certainly perplexed, and above all else intrigued, I took note of how I had absent mindedly grabbed that particular coat, and the fact that it did make for some masterpiece-theatre-esque combo with the outfit I had consciously donned. That I got. But what the frak was a-
“Canadian tuxedo: You know, like when someone wears jeans and a denim jacket? A DDT? A denim on denim threat?! Surely you’ve heard of this, Esteban.”
And being who I am, I really should have. I mean… had I missed all the signs?
I quickly came to, and acknowledged what had never quite taken hold in my mind as the denim phenomenon. But along with that, I had to admit that unlike Sara Romero, I actually have a soft spot for the coarse material. When contemplating what so bad about a Canadian Tuxedo, Sara blogs:
The answer to that question is, EVERYTHING. Everything is wrong with a Canadian Tuxedo… I’ve lost many a night of sleep, my mind just churning in thought of why the Double Denim Threat is such a heinous faux-pas in comparison to, let’s say cotton. No one cares if you wear copious dichotomies of cotton, or wool, or tiger-printed Lycra. Alright, that last one might just be me.
I remain unchanged. But then she goes on to deconstruct the DDT:
What makes or breaks your denim wear is the sheer volume of that denim; it needs to be just the right amount of jean to be deemed acceptable, and it’s so easy that even your run of the mill suburban mom should be able to figure it out.
Now here she is on to something. We’re not gonna reach consensus anytime soon regarding what that upper limit of blue on blue might be, but something about calibrating the scientific
imbalance made something else finally start to make sense to me.
the Fashion Institute of Technology. F.I.T. is right up near my school, but closer to PENN Station, in midtown manhattan, on… (non-new yorkers might want to brace for this) Fashion Avenue. (its actually called that on the street signs that also decree the more modest moniker “7th Avenue”). Why in gods name is there a place by that name. I mean, really. A fashion institute… of technology??! Really you guys?? Its something about new york that has nagged at my gut since I was a kid. Where fashion meets techmology?? Thats just ridics.
But think of the ways they could break shit like this down:
Our own helpful tour guides to demystify the labyrinthine wasteland of materials, fabrics, accessories, and the ubiquitous faux-pas. What if we had an actual fashion force of faux-pas police? Could we have avoided the “ironic” hipster mullet? The rampage of VICE magazine? The saturday-night bisexuals who put the “faux” in “faux-hawk”?
Okay, short of a full on indictment of fashionistas, I hope its clear enough that the last thing we need on the East Coast (and new york of all places) is more frakking policing. We’re up to our elbows in that crap. If I wanna rock a DDT, y’all are just gonna have to let me rock it. Thats not to say I don’t appresh my buddies looking out for me when I unknowingly strut out my front door in what I imagine we’d call a Cambridge Tuxedo. By all means.
But if I’m intentionally assembling a Cambridge Tux, a DCT (double corduroy threat?), best get the hella outta my way. I’m just glad I know whom to call when I’m putting it all together…
the world is yrs,