So this weekend I told my houseboys that we could all go on a field trip. I suggested the museum — there's an installation of classic ball gags that I'm dying to see. But of course, my boys only care about fashion. So we headed to the John Varvatos store in its new East Village location where the punk club CBGBs used to be.
Predictably, the place is dark and chic, populated by men with shiny flat hair, whose ribbed torsos weigh no more than your average onion. Their pants hung off their jutting hip bones, as though these clones were wearing coat hangers for underwear. I wanted to cook and eat them.
It was there, however, that I found a Cheap Trick t-shirt that looked just like the one I bought back in the late 1970s when I saw them open for Blue Oyster Cult. It cost six dollars. Here, this "vintage" shirt went for $750. I realized then that we had reached that futuristic moment shown in apocalyptic films — when excess reaches its endpoint and the world implodes.
Maybe Islam has a point. Granted, selling and buying a shirt for 750 clams is not as bad as blowing up people who don't believe in your god, but by how much? I mean, if you fork out nearly a grand (after taxes) for a piece of cloth once worn by a high school student with cystic acne, then I think you deserve to be blown up. The bright side is, after that, the shirt will be worth millions.
And if you disagree with me, then you sir are worse than Hitler.