The Devil Is in the Denim

The humble blue jean has gotten waaay too big for its britches. Again.

Pricey denim is old news. A little piece of America died the day good old reliable 505s were torn asunder to herald the Gucci, Pucci, Fiorucci, she's-got-the-look / nobody-comes-between-me-and-my Seventies.

There were lessons. Some not learned.

To wit: Some of us lived through the Eighties the first time – and managed to dodge the acid- and stone-washed bullets back then. But with every generation, come new opportunities to separate people from their cold hard cash in exchange for some crappy distressed jeans.

Perhaps folks are too busy to actually do the things that break in a pair of jeans. Hey, we're Americans: We can pay pretty much anyone to do pretty much anything we don't want nor have time to do. Patriotism or Stupidism? Either way, it doesn't change the fact that some of these faux finishes are just butt ugly.

My favorite most disgusting jean right now is the I Just Drank a Cup of Bleach and Pissed Myself, Then Smeared the Stain Straight Down My Thighs jean, ala G Star Raw (see above). The aesthetic of G Star? Industrial/military-lite. Whenever I wander into the G Star outlet up in Round Rock, my internal voice begins to sound oddly like Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Not sure what that's about. To be fair, G Star gots some super cute jackets (if they take those oh-so 0-7 logos down a notch) and some fiercely fabulous shoes.

My second fave hate-jean is the I Really Did Just Piss Myself, Then Smeared the Pee Straight Down My Thighs jean – the "yellowed" version of the above. Really, folks, when do you see denim that truly looks like this? That's right. When you are incontinent.

And let's just pretend that whole baffling whiskers thing never happened, ho'kay?

And rich people who wear jeans with the knees ripped out – if you are on the red carpet, or at a fashion shoot, and not at a Habitat for Humanity build – well, you do not look cool. You look desperate to slum. Worse yet is when you wear jeans with cuts in places jeans just do not rip. (Dude, you are fooling no one, your knob did not wear out that threadbare 2" patch above and to the side of your manhood.)

They're slacks, slackers. Britches, bitches. It's like Derelicte never happened.