as a child growing up in houston, texas during the eighties,
the advent of the polo shirt was something like the recent coming of obama.
people never thought it would stick,
initially found it a little working class to be a winner,
and doubted the south would adopt it.
and look where we are now.
in a world where discount stores "stack em high and watch em fly",
every joe on ever corner wears one and considers himself "dressed".
au contraire, mon frere.
the polo is the male equivalent of the capri pant.
it tends to dumb down even the chicest of people,
to drive to the lowest common denominator,
and no amount of re-invention or designer collaborations can fully remove the stigma.
trust me on this,
i am not even immune.
i own polos from dior.
ok, one.
i own "re-issued" polos from lacoste.
(important note. i do NOT own a polo by ralph lauren. it has become, for me, too much of the "look what i found at the factory outlet, bob" item. it reeks of the sub-urban. not the suburban. the sub-urban.)
have we firmly established that i have a distaste for the polo?
so, help me here.
why is miuccia prada such a bitch?
she puts out a spring line that re-interprets american "classics",
but if seen through some twisted, malcolm gladwellian, post-blink drug haze.
and suddenly,
i am fourteen again, sitting on the quad,
waiting for booker to get out of debate so we can go make out in his car.
it is just hot enough, that i may have to subvert my own distaste.
THAT, lovies, is
fashion.
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