J Crew has Officially Jumped the Shark

I looked and I looked, but they do not have the photo I need from the just-released December catalog online.  The theme of this current catalog I received in the mail on Monday is “The Italian Alps”.  Sure, why the fuck not.  One of the worst economies in modern history, a country on the precipice of being Sandusky’ed into oblivion, sure, fuck it, let’s head to the Italian Alps for Christmas.  I mean, who isn’t going?  Just grab your incredibly handsome family, a dozen or so of your yuppie/hipster friends, and head off to the fuckin’ Alps man.  No big deal.  And not a lodge or a town or any of that bullshit, but rather hang out on top of the peaks.  Right up there above the tree line, in the snow and shit.  And don’t be the asshole that shows up in mountaineering gear either.  If you walk in wearing crampons and a snow suit, we’re going to laugh you off the fucking mountain.  You don’t need any of that shit.  What you do need are some tweeds, some leather, a barn coat, high-end sunglasses, and by all means, bring your sexy.  Do not, and I mean DO FUCKING NOT zip your coat up all the way, if at all.  It is only -17F up here.  Exposed skin and unzipped coats are the fashion du jour these days on top of the Alps.  No wind either.  We’re in the fuckin’ stratosphere, but luckily no breeze today.  Perfect conditions for carrying Christmassy shit to and fro with no discernible destination in sight.  Just grab this here laurel wreath I found lying around and carry it to this other peak over yonder.  No big deal.  Glad I wore my Sperry Topsiders.   

The picture in question features a tweed “Ludlow Suit”.  The smarmy prick in question is, like everyone else, at the pinnacle of the Alps, as indicated by the treeless vista behind him featuring stone-cold granite peaks sticking out through the ice and snow (I don’t know if the Alps are granite.  If not, any geology major readers please inform me.).  Presumably at Christmas the pinnacle of the Alps are a bit chilly.  But our heroine seems impervious to these conditions.  He is gallivanting about with a perfectly coiffed hairdid, Wayfarer sunglasses, an unbuttoned tweed suit, a Fair Isle sweater over a button up, very smart silver buckle belt, and last but not least, some suede boots.  And of course he is toting some Christmas shit, in this case a a rather lovely Christmas tree that he has sawed perfectly off at the trunk with the saw that he doesn’t possess.  I guess I would give J Crew a pass, albeit a very temporary hall pass, and only for enough time to go #1, not #2 or #3, if they were in some village near the base of the Italian Alps.  But no, they make sure it looks like they are at the tip-tippity-fucking-top of one of the world’s most severe mountain ranges.  So dickbag:

Glad the hair stayed nice and lightly mussed.  That can only help when you raise a sifter of hot Sambuca and toast the comely young lass you plan to bed, later that night by the roaring fire.

Good choice on the Wayfarers.  Some may think that mountain summits in the dead of winter are best served by snow goggles to protect from wind, and side protection given the sun glare is 360 degrees on snowpack.  Those people are cunts.  You and I–Sir–know that you want high and proud cat’s eye frame perched precariously on the bridge of your nose, with the sides of your eyes free and easy-sleazy to gander at hoes as you waltz around the Alps.  You need not a strap to fix the spectacles to your head in high mountain winds.  Your assured, cock-of-the-walk strut is all you need to keep glasses on heads.

When you are high on the peak, looking down on the world and admiring all you’ve conquered, you want to look merry.  And what looks merrier than a charcoal gray suit left wide open to the elements, with a simply ravishing Fair Isle pattern sweater peeking cheekily out from beneath, just openly challenging a blizzard to come along and try to ruin its good time.  “Ga’ head cunt, I dares ‘ya to try and blow Tweedy Burd offa the maaanin’!”

What stands up to–and fist fights if necessary–deep powder, slush and ice?  Suede.  Though not quite as well as canvas, it is very close. Get yourself some fresh, non-waterproof suede boots, and your feet will be as warm and dry as a cloudless day in an August hay field. 

And where, might you ask, is he dragging that beautiful Christmas tree to?  Fuck you, that’s where.  It doesn’t matter where the tree came from.  It matters less that he is clearly well above the tree line and there is no vegetation existing in any form.  Completely irrelevant that there are no tree-felling tools to be found.  What does matter, what is relevant here, is that a handsome man, dressed devastatingly smart from head to toe, is walking about above the clouds carrying a tree.  Where he is taking it is for the philosophers to debate.  Once again J Crew, you’ve outdone yourself.  You’ve taken a dump on Christmas.  Would it kill you to portray, for once, the REAL fucking Christmas.  Show a whiskey-soaked Kentucky Christmas, on the east side, deep in them mountains.  Not the Alps, but the Apps, son.  Show uncle Lester in his new khakis, down in the basement with the Youngins, playin’ a little game ‘o “Let Uncle Lester Whistle in Yer Holler”.  Let the people see grandma, at a sprightly 41 years old, Merit dangling precariously from her lower lip, as she screams at her common law son-in-law for not “fuckin’ me right” while her daughter Bessie-Sue was pregnant with their most recent, 6th child.  In her merino wool v-neck and blackwatch skirt.  We want to see Uncle Bear out in the shed, showin’ the men-folk his newly stolen copper still.  Corn mash trickling down his partially-paralyzed face onto his plaid flannel shirt and wiped clean with his shearling-lined leather gloves.  Quit Nancy-pantsing around with the Eurotrash in the Alps and bring us something real, J Crew. 

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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