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.