Respite
Its madness in this world and the story series has to come to a reclined stillness. I will not be completing all ten for a while, so for now, look forward to the Jason Chan story coming soon as my 50% stopper mark. There have been many times this year when I want to blog about situational things but I feel compelled to continue in the story vein. And it isn’t till now that I realized no one is making me write these stories, I can still flex and mold. Like an enzyme. I’ve been getting ready for MCATs and Consulting Interviews and EMT Examinations and Shakespeare tests and Machiavelli papers and Physics Labs and Travels and Money and Civics and more. They’ve kept me busy but I still revel in the laser beams of insight wandyteeth fires every few days. I have to write a lot of things the next few weeks so I’ll cheat and put them here. A long time ago I put down some thoughts about popped collars. From the freshman archives:
Treatsie on the Popped Collar
The other day I was in the dining hall when I stumbled on a flock of ladies. I didn’t really know these girls too well, but I felt inclined to say hello. I leaned in and smiled. I was lookin’ sharp in a freshly laundered blue polo, and ready to schmooze around.
I walked around the table and a dame jumped and yelled, “Heyyyy, how are you!! Nice shirt!” She toed across and stretched her arms aloft. “Here, let me fix it, you gotta do this…” she stepped close, pulled up my collar, and smirked smug. “Perfect!” said she.
I was like, wtf. I hastily made goodbyes and rushed home to take a bath with Lysol and Brillo pads. I rubbed my skin raw and rocked against a steady stream of cold water. I felt coated in oil and glue. I really couldn’t stand the popped collar. It served no purpose, was completely asinine, and warped what could be a nice shirt.
Polo’s were created for the biz casss friday, a nice shirt that might maybe have a tie, but not necessarily. The problem plagued me; I spied collars popping world round. “What’s the deal?” I asked myself. I visited well partied frat houses to find out.
After numerous interviews and in-depth research, I learned that the original intention was to shield the neck from deadly solar radiation on the beach. The style supposedly started in California, at no surprise to this Arnold Fan . “Well,” I asked, “why do you wear it at night?” I was met with silent stares that grew into confused and eventually enraged attitudes. I ran away, pelted with empty airplane bottles of Jagermeister.
Seems the collar is a touchy subject.
The wearers are proud creatures with fierce territorial boundaries, be it in fashion or breeding. No further enlightened, I had to keep searching. It seemed that what was once the cherished fashion statement of a prepped Boston Gentleman with a tanned sailors grimace and knotted lavender sweater had spread beyond its means. Now every frat hopeful and Joe Party eagerly awaits the next Thursday lapel usurpation.
In an exclusive interview with a self proclaimed Calvin Klein of College he said, “Corraling the collar takes class; it’s a deeply rooted tradition. My rule is bottoms-up, collars-up! I like to have my neck suitably covered when drinking. The only other time it is acceptable is possibly when sitting in the back of the class and trying to sleep. It can get cold back there. But the reality is that too many kids are popping these days. I mean, what academy did you prep at? Most of these kids have never worn a blue blazer in their life.”
When I left the interview I was torn. Who started this fad? The wealthy genteel or the surf bound sand monkey? With no where else to turn, I looked on my roots. I remembered the first image I had of a popped collar and found the solution to all of my quandaries. The real motivation behind the popping is not style, its not sunscreen, its not even warmth; it’s a long suppressed, deep rooted, allegorical penis envy. WHO was it that REALLY started the popped collar trend? WHO was the ONLY man in history who could actually pull off the style, attract the ladies, and influence thousands of children worldwide with his charm, smile, product infused hair, and enticing accent? Count Chocula. And it was then that I finally realized the subconscious attraction to the collar flip.
Who wouldn’t want to be the fashion equal of the purveyor of one of the most cherished and delicious breakfast cereals in the world. The frat house (gothic castle), the brothers (frankenberry), the ladies (maidens), and the insatiable off color thirst (blood, mother fuckers) all add up to the same thing.
So hat’s off to the starry eyed boys of the fashionable elite. Pop your collars and fly on the pink/purple/bright yellow/or lime green wings of imagination to fulfill the one goal worth fighting for: Everlasting status as a demigod of commercialism. As for the mockery of girls flipping their ruffs, find your own psychosexual desires to pursue, the Count is all beef.
