One of our events this weekend took place on 14th Street in and around one of those super fancy meatpacking boutique stores. It was a little something like that SNL sketch about Jeffery’s.
Actually it was exactly like that. The entire time I was in this store I felt like I was sullying it with my Pumas. The manager, a bitter thirty something harpy who’d no doubt idled away her better years being a fag hag gradually building up an undeserved sense of entitlement brought on by gay pity embodied in disingenuous compliments, was a complete and utter bitch. We had to move a few mannequins to run some extension cords and it was like pulling teeth.
I took a few looks around the store. Men’s and women’s clothing. Some shirts, I’m sure they were all very nice. There was a wall of scarves. The one that I looked at was priced at five hundred and fifty fucking dollars.
I don’t care if that scarf was hand woven by a textile mill in a secret cave in the Alps by a thousand year old clan of virgins, there is no way a fucking SCARF should ever cost that much money. Who buys this shit? Why would anyone anywhere spend five hundred dollars on a piece of fabric? That’s what a scarf is. It’s a piece of fabric.
I wondered if I ever had the money would I ever buy anything like that? Could I ever become so rich that money would cease to have value and then could I make a purchase like that? Would I feel good or bad knowing that I was wearing something equivalent to the yearly food budget of a third world family?
My roommate has a subscription to CITY magazine. He calls it inspiration for design. There are a lot of beautiful photo spreads. I guess I take a different type of inspiration from its pages. Shirt by Marc Jacobs, $1,500. Pants by Some Snooty French Motherfucker, $4,000.
How do people divorce themselves so far from reality and actual worth that they allow themselves such excess?
As I rumbled around the store setting up, being inadequately financed, I asked some of my A/V guys if they thought the current economic would drive places like this out of business. They didn’t have to answer. The Friday afternoon street was filled with the wandering, idle rich. In their ridiculous outfits, boots that cost more than my student loans and five hundred dollar scarves.
There will always be people who can willingly afford idiocy in cloth form, just as there will always be those who aspire to be so idiotic. For my part, seeing these people as they are makes me only more determined to seek out truth worth and its meaning and they’ve given me the perfect place to start: It’s not a scarf.