Well, kids, here we are, right in the thick of it.
A New York Summer.
Right after the Fourth of July (and the litany of complaints, yet again, why they insist on having the fireworks on the Hudson instead of the more Borough friendly East River), we know summer is officially on like two coked out 20 year olds at the summer McCarren Park film screenings.
Yes. We’ve been to the beach. We hit Ft. Tilden. We hit Coney Island (my favorite). We hit Jones Beach. The usual hag-like paleness is slowly leaving everyone’s skin.
And the Cruel Summer of 2011 is in full force. The heat goes right to people heads. Sexual contact is immediate. Intimacy is shunned. There is just simply no time for anything but fun.
And fun is the name of the game. The New York Brand style. Fun at any and all costs. The high price of hedonism. The naysayers are left in the dust. Summertime is no time to be depressed over Young Raven Haired Beauties reading Journey To The End Of Night by Celine at the Subway Bar with an open notebook and a blue pen.
This is shaping up to what Bananarama talked about in their famed song. The Summer is fierce, the summer is strong. Embrace it or hideaway in some air-conditioned room by your lonesome.
Philosophy, particularly during the hot summer days, has little room in people minds.
Our question this week, however, deals with a very important philosophical question. It is a phenomenon My Lovely Sister Laura and I developed while sitting on a stoop off Bedford watching the world go by on a Thursday afternoon.
We call it what it is:
The Philosophy Of Dog Butt.
The Philosophy of Dog Butt is when a beautiful (often times extraordinarily so) woman (or girl) PURPOSELY adorns her face and body with intentionally ugly articles of clothing and accoutrements. Now this phenomenon is extremely popular here in the Burg, and frighteningly so.
You know what I mean, right?
Super pretty girl, a total knockout in a black evening dress and some heels, but instead wears large, ugly red glasses, pale white, stone washed, high-waisted jean shorts, all with an oversized, un-form-fitting blouse with the typical slits up the side revealing the ugliest beige bra K-Mart has ever designed.
Now you tell me, what kind of sense does this make?
My Lovely Sister Laura looks over at me, after seeing one of these templates walk by, and says, plain as day.
“That chick looks like dog butt.”
And it’s true. Why do obviously pretty girls seek to un-pretty themselves in such a way?
It seems like an insult to non-model types, who have to earn their stripes the old-fashion way, like having a personality.
Not that the guys care.
Hell, do you see what they have to wear just to sleep with these girls? Dudes will do anything for sex. Talk about retard peacock feathers.
Let me speak now to these ‘dog butt’ girls.
First, as a visually impaired person who HAS to wear glasses, these frames for style seem a little over the top. I mean, I don’t go rolling down Grand Avenue in decorative wheelchairs for style. Seems a little cruel, don’t you think?
And as for the shitty bras you so willfully expose, throw down some of that cash your Dad gives you weekly on some sexy shit or just go raw dog. Give us some side boob. Who doesn’t like that? Way hotter than the Grandma Bra you rocking. Grandma’s have never been hot. Ever. Like never.
The high-waisted jeans weren’t cool when they first came out either. I was old enough to remember (seriously, my mother wore those same ones back when she smoked Salem cigarettes in ‘87). My Lovely Sister Laura quotes: “Fuck gentrification of Williamsburg. I’m worried about the uglification of Williamsburg.”
There’s an old saying apropos of this philosophy of dog butt: “If you got it, flaunt it.” It’s true. I know now you have every slim-hipped man wearing god-awful clothes to match your shitty style just so he can have Adderall-fueled sex in Bushwick with you at your beckon call, but age comes to all of us.
Remember when you looked through parent’s photo album and mocked at how fucked up and weird their style was ‘back in the day’. Someday, you too will look back at pictures of yourself outside The Charleston and whisper, shaking your head:
"Damn I looked like DOG BUTT."
Till next time.