Dressing Up Is Hard To Do

I am many things... devilishly handsome, a jazzy dancer, a maker of delicious French cheeses (I assume; haven't technically tried doing that yet)... but one thing that I am NOT is, sadly, a sharp-dressed man. It just isn't what I'm all about. ZZ Top be not proud.

Basically, this is because I am very, very lazy. And getting dressed up is a whole lot of work. Like, have you ever actually tried tying a necktie? It's like trying to explain astrophysics to a gopher. And not a smart gopher, like in Caddyshack; a stupid gopher that dropped out of high school and never got his GED because he decided he'd rather hang out in Brodie's garage playing Sega and huffing spray paint from a paper bag. Brodie's mom always made them snacks, so that only made it easier to just goof off and do whatever.

Anyway, my point is this: Getting dressed up is a pain in the ass and it's for squares and jerks with "dreams" and "ambition" and other things that I use as coasters for my seventh beer of the night.

Or, at least that's what I used to think. From, say, eighteen years of age to about a month ago, I was all like, "Dressing up? Puh-leeze. Down-for-lifers such as myself only wear neckties when guys we used to drink with die from liver disease or because they slipped on some ice while staggering home and cracked open their skulls and now there's one more angel in Heaven, but not like traditional Heaven, you know... more like the Heaven that David Byrne was talking about in that one song where Heaven is a bar where nothing ever happens."

What can I say, I get verbose and pop culture-y when being derisive of dressing up.

But things have changed, man. My eyes have been opened and I can see the world all clear and bright for perhaps the first time. What happened was, Girlfriend and I went to a flea market-ish, garage sale sort of affair outside of this church on 2nd Avenue in the East Village. The selection there was cruddy... it pretty much made your average Salvation Army store look like Harrods of London... but the one thing they did have going for them was a huge table piled high with neckties. Yes, the aforementioned fashionable Gordian knots. And they were selling them two for a dollar. Which, if you've ever priced ties, you'll recognize as a deal worthy of Monty Hall. Now, granted, these weren't exactly the nicest ties on the planet... some, in fact, wouldn't have been the nicest ties down a filthy alley behind a low-quality sushi joint... but still. A bargain is a bargain, quality be damned. So, out of the tangled heap of polyester and rayon and other assorted petrochemical-derived fabrics, I managed to find six ties (at a total cost of three dollars... yowza!) that I wouldn't be embarrassed to have hanging around my neck.

And I realized then that I was oddly... yes... excited about the prospect of all these fancy(ish) new accessories. This, kiddos, was not a feeling I ever expected to experience (much like a lust for asparagus or sobriety after noon on a Saturday). And yet, there I was, right in the middle of a full-bore tie excitement.

So... like... despite my history of laziness and my general aversion to looking like anything other than the seediest of Bowery bums, I think I'm going to start wearing ties. I mean, not like a lot or anything... let's not get crazy. But still. On certain days, and on special date-style occasions, I think that C-dog will from now on be rocking some neckware like a respectable member of society. See:



Respectable like a motherfucker. Next stop, Wall Street! Or perhaps a JV Football banquet at the Ramada! Or maybe even a job interview for an assistant manager position at Chili's! The sky's the limit when you're wearing a tie, sort of!!!

NOTE: More later on why, specifically, I'm all dressed up. Needless to say, it involves a lot of meat.