I'm sure it will come as no surprise to regular readers of this site that I own a pair of leather pants. I have worn them in public, although rarely and only at night. They aren't tight, reflective, or uncomfortable. In fact, many people don't realize they're leather until they touch them. The pants have a long and sordid history, beginning with the two female strippers my brother lived with in Providence, Rhode Island deciding that he needed a pair back in 2001. They purchased him these pants, I know he wore them at least once, and that was that. (For the record, there are no tell-tale stripper left overs on the pants like glitter, that vanilla-cinnamon perfume they all wear, or any - uh - stains.) My brother gained some weight and eventually grew out of them. I found them in the back of his closet and have "owned" them ever since. I'd never had an excuse to wear these pants. Actually, I've never been invited to wear these pants until I received an invitation by the Axe Instinct people to attend an event at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square for the launch of their product. At the end of the invite it said: "Don't forget to wear leather." And a knowing grin formed on my face.
I'm highly encouraged by my girlfriend not to wear the pants - ever. She hates them, hates their history, and hates the connotation that her heterosexual boyfriend whose legs are draped in cow skins might bring. Which means mostly I wear them just to piss her off.
She was invited to the party, and agreed to come once I told her there'd be free drinks, a concert, and it was hosted by Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz, but mostly for the alcohol. She doesn't own any leather, outside of one of her many pairs of shoes, and I couldn't convince her to buy some for the party. My urgings that we'd "be able to use the leather items later" were met with a sarcastic laugh and she turned away, though not before throwing a J.Crew catalog at me.
"Who do you think you are? You aren't a rockstar! You race sailboats for fucks sake!" She said, now thumbing through the catalog and pointing out the various places on the Vineyard we'd vacationed last summer.
"I may not be a rockstar on the outside, but on the inside I'm Bon Scott!"
"You're more like the dude with the frosted hair from Ace of Base."
"Whatever. Should I wear these things or not?"
"Do whatever you want, but just remember that it's 85 degrees out tonight and you'll probably end up roasting."
I hate it when she's right. I hate it even more that she's always right, and therefore magnifies what a complete jackhole I am. I wouldn't survive an 80 degree night in those bad boys. Not with my farming irrigation-like sweat glands to say nothing of the thigh chafing.
And so I passed. The pants would remain at home. Yet I didn't really have any other clothes that said, "badass rockstar." Mock turtle-necks and stone-washed jeans wouldn't do the trick tonight. It took several tours through my closet before I settled on an untucked dress shirt, dark jeans, and black leather shoes.
The party was great as usual. I made sure we stood near the kitchen door in order to maximize the hors d'euvres that were passed around. And then there was the drinking. I swear Axe is to blame for 75% of all my alcohol consumption over the past year. There are literally nights I can't remember, and my only saving grace is this blog. (Still, the invites keep coming so I must not make THAT big of a fool out of myself.)
A few notes on the night:
She was invited to the party, and agreed to come once I told her there'd be free drinks, a concert, and it was hosted by Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz, but mostly for the alcohol. She doesn't own any leather, outside of one of her many pairs of shoes, and I couldn't convince her to buy some for the party. My urgings that we'd "be able to use the leather items later" were met with a sarcastic laugh and she turned away, though not before throwing a J.Crew catalog at me."Who do you think you are? You aren't a rockstar! You race sailboats for fucks sake!" She said, now thumbing through the catalog and pointing out the various places on the Vineyard we'd vacationed last summer.
"I may not be a rockstar on the outside, but on the inside I'm Bon Scott!"
"You're more like the dude with the frosted hair from Ace of Base."
"Whatever. Should I wear these things or not?"
"Do whatever you want, but just remember that it's 85 degrees out tonight and you'll probably end up roasting."
I hate it when she's right. I hate it even more that she's always right, and therefore magnifies what a complete jackhole I am. I wouldn't survive an 80 degree night in those bad boys. Not with my farming irrigation-like sweat glands to say nothing of the thigh chafing.
And so I passed. The pants would remain at home. Yet I didn't really have any other clothes that said, "badass rockstar." Mock turtle-necks and stone-washed jeans wouldn't do the trick tonight. It took several tours through my closet before I settled on an untucked dress shirt, dark jeans, and black leather shoes.
The party was great as usual. I made sure we stood near the kitchen door in order to maximize the hors d'euvres that were passed around. And then there was the drinking. I swear Axe is to blame for 75% of all my alcohol consumption over the past year. There are literally nights I can't remember, and my only saving grace is this blog. (Still, the invites keep coming so I must not make THAT big of a fool out of myself.)
A few notes on the night:
- The band that performed was called Shiny Toy Guns and they were ridiculously good. Definitely worth checking out if they perform near you.
- The invite (and some product) came in a cool stitched leather box. The kind they keep 10 carat diamond rings, or (for a time) Britney Spears kept her virginity in.
- I had no interaction with Mr. and Mrs. Wentz, though my girlfriend did touch her butt to Kim Kardashian's butt as she made her way past in the ladies room.
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Shiny Toy Guns are awesome. Echo, I'm burning you 2 of their CDs right now! They've had different singers so their sound has changed a bit.
...long and 'sorted' history?
Perhaps you meant to say 'sordid'?
Methinks you mean sorded and not sorted
Damnit Nihil, you're right. Though one could make an argument for "sorted" as well.
No, no, no - 'sordid' - marked by baseness or grossness, according to m-w.com
"I'd never had an excuse to wear these pants. " ...
"And so I passed."
Good move Echo. Unless you're Jim Morrison or Mad Max, this is always the right choice.
You race sailboats? In lederhosen?
ooooooooo Miss C sailboat racing in lederhosen sounds like a fun new sport. and crap I was being a grammar nazi but I can't spell.