So I’m here now. After a long, long, long drive with a German Shepherd and a surprisingly talented navigator (considering her sex) by my side, we arrived. And then we had no internet. For days. And then a week. And then it seemed like a lifetime since I’d had my fix. Until today arrived. and now I’m back, basking in the glow of movie nerdery, excited to see Seth Rogan’s Green Hornet logo, even though I often call it the Green Lantern. Yeah, I know, bad nerd. And I was very upset to see that George Carlin had died. I’ve approached the deaths of Patrick Swayze and Paul Newman with humor previously, but maybe that’s cause I’m in denial and think they won’t go anywhere, so when someone like George just up and vanishes, it’s a bit hard to swallow.
But death isn’t why I’m here today. That, my friends, would be to discuss the color pink. And more specifically, its death grip on the entire arm of Massachusetts known as Cape Cod. Holy shit. The first night we got here, we pulled in around 7:00 and by 9:00 were having drinks at the local bar, the Chatham Squire. And as we sat with a bowl of chowder and a stuffed quahog drinking delicious beer, the sudden realization hit me like a hammer over the skull. There were no less than ten men wearing pink fucking shirts. Without a trace of irony.
You see, here on the Cape, I’ve entered a preppy zone unparalleled by any other place I’ve ever found myself visiting or staying, including a J. Crew store. Men under the age of 25 can be found wearing pleated khaki shorts and brown leather loafers, and again, completely sans ironic sentiment. I’ve seen a style here known as “madras,” which is basically a type of pant or short that is a series of patchwork plaids all mashed together and I wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere and cry myself to sleep. I’ve been told I’m overreacting, but I really feel this isn’t true. It’s like some Twilight Zone episode where the ghost of the Kennedy’s invade everyone’s psyche.
They have a store here that is named “In The Pink.” I didn’t make that up. They sell pink things. For men. The weirdest part of this is that the locals don’t seem to get the joke. I mean, it’s “In The Pink,” how could you miss that? It’s like an epiphany every time I tell someone how ridiculous this is. Maybe if I opened a garbage disposal store next to it called “In The Stink,” it would finally sink in.
Cable-knit sweaters. Boat shoes. Embroidered slacks. Yeah, that’s right, embroidered. As in, you know, pants that have little things sewn into them. Like lobsters. And boats. I don’t really have a problem with this idea, as the style is so overtly ridiculous that when you put those clothes on your body, your sense of humor has to be right on spot with mine, since no one in their right mind would wear those garments without a sly wink and a nod, like “Yeah, you know you love it, I look like such a fucking douchehole, it’s unreal.” But nope. Not a wink. Or a nod. And certainly no sly to be had.
To give you an idea of what I’m used to, let me slip you a for instance. This guy I know (let’s call him Guy), he’s got a suit made out of red fabric that he bought in China. After buying the fabric, he went over to a tailor, in China, and requested that the man make him a three piece suit from the fabric, and not only that, but could he also sew blue lobsters into it for him? Which is why Guy owns a red three piece embroidered blue lobster suit that he wears with sneakers. And that, that I can get.
But when a guy walks into the sandwich shop I work at wearing a pair of white shorts with blue anchors embroidered into them, complete with a white shirt, a blue blazer and “boat shoes,” that, that I hope to never get.