Tuesday, April 11

 
Meet adrock2xander, Fashion Critic

The Misfit

The third post was styled upon my life-long desire to have first dibs on a regular column in a magazine. A disappropriately large amount of my youth was spent, when not getting into trouble, reading magazines and publications. I've always imagined being at the helm of a funky magazine, writing heaps of rubbish and returning home to a nice paycheck.

It doesn't look like that dream will materialise, but i took it upon myself to consult the Catalyst editors what they thought about my idea. They absolutely loved it (just about everything goes with them - they're cool like that:O).

Ladies and Gentlemen, i present to you, my first entry in my very own space in Catalyst. Check it out in the April edition on 17 April.Fuck i'm proud lol.

Sartorial Sarcasm

“I am absolutely ill-qualified to give fashion advice. An unfortunate by-product of horny hippie parents, I remember the tightly rolled shorts in the 70s, witnessed the big cauliflower hairdos in the 80s, and laughed at grunge rockers wannabes in the 90s. Fast forward to 2006. Melburnians are terrible dressers. This is why.”

By John ‘adrock2xander’ Ng

Wristbands. Why in jumping jellybeans are kids wearing them these days? Which ugly and possibly overweight hip-hop mogul is responsible for this overrated piece of excess cotton?

I remember wristbands really well. They were, like, really hot in the 90s. Apparently, not only were the wristbands fashionably cool in the tennis courts, they make guest appearances on teenagers’ wrists. Big Mac on the right and a Coke on the left? Cmon who’re you kidding? Wristbands are t3h c00l.

Everyone who was someone sported (pardon the pun) wristbands. In some instances, the hardcore wristband aficionados wore sweatbands on their foreheads. (no seriously) In fact, I used to wear them too. Nike and Adidas. And on some days when I’m still putting them out to dry, I bring my little Puma out to play. It was so cool. So cool, that everyone who wore them, perspired beneath the fabric. Oh the irony.

Somehow, after a couple of years of appearing in just about every fashion magazine, wristbands died a sudden death that nobody really missed. I couldn’t explain it. Neither could Tom Ford of Gucci or Calvin Klein of Calvin Klein.

When Kriss Kross popularised the ‘BJS’ (Backwards Jeans Syndrome), I had to beg my mom to shell out $50 for a pair of oversized jeans that was 5 sizes too big. I had skinny legs back then, and I looked like a bad case of elephantiasis with them jeans on. Actually, I hated the jeans. Peeing was a chore – the zip sits on your arse. But I wore them. Like a religion. I can imagine the number of boys who ducked into the cubicle with their bladder bursting, reaching out for their zippers before them only to realise it’s lying between their crusty butt cheeks.

Times may have changed, but kids are still kids. They don’t know how good they’ve got it these days. Instead of oversized jeans that cost $50, they pay $50 for a bunch of tacked-on wristbands made from sweatshops factories *cue Nike slogan here* and proudly wear them like a diamond ring. Walking around the streets with their mates, looking exactly the same. So much for wanting to look ‘different’.

What exactly is the rationale for the sudden rise of the wristband anyway? Is there some undocumented case of widespread Carpal Tunnel Syndrome affecting teenagers state-wide? Or did some aspiring emo band, plucked from relative obscurity in the mountains of Tibet make it the de rigueur in everyday fashion? I certainly am most puzzled. Perhaps it’s my age. After all, it wasn’t until last year when I got wind of the term ‘emo’.

And what exactly does a wristband say in our politically-charged environment anyway? Don’t’ kid yourself. Why pay $5 for a Boost Juice and imagine you’re putting healthy stuff in you when you can ‘look’ healthy all the time with just a wristband? I suggest throwing in a sweat towel and a tennis racket over your shoulders to complete the look. Lleyton Hewitt can kiss my ass. Who needs him when we’ve thousands of tennis clones running around Melbourne?

And while you’re busy shouting ‘Come on!’ to yourself, remember to put your severe case of halitosis in check. Surely you don’t mean to beat your opponent through brute stench?

There’s only one thing worse than a sports wristband that’s gone multi-platinum. That’s a charity rubber wristband.

But that, is another story.

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