R.I.P. My Jeans (2003 or 4 - 2006)
We have gathered here today to bid a fond farewell to my blue jeans, which I had the extreme displeasure of pronouncing dead about 8am Tuesday, 10 October.
What began as a small hole in the right ass cheek of the pants was at first repaired by my step-brother’s lovely bride (Stephenie, who handles all the tailoring for my various costumes), and then again, and then again but on the left side. A week or two ago I took her the pants and said, “See here? I have two holes, in the same places on each side. Please see what you can do.”
And then, with all due diligence, Stephenie set about the task of inflicting onto these jeans a type of sewing and repair work seldom seen in the vast and proud history of American needlework; a black-thread-against-blue stitching so finely carried out, it looked as though ink had been spilled along the back pockets. Some fine fucking work. And I said onto her, “Stephenie, if these pants get another hole in them, then it clearly wasn’t meant to be.”
Imagine my dismay this morning when I took off the pants, saw the new damage, and cursed the very fucking question of just how long I allowed myself to carry on through the fucking night and morning, not to mention the side stops made on the way home this morning, with a dollar-sized hole torn around Stephenie’s brilliant work. (In other words, her work remained intact, it was the fabric around her work that failed.) My pants torn asunder (or, ass-under) for the last fucking time, I threw them to the ground in disgust, curled up on a dirty linoleum floor, and drank cheap Scotch until I passed out, not before raising the bottle to the heavens and screaming for absolute fucking vengeance. These were not tight jeans; I don’t know why they had to die.
By the way, they were Hilfiger jeans. You wouldn’t have known it, because I long ago asked Stephenie to remove the offensive-to-the-eye identifying patches and so such, but they were. In the future, the Hilfiger company would do well to take the time and expense to track down a more skilled four-year-old to slave away in their Chinese sweat shops when it comes to stitching the pockets to the rest of the jean. I’m sure it can work something out with Castro; I hear the children Cuba has slaving away at the sugar trade have very nimble little fingers….
What began as a small hole in the right ass cheek of the pants was at first repaired by my step-brother’s lovely bride (Stephenie, who handles all the tailoring for my various costumes), and then again, and then again but on the left side. A week or two ago I took her the pants and said, “See here? I have two holes, in the same places on each side. Please see what you can do.”
And then, with all due diligence, Stephenie set about the task of inflicting onto these jeans a type of sewing and repair work seldom seen in the vast and proud history of American needlework; a black-thread-against-blue stitching so finely carried out, it looked as though ink had been spilled along the back pockets. Some fine fucking work. And I said onto her, “Stephenie, if these pants get another hole in them, then it clearly wasn’t meant to be.”
Imagine my dismay this morning when I took off the pants, saw the new damage, and cursed the very fucking question of just how long I allowed myself to carry on through the fucking night and morning, not to mention the side stops made on the way home this morning, with a dollar-sized hole torn around Stephenie’s brilliant work. (In other words, her work remained intact, it was the fabric around her work that failed.) My pants torn asunder (or, ass-under) for the last fucking time, I threw them to the ground in disgust, curled up on a dirty linoleum floor, and drank cheap Scotch until I passed out, not before raising the bottle to the heavens and screaming for absolute fucking vengeance. These were not tight jeans; I don’t know why they had to die.
By the way, they were Hilfiger jeans. You wouldn’t have known it, because I long ago asked Stephenie to remove the offensive-to-the-eye identifying patches and so such, but they were. In the future, the Hilfiger company would do well to take the time and expense to track down a more skilled four-year-old to slave away in their Chinese sweat shops when it comes to stitching the pockets to the rest of the jean. I’m sure it can work something out with Castro; I hear the children Cuba has slaving away at the sugar trade have very nimble little fingers….
posted by Brian S. Wise | 5:40 PM
