It's a Real Shirtshow
Welcome to the Weekend Gene Pool, in which I entertain you in return for your anecdotes and observations responding to a question I ask, which, in this case, is: Tell us about an article, or articles, of clothing you once bought and/or wore, and wound up regretting.
The early 1970s involved, simultaneously, three significant events: 1) The primacy of Dupont Nemours Inc. and the associated crude-oil industry; 2) the dreadful advent of disco, and 3) My emergence into my twenties.
These collided, and out came: Me wearing Qiana shirts. These were fabrics made entirely of petroleum products, specifically a polymer thermoplastic prepared from 4,4”diaminodicyclohexylmethane and dodecanedioic acid, or Nylon. It was shimmery and light, and sorta looked like silk but only in the sense that a toilet sorta looks like a Louis XIII chair. It was wrinkle-proof to a creepy degree — the way that a quarter pounder and fries don’t rot over time.
Anyway, it was 1972, I had a job, and no taste, and developed a fascination with Qiana shirts. I bought a bunch of them. These things glistened like teeth in a toothpaste commercial. They were body molded, so tight fitting you could see nipples. They came in bright colors and insanely intricate patterns. Though I bought only single-color Qianas, the colors were basically neon. The orange was traffic-cone orange. The blue was lava lamp blue. The green was wet-pickle green. When you wore these shirts you resembled a young mafioso, the kind who also wore a pinkie ring, favored exposed chest hair, and had armpit stains. In fact, you did have armpit stains, big soppy ones, because it turns out 4,4”diaminodicyclohexylmethane and dodecanedioic acid do not let one’s skin breathe. They trap sweat and proudly display it, like a dog proudly wielding a dead rat.
Rachel had never heard of Qiana, but Googled it, found this old ad,
… and concluded that the ad was saying the typical Qiana wearer is that young boss who walks into your hotel bedroom at one a.m. and sits on the bed to make his wishes known.
It’s a separate issue, but at the time I also wore shoes that looked like this:
Anyway, that’s my tale. My regret was almost immediate, and profound. Older people, people for whom I worked at that first job, for example, concluded I was a skeeveball sleazeworm. I cannot blame them.
So that’s your challenge for this week: Clothing you bought and/ or wore that you wish you hadn’t.
Please send it to the Qiana orange Wish I Hadn’t button.
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Today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll:
Okay, that’s it. You might consider upgrading your subscription to “paid,” but I will only accept the upgrade if you reject J.D. Vance, the snot-nosed populist who hates women.
See you on Tuesday.
There have to be photos of Gene in these shirts. Let's see them.
When I go to bed, sometimes I use a “mantra” to occupy my inner “voice” and let me sleep. Most of the time I am asleep in the first minute or so anyway. But when I need it I think: “blue, white, and green.” And I very often find my next awareness is waking hours later. Some few times, I go on to think: Green palm trees, white sandy beach, and blue lagoons of water.” If that does not work I go on to make up phrases with the first word blue, white or green and the second word following the alphabet. “Green asparagus, green beans, green cactus … ”D" is a tough letter to fit. Dogwood is my best choice now.
And last night I branched out to imagine groups of people all with the same fist letter. And my imagination (as quite a surprise) had a flood of examples. “Despondent, distressed discouraged doubters.” And this morning I have lost the best examples from my memory. Will anyone want to follow up? Any “nattering nabobs?”