Dire tribe

It/s that time of year again, kiddos. Layer up time, sweater weather, Canada douche days. Hunker down or bundle up. And yet, as the days shorten and the temperature drops, there is always that boob shuffling and shivering like a Sunday morning smackhead at the donut shop. Through all of the underfed and overfunded days they fail to realize that daddy’s dough doesn’t discriminate against the cold. There’s always that guy, you can spot em a mile away- perfectly coiffed hipler hairdo, a just trimmed tuchis tickler, mask on the chin because they are outside and about to swill from their sweet new scobie- hatless and scarfless of course. You know the type- sockless in boat shoes and form fitting distressed jodhpurs, like they are in Nassau Bahamas and not drizzly Nassau avenue. I mean , there is always a members only jacket shrunk down to the elbows to accentuate the yinyang tattoo and apple watch. These motherfuckers are fighting some serious battles here on the fashion front , crows my inner Cassandra, over hot coffee and sour grapes. I mean, it/s not as if they have shat themselves at some post hook up shithouse and they have scarpered in shame out the window in the borrowed duds of some diminutive time traveler. This is a calculated look, and it is omnipresent and perennial. Kind of like a new york city rat. And yet, who gives a flip if there are a gang ofm paid off hiplers in uncool 80’s apparel and filson bags. I mean who are you to talk , senor dinosaur, in your tattered tour swag and knock off nikes. These mustachioed motherfuckers are modern day players, if their coffee companions are anything to go by. Vintage store valentinos, laid off lotharios. Bread locked trustafarians. And you, my friend, are just some has been with opinions and good albums. A twentieth century idea in a twenty first century world.