They've always stood for trouble. Hoods(ies) that is. I mean really. Come on people.
LFG wears one to school almost every day. Hers have come from the typical purveyors of urban-edgy gear. Retailers similar in repute to the tabooed small town head shops back in the sixties…arrogantly poised to commercialize with high margins—evil. Places like airport, resort or hotel gift shops that I frequent when I’m on the road. Audacious I know, but that’s how we roll. And if the Hood wasn't provocative enough, LFG is known to flaunt slogans on the front of hers that shout come-ons like… “Boca Raton Resort and Club” or “Montgomery County Soccer League”. I mean really—she’s just asking for it. And to add insult to injury, the child even wears a few in the irrefutable color of evil—black. Wear a black one and you need not worry about accelerating the inherent Hoodie-evil with a provocative slogan. Bring it on—the little girl in the black Hoodie will cut you. The darling no-gooder depicted above isn’t in a black Hoodie but please—don’t be lulled into thinking that the light colored Hoodie and the accompanying cloy colors are harmless. She’s obviously preparing a garrote for later use. I mean really. Come on people.
I would suggest that we also watch out for the next wave of sartorial venom...straw hats. What we have here is the same little girl, cloaked in woven-plaited sleight-of-hand. Seemingly harmless and frankly, rather cute in a kid wearing Crocs kind of way. But look at those little fists punching through the perimeter of her straw shroud-of-evil. Those are, sadly; fists of rage. I mean really. Come on people.
Not unlike the hijacked rebel flag back in my home state or the co-opted swastika of Nazi Germany, the original design, intent or dare I say, utilitarian functionality of the Hoodie is irrelevant. Eclipsed by the evil impregnated ever so thoroughly in Hoodies one and all. Buy a Lora Piana cashmere Hoodie…or a down-market synthetic velour one from Juicy Couture if you want. The endgame’s the same. Evil—you are. Hoodie should be synonymous with cavity search at will. I mean really. Come on people.
“Justice 04” … “Justice 04” Are you kidding me? You ARE kidding me right? That’s gang-code and it spells trouble for some targeted subset of society. What’s troublesome here is that the code is deliberately unintelligible to non-gang people. Not only that, it’s done that way on purpose. Doggedly so. Really…I kid you not. Not this time. What you see here is an angel eating quiche. Rest assured though, that there will be some kind of “justice” rendered later, in surely a scornful and perverse way. “Justice” upon an unsuspecting group with a vague and through no doing of their own—connection to the numbers zero and four. Quiche for now—curtains for some unsuspecting “Justice 04” victim later. Wake up. I mean really. Come on people.
Shocking also is the reality that this Hoodie…this ever so evil shroud…crosses all ethnic, religious and gender hurdles. Case in point above. Here we have what is commonly known as a Female Cracker keeping company with a culturally Jewish but decidedly mindful...Buddhist. If it had been me, I’d a cuffed that kid and pepper sprayed her right then and there—just to be sure that she didn't cut that Yiddish Dove sitting beside her. CAN YOU NOT SEE THE EVIL IN HER EYES? WAKE UP AMERICA. I mean really. Come on people.
And finally, I’ll rest my case with this example. One that quite frankly, breaks my heart more completely than the saga of Cracker Girl. What have we here? A display of outfits formerly worn by one of the most revered dandies of our time. The examples run the gamut…representing how the wearer once characterized himself—style wise. “I’m something of a cross between the Duke of Windsor and the Duke of Ellington.” That’s all well and good but please, let’s not overlook the Hoodie getup on display. The subtle—other than its color—presence is proof positive of the Jekyll-Hyde nature of those who wear the Hood. Don’t trust ‘em for a minute. I mean really. Come on people.
This one shows us that the evil of the Hood…the pernicious nature of the subtle vines of animosity…also meander their way into the hearts and minds of those in their dotage. Who would have thought that Richard Merkin…one of my iconic heroes…my Beacon of Fuzzy Flâneurship…would also don a mere eighteen months before his passing—the Hood of Hate. Additionally disturbing is the fact that even in his decline, he was precise in how he focused his malice. What we have here is a Brooklyn born Jew…a collector of kitsch and torch carrier for such dichotomous things he so loved…Old New York and Coney Island…directing his venom with laser sharp focus—on the Mexicans. Merkin was about six feet-three. Those from south of the border are generally a foot shorter than, in this case, their predator. As much as I loved him, I would have tasered his ass right then and there. Cuffs and Cavity thereafter. I mean really. Come on people.