In the Closet with the Rambler

From time to time a wildly inexplicable trend enters the fashionspace. Something so puzzling and bizarre that when one encounters it, such as the first time I saw the word “Juicy” embroidered across the ass of a member of the fairer sex, the immediate response is to ask why? Tracing the genealogy of these fashion aberrations, and giving readers a heads up on when each will pass from haute to not, is part of the diligent work of your columnist.

First, the Arafat Scarf. They started showing up last fall, and now they’re nearly ubiquitous. For those of you that aren’t in the know, they’re the cute red-on-white numbers that look like picnic tablecloths woven by drunken loom operators so they could be labeled “artisan crafted” by American Apparel. Worn loosely around the neck (but not over the head, that would be way too Muslim), this is a must have accessory for the girl who wants the same greasy-chic look of the onetime leader of al-Fatah (pictured below). As the trend accelerates, the available colors have proliferated as well. I recently saw a pink version wrapped around the well accoutremented neck of a girl walking into the Saperstein Jewish Center, who was either unaware of the intense irony, or was expressing solidarity with the P.LO. gay community.

Ironic Woolrich. When the full-pay Deerfield set start dressing like Hamilton locals, this is a sartorial event that calls for immediate explanation. After being initially puzzled as to what could motivate J. Crew to market an American staple about as fashion forward as a John Deer t-shirt, I was finally able to trace the origins of the red plaid bonanza. The source of this trend is, of course, the Hipster Community. However, the flannel fetish did not merely breach the smug confines of Little Hall and flood the prep homogenia, because, after all, Colgate hipsters aren’t real hipsters. If you got your Bianchi Pista as a Christmas gift from your daddy the law firm partner, instead of earning the money for that shitty hyped bike by selling 35mm prints of your nude tattooed girlfriend posing on Williamsburg fire escapes, then your hipster credentials are in serious doubt.

Unfortunately for this trend’s prospects for survival, pearl bedecked blondes have begun to mix and match the legendary flannel with Polo Ralph Lauren jackets and Burberry scarves. This has caused much distress in the Hipster Community, and has raised questions as to whether the shirt can remain truly ironic. My source inside the International Hipster Congress has informed me that hipster delegates will most likely officially kill the trend at their next convention, and will be mandating its replacement with either ironic fedoras or ironic Army surplus tunics.

Swiss Army Accidentally Annexes Liechtenstein during Training Exercise

At approximately 6:45 WET, residents of the small town of Triesenberg, Liechtenstein were awoken by the rumble of approaching tanks, and surprise began to turn to alarm when columns of Swiss soldiers entered the village, accompanied by armored cavalry and mobile artillery units. The town mayor was apparently roused from his bed by members of the village council and the local baker, and shortly thereafter offered his town’s unconditional surrender to Colonel Jean-Paul Heitzel, who insisted that he was still in Swiss territory.

The Swiss government has apologized for the incident, and insists that it has “no malign intentions towards our preposterously small neighbor.” According to Hans Delouvier, the commander of the Swiss Armed Forces, Colonel Heitzel’s mobile-cavalry company had been conducting an orienteering training exercise with other units of the Swiss Army, but had unintentionally violated Liechtenstein’s sovereignty after failing to account for magnetic declination from true north. “This is obviously an unfortunate mistake,” said Delouvier, “and those responsible will be held accountable.”

However, the incident seems to have snowballed over the course of twelve hours, before the Swiss president was informed of the situation by a phone call from the European Council President, who had been receiving panicked inquires from Belgium and Luxembourg throughout the morning. The foreign policy commentariate had a six hour field day as well, as talking heads stormed the television news airwaves, speculating whether the famed Swiss neutrality had been replaced by a policy of regime change.

The long delay before the Swiss President was notified of the situation appears to have been caused by Colonel Heitzel’s refusal to believe that his men had strayed into Liechtenstein’s territory. Villagers who were at the scene report a tense argument between Heitzel and the town mayor, with one calling the other “a drunken fool” while the other imploringly brandished the key to the city and begged for leniency towards the local population.

According to several soldiers who agreed to be interviewed, the company believed that they were in the town of Wallenstadt, which is just inside the Swiss border. “All these towns look like gingerbread villages anyway,” said Staff Sergeant Deneave, who was among those who witnessed the altercation, “how were we supposed to know that we were creating an international incident?”

The President of Liechtenstein was made aware of the threat of possible annexation that morning, after the Triesenberg constable placed a frantic call to Philippe Meinhoff, a local chocolateir and the head of Liechtensteinian intelligence. The President of Liechtenstein was informed sometime after nine o’clock that Triesenberg had been invaded by a division of the Swiss 3^rd Armored Cavalry. “We immediately contacted the European Commission in order to ascertain what was occurring,” explained the President’s press secretary, “but we were unable to reach a representative of the Swiss government.” Liechtenstein has subsequently suspended diplomatic relations with Switzerland, but Cadbury PLC has offered their serves as a mediator to repair relations between the two countries.

In the Closet With the Rambler

It was my original intention to inaugurate the revival of this column with an experiment. It was to test the limits of acceptable preppy attire by beginning the week in a popped collar and proceeding all the way to seersucker and Nantucket red madness by week’s end. However, this idea was shattered earlier this morning when a young man boarded the Cruiser sporting bright pink slacks, a blue brass-buttoned blazer, and a navy repp tie embroidered with pinpoint anchors. I realized that there is in fact no preppy horizon line at Colgate, and that our campus is some sort of rip in the space-time continuum where the autumnal years of the American aristocracy will be forever celebrated with poorly coordinated paeans to the age of Gatsby. I doubt I would be able to raise eyebrows up the hill with anything short of going to class dressed in a gigantic Sperry Topsider.

However, despite the unfortunate demise of the seminal idea for In the Closet’s reprise, this column does intend to deliver the same common sense, practical fashion advice and deeply repressed homo-erotic desires as its predecessor provided the Colgate student body. On that note, I would like to begin with the subject of Barbour jackets. There are a lot of them. Too many. Simply because Kate Moss was photographed wearing some man’s shooting jacket draped over her shoulders at the Ox/Cambridge polo championships because she was too coked up to remember to bring a raincoat, does not mean that every girl whose daddy can afford it should shell out $379 for turn-of-the-century waterproofing technology. I proposed in a recent letter to Barbour and Sons Ltd that each new jacket should come with a complimentary shotgun and vicious foxhound. That way, the poseurs will either shoot themselves through ineptitude, or be brutally mauled to death. This would also create demand for more Barbour jackets, as the inventory turnover would increase. I have yet to hear back from Barbour executives.

The only people for whom this advice does not apply are those unfortunates whose only waterproof article besides waxed cotton is a North Face jacket. If this is you, please do your part for society and throw yourself off of one as soon as possible. Nothing says “I like spending absurd amounts of money on outdated pseudo outdoor wear” than North Face, except perhaps Timberland boots, which have thankfully receded from the deuchebag vanguard. If you really feel you need to demonstrate how much wealthier you are than the rest of us, why don’t you just buy a perfectly functional slicker from Marmot or REI, and then burn a wad of Benjamins in a prominent location on campus? There are other alternatives as well; no one ever looked stupid in a tasteful duffle coat or short-cut belted trench, or a plastic trash bag. I don’t care what you do, just stop dressing like you borrowed your brother’s foxhunting jacket while he was on break from Eton. You’re not fooling anyone, you grew up on the Jersey shore.