Stoner Fashion Decisions
Fashion week happens year round in major cities around the world, but in New York, it doesn’t just happen. It descends upon us. During these times, I tend to avoid the hoopla of celebrity DJs and promotional vodka for the simpler pastime of getting rip-roaring stoned and, particularly during the February installment, remaining indoors where my sense of lazy fashion rests unscrutinized.
I don’t really deal with fashion—I deal with clothing and sneakers. Aside from my unquenchable lust for high-tops, I keep my duds fairly practical. With weed having been a major component of my off hours for more than a decade, I’ve definitely made some unconscious wardrobe adjustments based on the hobby. Here a few things that I’m pretty sure were designed by stoners in history who were looking out for their forgetful future brethren.
THE SHIRT POCKET
I don’t know if smoking has affected my memory in general, but when I’m stoned it’s definitely impaired. Aside from the middle of your forehead, this is the most obvious place to have a pocket. Considering how many times in a given day I put a lighter down and instantly lose it for hours or even weeks, the front pocket is a huge blessing. I keep all my necessary shit in there. And I gotta say, damn, that is one ugly shirt! It looks like a Christmas sweater took a dump on a red and black lumberjack. I’m wearing it right now too. It’s ridiculous, but totally fine if I’m just at home or in public or at work or at a wedding.
Jeans were invented for miners because they can take a beating and last a long time, plus they get really comfortable once you break them in. Black jeans were invented for stoners and possess all the same desirable qualities, on top of which they hide the filth that you wallow in. Smoking weed is only a dirty habit in the sense that it involves all sorts of ash and resin and junk, and my black jeans are laden with an even mix of all of it.
As a grownup, I avoid outdoor smoking in the wintertime. Unless the circumstances are particularly spectacular, there’s no way in hell I’m going to ruin the pleasure of smoking by freezing my ass off. But there was a time when I didn’t have much choice. Flippy gloves aided me in the desperate, shwag-smoking years of early high school all the way up to my halcyon days in the college dorms. Some people say you need your palms to roll a blunt, but those people are crazy. All you need is for your fingers to fing correctly.
THE HAIR TIE
My hair was never that long when I was younger, but at this point I haven’t cut it in almost two years and it gets everywhere—in my eyes when I look down at stuff, in my mouth when I’m eating a sandwich, and worst of all into the flame of my lighter. I hate hearing that sizzle and smelling that familiar gnarly smell, so the hair tie has become an essential. One bonus is that, throughout the day, the knot will slip around and sculpt my hair into that of a wild jungle person without my knowing it, startling anyone I come in contact with.
In recent years, I’ve noticed that high-top makers have begun providing laces that are too short to tie into a knot if you lace them up through all the holes. As someone who hates having to tie his shoes, I applaud this innovation. Come to think of it, my appreciation of these has nothing to do with smoking weed. It just makes sense. Shoelaces are this primitive thing that have somehow persisted through the ages, even beating out brilliant technological advancements like Velcro. Somehow, we think it’s OK to have to kneel down and fumble with these strings that have been at street level collecting dog pee and lord knows what else. What a ridiculous world we live in.
Did I miss anything?
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