2007-Eleven (10 page)

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ex
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on CNN: In today’s troubled world of corporate downsizing and social uncertainty, the hottest trend in fashion is looking the loser! Elsa Klensch views a new collection for white males who are celebrating their sexual and political oppression!

Hello from Utica! I’m Elsa Klensch with a special edition of
Style!
We’re here today to glimpse the latest designs from Mr. Benny, whose visionary theme, “Dress for Oppression,” promises to let our Caucasian cogs in the corporate carousel view themselves as they really are: the true victims!

Joining me for this extraordinary event is my fashion cohost, my color man, Mr. John Madden.

ELSA, THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT BENNY. THEY WERE SAYING HE’S GETTING OLD, THAT HE’S COLOR-BLIND, THAT THE HANDS CAN’T DO THE STITCHING ANYMORE. BUT I’VE BEEN GOING TO BENNY’S BIG-AND-TALL-MAN
SHOP FOR YEARS, AND I CAN TELL YOU THIS GUY’S GOT A LOT OF CLOTHES LEFT IN HIM. AND IT’S GOOD TO SEE THE TIMES FINALLY CATCHING UP, BECAUSE WHEN THEY TALK ABOUT WHITE GUYS LOOKING DEPRESSED, BELIEVE ME, THEY TALK ABOUT BENNY.

John, here’s our first model. It’s Cooter, taking a well-deserved break from the keyboard to stand in the rain and smoke a cigarette. He wears a phone book–yellow headset made by Tandy and, over his free ear, a matching Mongol No. 2 pencil. Cooter’s tan trousers ride a quarter inch above his white tube socks, ventilating the midcalf, and his tie reeks of birthday gift. The shirt pocket is logoed with a dollop of exploded-pen ink, and note the sleeves, John. They’re rolled up, for an accessory that screams, “Pity me”: Velcro-fastened, ergonomic wrist supports!

I WAS TALKING TO COOTER BEFORE THE SHOW, ELSA, AND HE’S MODELING HURT. IT’S THAT CARPAL-TUNNEL THING THAT YOU GET IN YOUR HANDS. BUT COOTER’S THE TYPE OF MODEL WHO—JUST HIS PRESENCE OUT THERE
HELPS THIS COLLECTION. CHECK OUT THE REPLAY: HE MAKES A HECK OF A STROLL … TAKES OUT HIS LIGHTER … DOESN’T LIGHT … DOESN’T LIGHT … DOESN’T LIGHT … BOOM! … LIGHTS! I MEAN, WHEN YOU SEE A GUY WEARING THOSE WRIST PADS, YOU KNOW THAT GUY IS OPPRESSED. AND YOU GOTTA HAND IT TO COOTER. HE’S POSING IN PAIN. HE’S NOT A HUNDRED PERCENT. A LOT OF GUYS WOULDN’T BE OUT THERE RIGHT NOW, BUT IN A BIG SHOW NO ONE WANTS COOTER IN THERE MORE THAN COOTER.

Hold everything, John. Here comes Herb, mixing business with pleasure—and gin with tonic! He’s off to the golf course with his district manager and a prospective customer. Herb wears a supernova-purple fedora, traffic light–green pants, white golf shoes, and a tequila sunset–orange polo shirt that treats us to an inch of furry midriff. And by the way, John, do you know why Herb golfs with two pairs of pants?

It’s in case he gets a
hole
in
one!

THIS GOLF GAME IS NINETY-FIVE
PERCENT MENTAL, ELSA, SO YOU NEED MENTAL CLOTHES. THE KEY HERE IS THE COLORS, BECAUSE YOU DEFINITELY CAN SEE THESE GUYS COMING. YOU REALLY GOTTA LOOK HARD TO FIND COLORS LIKE THAT, AND BENNY HAS DONE A HECK OF A JOB HERE. I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE GOT THESE COLORS. THERE MUST’VE BEEN A SALE SOMEPLACE. HE MUST’VE FOUND SOME HIGHWAY-SIGN PAINT DOWN IN HIS BASEMENT. I MEAN, THESE ARE THE KIND OF COLORS YOU WEAR FOR HUNTING, SO THE OTHER GUY DOESN’T SHOOT YOU. YOU WEAR THESE COLORS, AND PEOPLE WILL THINK YOU’RE OPPRESSED. I GUARANTEE YOU THAT.

Stand back, John, and paint it black! Here comes Brian, our classic rocker, who plans to get some “satisfaction” at the Rolling Stones tribute show! Brian’s faux ponytail dangles into his tie-dyed T-shirt, and his torn jeans are kept in place by both a belt and suspenders. Sandals enclose his dark socks—one black, one navy—and Brian’s fanny pack holds the essentials: earplugs, binoculars, and
“stash.” And that aroma creeping our way, John, is the new fragrance by Calvin Klein,
Oppression,
a ruddy mix of Desenex and Absorbine Jr.

YOU KNOW BENNY’S INTO IT WHEN HE’S MIXING UP THE SMELLS. BUT THE KEY HERE, I THINK, IS THE BELT-SUSPENDERS COMBO. IN THIS LEAGUE, YOU GOTTA HAVE BACKUPS. I MEAN, WHAT IF THE SUSPENDERS GO? THEN YOUR PANTS WOULD BE DOWN AT YOUR ANKLES! CAN’T STRESS IT ENOUGH. YOU GOTTA HAVE BACKUPS.

Look, John! Here’s Ted, kissing his wife goodbye, as he heads off for a grueling weekend business trip. His gray flannel suit with white shirt and power tie, coupled with his briefcase and black loafers, illustrate Ted’s “nose to the grindstone” approach to the job. Nevertheless, all work and no play makes Ted a dull boy. So with one strategic pull on the zipper (the suit reverses), here’s
Teddy—
in full-body leather bondage gear, with matching love-slave collar! John? John?

And now for a change of pace. Here comes Ed, hiking merrily to his secret paramilitary convention! Whether you’re a soldier of fortune or an unfortunate
soldier, this ensemble will have the fashion militia shouting, “A-ten-chun!” Ed’s traditional camouflage suit, courtesy of Benny’s Army-Navy Store, opens to reveal a black screaming-skull T-shirt. Atop his khaki bandanna rests a pair of low-light goggles, and slung over Ed’s shoulder is a fully loaded M-16. And, John, check out Benny’s ironic note here: jackboots!

TO ME, THIS MILITIA THING IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT. IF BENNY IS GOING TO CREATE STYLES, IF HE IS GOING TO SELL CLOTHES, IF HE IS GOING TO SHOW THE ALIENATION OF WHITE MALES, HE NEEDS THESE GUYS. THE GUN NUTS HAVE GOT TO TAKE CONTROL OF THE BALL GAME. BECAUSE THESE ARE THE REAL CRAZIES. THEY REALLY THINK THEY’RE OPPRESSED—THEY FIGURE EVERYBODY’S OUT TO GET THEM. YOU HEAR THE OTHERS’ NAMES CALLED ALL THE TIME—YOUR OLLIE NORTHS, YOUR G. GORDON LIDDYS, YOUR RUSH LIMBAUGHS—BUT THEY’VE GOTTEN SOFT. THESE MILITIA TYPES, THEY DON’T TALK, THEY DON’T VOTE, THEY DON’T PAY TAXES, THEY JUST STARE AT YOU. SO
IF THERE’S GOING TO BE PERSECUTION OF WHITE MALES, THESE ARE THE GUYS WHO’LL MAKE IT HAPPEN!

Apparently, we’re out of time. For
Style,
I’m Elsa Klensch reminding everyone: You’re the victim, so dress like one!

T
his summer, treat your family to a musical spectacular of mystery and wonder, a story that has delighted working men and women for ages! Walt Disney Motion Pictures presents the magical tale of a young sprout from Jersey who was born to climb.…

Yes, the beanstalk’s jammed with broken heroes when the fantasy of Walt Disney and the morality of Bruce Springsteen team up to bring you
Beanstreets!
You’ll travel back to a bygone era and meet
Jack, the tough-talking-but-lovable Vietnam vet who gets laid off at the refinery and must sell his beloved 1972 Dodge Dart.…

This summer, case the promised land with Jack, his girlfriend Candy, and a cast of characters only Disney and the Boss could create. You’ll meet the Magic Rat, Crazy Janey, Jack the Rabbit and Weak Knees Willie, Sloppy Sue and Big Bones Billy. They’ll be coming up for air! Because when Jack needs $2,500 to cover child-support payments and debts no honest man can pay, he heads to the boardwalk to see the mysterious Madam Marie.…

It’s
Beanstreets!
the classic tale mixed with classic rock! And after Jack gets into an argument with his
dad, who’s out on disability with the gout, his exwife Sandy tosses the beans into the parking lot of an abandoned factory—and something incredible takes root.…

Featuring the voices of Matt Damon as Jack, Heather Graham as Rosie the talking harp, Clarence Clemons as the Big Man, and Howie Mandell as Tramp, the incredible goose that lays golden eggs.…

You’ll visit Gigantic City, that world above the clouds, where everything that dies someday comes back. But when Jack meets the Corporate Giant, it’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap.…

Don’t waste your summer prayin’ in vain! Because the fireworks are hailin’ over
Beanstreets!—
coming to theaters on the edges of towns everywhere. And in time for Christmas 2000, Bob Dylan
is
Alexander Graham Bell.…

“N
ext exit, pull over?” (O, the pain—)

“BUT I WOULD NOT … FEEL SO ALL ALONE …”

“Next exit, please.” (O, the freakin’ pain!)

“EVERYBODY! … MUST! … GET! … STONED!”

“C’mon, guys! Next exit, PULL OVER!”

Hey, Tummytuck, chill. I am sitting with Tummytuck, a literary agent with a three-day goatee and the cultured whine of an Ivy League president, which is designed to say: I’ve grown tired of this ride, this singing, and suggest we stop somewhere for a strawberry-blond lager and some wood-fired pizza. We’re doing seventy-five in a sixty-five-mile zone, racing to make Ann Arbor in time for Kesey
to do the Action News Live Eye at Six, then the book signing at Borders. For Tummytuck, the tight schedule is a serious bummer, because four mocha lattes and the bouncing of the bus have launched a two-pronged assault on his swollen prostate, and he needs a freaking rest room so badly he can taste it.

“Hold on until Michigan!” Carpal-Tunnel Girl howls from the back, flashing a Day-Glo, it’s-a-manly-deodorant-but-I-like-it-too smile, gorked on ginseng and a sugar cube laced with Melatonin, which might help her survive this all-you-can-eat bellyache of a bad trip. During the Chinese fire drill in Chicago, she slammed her shin into Further’s back bumper, and, YEOW, it still hurts to stand. The bus’s psychedelic pattern is giving her a migraine, not to mention her son, Brandon, who just called from Stanford to say he totaled the Range Rover. She accepts a hit from the Pepto-Bismol bottle being passed. “JUST KEEP GOING!”

Too late. Triple Bypass jerks the steering wheel, EAUGH, careening the bus, EAUUGH, onto the off-ramp, EAUUUUUGH, and into the parking lot of an
A.M.
-
P.M.
minimart, silencing the songs, halting the bridge game, and rousing nappers from their happy dreams. Soon, the Pranksters hobble out, stretching sciatica, lighting cigarettes, sucking
in guts, buttoning pants, resetting hairpieces, and blinking fresh droplets of Visine, as a Dylan CD wails, “Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”

“Oh, wow, man!” Kidney Stone shouts, discovering the nose-ringed, shaven-headed cash-register attendant. “Look, everybody, it’s Pirate Boy!”

“No, it’s Nosemetal Q. Youngfellow!” Miracle Ear proclaims, waving his cigar. “Roadside retailer extraordinaire!”

“I don’t see fat-free Ben & Jerry’s,” Trophy Wife asks, jabbing the counter with a Visa card. “Got any fat-free Ben & Jerry’s? Fat-free Ben & Jerry’s!”

“FAT-FREE BEN & JERRY’S!! FAT-FREE BEN & JERRY’S!!”

“HEY, SHUDDUP, PEOPLE! I’M TALKING TO CLEVELAND,” 401(k) yells, cradling a cell phone to his ear. “Listen, Phil, we still got 543 T-shirts in stock, and we’re cutting a big-time loss on the tote bags. I told you, man, this logo sucks. Nobody listened. I said we should take the Nike deal, but nobody listened, and now we’re screwed, because this logo sucks!