Our twisted culture has become a despotic enabler for me. I’m in the midst of an up-and-down White Collar/Blue Collar Life, one day wearing a cowboy hat and doing yardwork on a grand, cinemascopic scale, the next I’m in a business suit, harrumphing vague and inconsequential things like “mitigate.”
The past several years, we’ve suffered through a fashion trend that mirrors society, maintaining a look casual but self-destructive. Both men and women are buying brand new jeans and, like hillbilly serial killers, slicing them up. Slash. Stab. Slice. Rip. In Beverly Hills, you can buy already shredded Levis for disco-stupid prices. Imagine. Jeans for $100 and beyond.
When I was growing up, which for me is a lifelong process, adults would be horrified if they saw you wearing torn pants. Only hobos and Democrats walked about with holes in their pants.
Heads, yes.
Pants, no.
I’m guessing, like dirty underwear, if you got into a car accident and were taken to the hospital, you wouldn’t want the medical staff to see a patchwork quilt tan pattern where your thighs appeared to be dotted with a Splotchy Amoeba.
Not a band name, mind you, just the foreign exchange student from Sardinia.
I’ve got three pairs of jeans that, under normal circumstances, I would have thrown away years ago. Fashion. Fashion saved them. Instead of thousands of people cupping their mouths in horror or pointing damning fingers at me as I waltz by, I am looked upon as a fashion hepcat daddy god because my knees are getting fresh air. Sadly and of late, my jeans have gotten SO darn ripped, I just can’t live with them anymore. A breeze kicks up and I’m feeling a draft in places not even the most trust proctologist has visited. I’m worried. Am I becoming one of those woke 89 genders my county government welcomes, with open arms?
Part of the problem is what our parents used to tell us was true. They don’t make things like they used to. It’s hard to find a decent, working pair of jeans these days. They make most of them about as thick as a Kleenex and in the upside-down world of the 21st century, they come, “Already Worn!!”
I ask you.
Would you acquire a wife — or a 20-minute congresswoman — boasting of that kind of warranty?
When I was working at the ranch a lot, I’d buy these logger jeans that were thicker than a Democrat’s head and stiffer than 3/4-inch plywood. The manufacturer warned not to wash them for the first six years because “…you’d be better off cleaning a mountain lion and three chainsaws because rest assured these lumberjack britches will bona fidely wreck the inside of your Maytag.”
I got a strange letter years ago from the local sheriff. He obtusely apologized for his Rottweiler escaping from his K-9 cell and accidentally attacking me. He was sorry for the misunderstanding, but asked if I could wear some other form of pants when I came into town because the great attack canine broke its nose in three places running into my femur.
You didn’t just wash these manly man jeans. You walked through a car wash in them.
Thrice.
Fondly, I must admit. Other than Canyon High’s cheerleader/gymnast foreign exchange student from North Korea, it was an experience I’ll never forget.
I’ve got to get myself a new pair of jeans.
You can get your store-bought work pants in denim that range from about 12- to 14-ounce fabric weight range. Like most of once a proud and tough nation, the traditional American jeans makers have gone the Pinky In The Air Whilst Sipping Tea route. Carhartt, Wrangler, Levi, Lee and a few others still make their “rodeo-tough” jeans. By that they mean, they’re tough enough to go to a rodeo and sit safely not in the stands but in your living room recliner where you don’t have to worry about getting a splinter.
Well. Unless you’re at Randy Wrage’s house. Randy’s a cheap you-know-what and won’t pop for a new recliner.
Duluth up in Minnesota makes work jeans out of fire hose material but I’m a sensitive sort and wouldn’t want people making the obvious and inappropriate joke at my expense: “Is That A Fire Hose In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?”
Just for the heck of it, I did a little homework. If there’s a throne of the World’s Toughest Jeans, many are pretenders. There’s a company in London that doesn’t fit easily on a business card. They’re called Blackhorse Lane Ateliers. They make a 14-ounce denim for men. They cost $340. For that kind of money, they better come with two bright-eyed and giggling British stewardesses in the box.
There’s a Canadian company called — I’m not making this up — Naked & Famous. If you’re wearing a pair right now I could tell you to sit down, but you probably couldn’t. N&F makes a pair of jeans THREE TIMES THICKER than traditional overalls — 32 fah-rigging ounces. That’s the heaviest known denim on Earth. They’re made in that rodeo-rich area of Kojima, Japan, have 15-ounce leather patches and 2-inch-thick carpet yarn for pockets. Naked & Famous also has quite the sense of humor.
They’re selling these jeans at $495 a pair. N&F carries the disclaimer: “(Limited to 138 pairs).”
For $495, plus tax, shipping and handling, these jeans pretty much better get up in the morning before I do, make coffee and saddle the horse by themselves.
Famed author and cowboy-type John Boston is selling three pairs of autographed jeans, with holes in them, worn out by actual ranch work, for just $495. Contact him at The Mighty Signal. Cash only.
