What Would YOU Do in the Name of Charity?

     I think we can agree that charities are great if they support good causes, but how they get their funding may be another story. Once a normal boy, Chris would walk happily to school and back with a smile on his face and skip in his step. However, he started developing a grave disorder called dis-clothes-ia (also known as nakeditis) when he began attending classes at the Cooper Union. It was hard for us to see him being stripped of everything as the disease took over.

     It started with his shirt. He said it was too hot out. He said it was too wet out. He said anything we would believe to take that shirt off. That's when he met a group (not naming any names) at his school who used that to take advantage of him. They saw how uncomfortable he was sitting in class fully clothed for so long, so they asked if he might help them with their charity auction. He agreed, but he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

     The first auction went well, but as the bids got higher, the itch to be shirtless also rose. With the spotlight shining directly on him and him alone, sweat started beading on his forehead. He said, "It was like a million feathers were being rubbed all over my nose. But I didn't have to sneeze. I had to strip." And then he did. The shirt came off and the bids got higher. It was all going towards a donation to Habitat for Humanity, so how could it be a bad thing?

     The next year he was asked again to be a part of the charity auction, and he accepted immediately. He knew that he might be tempted again, but there's nothing wrong with giving the disease for charity, right? Well, you decide. There he was again. Spotlight on him and a room full of screaming bidders. This time he was much quicker in removing his shirt. He barely got halfway through the bidding process and he was already half naked. But then a new urge came... the pants. It came on slow at first, but grew like wildfire. The bids started slowing and he fought impossibly hard to suppress the feeling, but he just couldn't make it. He ripped those pants off with the strength of a second degree black. Again, a rush of bids ensued and he was clapped off the stage. But not without a bit of social media fame from this clip.

 

     Disclothesia can also bring about other strange behaviors involving garb. In Chris's case he also developed "peer-shear" where he would try to force others to remove garments. "Peer-shear" got its name from an old Swedish shepherd who felt the action of stripping others strongly resembled the techniques he used to shear his sheep. Luckily, Chris only exhibited "peer-shear" during the summer when most people were usually prepared for pools or the beach.

Down in the Bowery

     I think we can agree that the new wave of social activists is half excellent and half AWFUL. Both groups feel the need to try new things they wouldn't normally have in their culture. However, the first group exhibits its tolerance by loving all cultures equally, while the other wears its "hip activities" like badges. The less familiar their vocabulary is to others, the smarter and better they think they are. They're the exact opposite of ethnocentric. They actually embrace all other cultures more than their own. But they still believe that they're making a change for the better by liking feminist Facebook pages and growing beards. (The beards are actually pretty great most of the time, but I digress.)

     These hipstery douche canoes are indeed making a change. But is it really for the better? Do we really need another subculture that demands to be seen as "better" because of their differences? The word "tolerance" seems to have lost its meaning to them even though they think they're fighting for it.
    

Ahhhhhh. Just needed a breather real quick.

     I went down to the Bowery to see a great band recently and ran directly into this sort of person. First, when going to concerts, I tend to wear almost the same thing every time. With the expectation that there will be at least 2 beers, several ounces of weed, and gallons of sweat crashing into me by the end of the night, I never wear anything good. A t-shirt, old jeans, and a sweatshirt are good enough for me. Nothing else needs to enter the depths of the concert pit for there is no limit to the number of spin cycles those clothes will have to go through before they emerge anywhere near the way they started.

     The only mistake I made was wearing my college sweatshirt. Right out of Penn Station I got the classic "GO SEAWOLVES" from a Stony Brook alumnus. Not a surprise since about half of the world seems to go there. But that was the last bit of kindness good ol' SB would get that night. We took a subway that plopped us right next to the Bowery Ballroom and waltzed right on in. We were looking forward to meeting exciting chaps like ourselves, but we were unhappily surprised. Not a single mellow fellow to be found. Only snarky hipster folk dressed to the nines. Possibly even the tens. There were dress shoes, slacks, ties, vests, and millions of shades of lipstick. Yet the only two jeans were worn by yours truly and her best friend, Chris. Feeling awfully out of place we sank into a corner and just observed for a while. What we found ourselves looking at was this exact scene of gargling dweebs from the TV show Louie.

The squawking is all perfectly accurate. Throw in

a vest and tuck in a few shirts and you could say

that you saw San Fermin too.

     The concert started and we weasled our way to the front thinking the party people must be waiting for us there. Wrong again. The sea of awfuls stretched all the way from the stage to the back of the crowd. Not a single fun-loving being would be joining us. A cloak of pessimism started to fall and stuck to our clothes like the smell of an old fire. Then, few people started noticing my Stony Brook garb. They immediately started to hoot and holler. (Not laugh. I mean hoot like owls and holler like monkeys.) Apparently we were too young to know the struggles of adult life (arguable) and not worth the space we occupy (just wrong). Hey, I may not know where I'll be when I'm their age, but I'll certainly have better things to talk about. So laugh it up funny man because at least we know how to have a good time.

     Finally, the beautiful brass section of San Fermin bellowed through the joint. A head bob or two ensued, but that was about all the movement they were willing to bother with. It was of course a spectacular show, but I definitely didn't want anything to do with that crowd of shmoes. Afterwards, instead of mingling with the shmoe foe, we did a bit of gabbing with the band. I mean... we did a bit of gabbing with THE BAND! How cool! The other fans weren't so interested in the band which definitely seemed a little odd. It was probably cause they were dressed down like we were. Either way, more fun for us!