It's not about the crack, it's about the crackheads who encourage it.

They're thinking about banning baggy pants in a certain school in Stockholm. Personally, I don't care much for the style.

These days it seems to be all about showing as much underwear as you can without showing the top of your thigh, because thighs are still taboo in this particular world of fashion. Buttocks took long enough to come out of the closet and into your alternative coffee place of choice, your disco dance floor and if you are unlucky, your rush hour subway, squashed into your now reluctantly felching face. But thighs- nono! Thighs must wait their turn. Some things must still hold the allure of being naughty.

Tomorrow: Upper Thighs
Next week: The Liver.

Despite my previous post, it's not that I hate fashion. Not at all. Sure I'm all for practical when it comes to my own life, but it does not mean that I can't appreciate the beauty of something made by hand or team of third world children. Along the same lines, it's not that I hate productive Hennes & Maurtitz young seamstresses/tailors, it's that I strongly dislike the sort of children today's laissez-faire society risks turning out.

Like Pepe here:



There's talk about "violation of integrity".
There are worries about children "not developing in a correct way"
It is referred to as being "dehumanizing".

Let me tell you a little something about dehumanizing. Having to see someone's crack de resistance dehumanizes me. Having to slavishly follow a woman who's boldly transgressing the upper thigh taboo and flaunting her lower buttocks in a miniskirt ill fitted for a woman of gigantic buttock proportions - procuring a fascination akin to that of a car crash -that demoralizes me.

Sitting on a seat that has a very definitive dark line running down the middle makes ME have to RUN my FINGER across it and smell in the HOPES of it being a fabric flaw. It NEVER is.

But you see, it's not really about who wears baggy pants or what have you. It's about the assholes who object to any constructive consistency in schools. I'm not talking about making Secondary school the Third Reich. I'm talking about giving children perspective, calling a damn spade a damn spade. If you're stupid, you get extra help. If you are gifted, you get a pat on the back. As it is now, everyone is special and has potential - leaving no extra attention for those who might need it. Pointing out that for 2+3, your reply of 17 might not be the best approach to the problem is taboo.

It does not end with pussy-footing, it continues with not confiscating mobiles in class because reaching out and grasping an object of nuisance might be viewed as threatening. Looking the other way if a student calls you a cunt to your face, because that's the child expressing herself. Letting kids expose their buttocks in class because they are just trying to find their identities (And let whatever random canine that strolls into the school yard be able to establish your identity as well).

It's a lovely Utopian plan the Swedish educational system has, it is, to let little adults explore their personalities and feel loved and appreciated based on the skaters they are, as opposed to being motivated to achieve something in this fine nurturing institution that is school. Prioritizing the School of Love as opposed to the School of Life.

But in the end, finger-painting your plans for the nuclear plant you've managed to find yourself at isn't going to get your anywhere. Except, perhaps, a well deserved wedgy from anyone of us assholes who doesn't think that you grew up to be the beautiful snowflake that all your teachers said you were.

And I pray to god that for the sake of easier accessibility you won't have let go of your sk8ter style by then, because I've dipped my fingers in enough ass sweat to have to go through that shit again.

Oh, and Jesus loves you.

Whitey Tighty, Earthy Loosey.

I came home today to find a shovel propped up against the wall in the hallway.



...Which is not particularly strange to me. It fits in with the rest of our decor. Our hallway still looks like a 1920's crazy person's world-war-five-preparation bunker, complete with peeling walls and the occasional ultra future nutrition bar (aka Snickers wrappers) squirreled away ("dropped") in various corners.

What struck me as strange was the white pair of sneakers standing beside Andreas' and my more muddied shoes. As far as I'm concerned, only one kind of person white sneakers, and that's the the one with a so-called "fashion sense". When I say fashion sense I mean not so much fancy as stupid enough to spend the month's lunch money on a zebra tutu, regardless gender.

You know what sort of person I mean, the kind that buys a pair of sweat pants when sweat pants are in, wearing them with knee-high boots and tearing holes in the knees to make it look like he's not the last to discover the sweat [fat] pant fashion. He's been wearing sweat pants for years. See these scabbed knees? That's right baby, point is you can.

The kind of person who runs out and buys rice-paper beanies because Jean Paul Gaultier has discovered that models look really good wearing material that is both see-through and also edible. They strut down the catwalk hungrily staring at their breasts which are covered in all that delicious food, the shirt the proverbial carrot, nipples pointing the way. Gaultier pats himself on the back for the nicely presented bit of irony: verily, the Doris Lessing of the Lesser is More world.

The fashion slave is also the kind of person who wears white shoes in a muddy autumn world. It's rebellious. It's a Jesus-like "I can walk on water and not get my whitey Nike's wet" sort of mentality. It's unpractical, it's expensive. It's Homer, who's bought a spade with him today to go dig a hole in one of Stockholm's bigger parks tomorrow morning.

Apparently the trend he's following now is the blogging trend, the latest tool in his girl attracting plan. The more the page hits and comments - the larger his odds of meeting a femme fan with which to share his beenies.

In his latest blog he claimed that he was going to dig a hole in a large Stockholm park. His plan is to head out there at two am tonight and fulfill the promise. If I know Homer, he's not going to get up at two AM to dig that hole. He's going to get up at eleven AM, scratch himself, shuffle some snickers wrappers over the shovel and claim artistic freedoms when he crawls back into bed to dream about claiming blogger balls, garden tools, and other various hoes.