It's occurred to me, a young undergrad full to the brim with gadzooks-y conclusions, that once upon a time in the not so distant past, "fashion" as it were was determined by a very special group of individuals, that group being my spiritual ancestors or the gadsooks-y undergrads of yesteryear. Of course I'm pegging on the Ivy League look, but I'm not necessarily one for labels. Looking out of my dorm room window towards the West Campus dining hall, I'm reminded at just what an epidemic bad taste is. I won't harp on the Zuckerbergian disease that's striking my educational peers, but damn it men tuck in your shirts.
Let's take a look at this platter of sartorial elegance. Khakis. Loafers. OCBD. A smile that ensures us that he doesn't give a finuck about what he's wearing. Which of course is why we should care. This, gentleman, is what college fashion used to be, an assemblage of practical pieces that some would call preppy, other Ivy, I just call it damn straight.
The charm of classic American clothes is the utilitarianism of it all. Look at the above picture. Nothing about it is obnoxious, nor trendy, nor dependent on anything other than form and function. And that's the appeal. That's why people still write blogs gushing about this look, because it works. It's not about outshining your peers with gaudy graphic tees with designer logos, or trying to beat the crowd to the next big thing by cutting off your Levi's at the knee and popping the lenses out of your black Wayfarers. There was a time when college kids were the dictators of fashion, or the lack thereof, and by god I hope to see that day come again.
Bluto is ashamed.
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