American Devil

What is it about the brandless knit company that so turns me on? Do the colors dazzle my consumerist eyes? Am I tempted by the crew, v, scoop, and boatneck tees? Maybe it’s the comfortable underpants.

Whatever it is, I too often find myself stumbling through one of Dov Charney’s neon-lit American Apparel stores, hypnotized by the bee-stung-lipped vixens on the wall and repelled to the very depths of my soul by the overbearing sleaze and the bitchy sales associates.

Nevermind that Charney allegedly receives fellatio from models and sexually harasses his uber-hip employees. His I’m-a-pervert mustache says it all: “I’m a Terry Richardson wannabe who is all about chasing tail and making it with the foxes who work for me!” My inner ethicist tells me not to shop at American Apparel, for it is run by a man who conducts job interviews in his underwear. Alas, for my mortal soul is trapped in an abusive relationship with Dov’s juggernaut.

I’m ashamed (slightly) to say that I am sporting three articles of American Apparel merchandise as I write this article: a shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of socks. Damn you Dov! You who plaster my already over-sexed city with salacious images of underage T&A. You who have resurrected the well-forgotten sleaze of '70s porn with its yellow ambience and evocations of stale cigarette ash, cheesy motels, and extra large mustaches! I say, damn thee to a lake of burning shiny nylon tricot leggings! --CAT SPENCER

(Originally published 11/17/06. American Apparel store in Second Life from matteopenzo's flickr.)

Comments

[avisualperson]

word? peep this . . . http://www.afterthesemessages.com/obe/review/30