too much knowledge, no wisdom...

i thought the poseur neophyte-skater-alterna-hip-hop-biker kid was the most perpetratin' bitch on the planet- WRONG - a surprising new culture has emerged from the geek chic gonad of the early 00's --- known to most as 'trad', these cockpunches are always waxing poetic about some 'golden era'. their need to align themselves to the cliche'd iconic blah/blah (mcqueen, dean, shelby cobras, the great gatsby, anything ivy league, etc.) and the particularly annoying talent of co-opting intrinsically timeless fashions and gumbo-souping it into nothing more than an adult 'costume' (i.e. classic cars that are replica or rental car club + dandy-ism + harris tweed hat + bespoke + 501's + mackintosh trench + haberdashery-this, sartorial-that...) - kneegrow puhleeze! your mom showed me pics of you with an assymetrical haircut at a morrissey concert.

i still can't decide which greenhorn-rookie-trainee initiate i'd rather punch harder(???!!!). let's visit a timeline of him anthropologically, shall we...

nuevo prepster (humble beginnings, now, future):

10-20 yrs: acne, wet dreams, skinned knees from falling off schwinn (bicycle, OR his dirty uncle), first car = ford festiva/geo metro

20-30 yrs: slave to trends, squanders money on nordstrom mannequin rigs in hopes of looking like current mtv reality hunk

30-40 yrs: realization of victimization, buys first cashmere cableknit sweater, cliff-notes educated on 'history' via newly digitized LIFE Magazine images, adaptation of 50's-60's "lifestyle" thru every other trad blog and is all of the sudden an expert of mid-century modern design 

40-50 yrs: paunch no longer fitting in birdwells, the ll bean zip-off pant-shorts ironically bought as 'vintage' 20 yrs ago is now being purchased online in xxl with 'marlboro miles'

60-70 yrs: dunlop of a belly has graduated to a full-on boiler, one filled with whatever chilean wine his sychophant scenester friends recommended sampling at gallery openings in their 30's.

80-90 yrs: after chicken-hawking ladyboys in chinatown on the downlow, out'd at funeral by all the goldenboy chickenpunks now 'eyeing' said deceased peers (peers, undoubtedly dressed in their best wingtips and barbour jkts).

hey johnny-come-lately, my balls are on your chinstroke!