Ever look at a headline and you think wow, someone found that interesting enough to write about? (Quit smirking. This one doesn’t count.)
I knew these brats were up to no good. But who knew J. Crew was still a thing? Their crap never fit me and always cost too much, but the pictures were pretty. I looked at the web site and was surprised how “mall cheap” the stuff they’re trying to peddle looks. Back in my day J. Crew was all full of khaki and muted pastels, clothes that models wore on pretend sailing adventures and picnics by the river, soft cotton sweaters that looked like they’d feel really nice between one’s hand and a preppie pixie’s left breast.
I wore Chucks on outdoor basketball courts from 7th grade until I was nearly 30 years old. In fact, I have a photo of my second to last pair of Chucks that I’ll post right below us here. I must have had 25 pairs over the years–it would have been more because I would occasionally go upscale for some other canvas summer shoes, if I found them on sale, but not because any of them were cool. I wore Chucks and their brethren because my dad had run off and I was I was poor. I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking my mom for leather high tops to squander on asphalt courts. Now, the Chucks were miserable at first, but a guy got used to them in the way, I
suppose that those people who jumped on the “shoes with toes” running fad got used to their flat, light footwear. In fact, I contend to this day that what I lost in padding and arch support was more than compensated for by the proportional advantage in weight. Chucks were super light and I always believed I could jump higher and run faster in them.
I always made do by buying them a size larger than I needed (size 14…) then, shoving in a cheap pair of insoles and, as I got older, my own homemade orthotic arch supports (some pieces of leather cut and glued together) to deal with really bad arches. I’d burn through two pairs a summer, for under $15 each. It’s great that trendogs are waxing all sentimental, but $75 for a pair of Chucks–all I can do is shake my head and smirk
When I realized that the day of shopping for prom gowns my wife had scheduled with my daughters was not a much-anticipated day of mother-daughter bonding, but a drudgery to which my wife was looking forward with all the eagerness of shoeless pilgrim standing before a road of broken glass, I grimaced and stepped into the breech. Maybe it had something to do with the disgust in her eye when I presumed I wouldn’t be part of the expedition–or maybe I’m just a great husband and dad. Pfft.
“Of course I’ll go with you,” I said, my soul sighing miserably from the depths of each individual cell. She brightened considerably not, I suspect, with glee for the chance to spend a few hours in my delightful company, but at the prospect of sharing the pain.
This would be no quick jaunt down the block. We would be embarking on a 2-hour drive to the dismal, post-industrial remnants of the town of Sharon, PA–a once vibrant steel town that is, well, surviving “despite all that.” Our particular destination; a store called “The Winner,” a three-story former department store filled with tens of thousands of dresses that bills itself as “The world’s largest off-price fashion store.” I don’t think they’re exaggerating, at 75,000 square feet of historic charm, the place was a bit overwhelming.
I have to admit that I was dubious about the whole endeavor. It sounded too good to be true–a treasure trove of deeply discounted formal gowns set a city for which the term “post industrial wasteland” is a compliment? Have you seen that movie “Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome?” Well, welcome to the Thunderdome. The last time we’d been through Sharon they had been using stop signs wired to barrels in the center of the downtown as substitutes for broken traffic signals, and while the lights had been fixed this time around, we found that the streets had been only partially cleared of snow after a storm several days before, and had become uneven obstacle courses of packed ice and slush. I expected to see a sign on the outskirts of town that said: Welcome To Sharon. We’re Well Past Trying.
The sidewalks in the business district were no better–some were clear and some were treacherous. Nevertheless, we reluctantly parked our new car on the streets–would it be there when we returned?–and found our way to the store. It wasn’t difficult to find–along with the well-kept diner next door, and a dodgy-looking Army Navy store, there’s just not anything else going on in the downtown. It’s got the feel of a place where folks have just given up.On our last visit there had been a decent used book store, but it was gone, replaced by some sort of off-brand tax preparation storefront.
Inside The Winner, however I began to be convinced. You walk inside and the first thing you see is a vintage Jaguar E-type that belonged to the owner of the store, in front of which is stationed a genteel matron at a small desk who welcomed us and politely explained the layout of the store. And what a good thing that was: the place is huge, filled to the gills with thousands upon thousands of gowns. I followed my kids around for about twenty minutes before I ambled back over to the lady by the Jag and cracked a joke at one of the clerks, “you guys should open a sports bar next door, you’d make a killing.”
The pleasant, distinguished woman leaned in close and said, “haven’t you visited our men’s lounge adjacent to the fitting rooms?”
Why no, I hadn’t.
I glanced at my wife, who nodded indulgently. I’d already become an anchor despite my good intentions, and both she and my daughters were eager to have me out of their hair. With some trepidation I found my way down a narrow hall, past a knot of women outside the fitting rooms, and around a corner. I half-expected to find a door with of those little slide-open peepholes like you see in speakeasies in the movies, but what I found instead was brotherhood. Well, maybe not brotherhood–but there was a TV set to ESPN, a half dozen la-z-boy recliners, a sofa, and one of those cute “theater style” popcorn cart poppers and…a keg of Rolling Rock on tap.
Genius. Free beer and popcorn! I settled in to watch Tennessee versus Auburn, but soon enough a bunch of us–mostly dads but also a fiance, two boyfriends, and a “family friend.” Given the date and location (western PA, the day before the superbowl) we talked a lot about football, but also a little about shopping, a bit about women, and–to my surprise and delight–our mutual admiration for regional hero Fred “Mister” Rogers, which was unanimous.
Of course, it’s not uncommon for even the hardest among us to wax misty-eyed over Mister Rogers–there’s a true Pittsburgh story, in fact, about how Rogers’ car was stolen from outside the WQED studio. The story was quickly reported on the local news, and the car showed up back in front of the studio in short order, with a note on the dash that said something like “If I’d known this was your car I never would have taken it.”
But I digress. My children are smart, efficient shoppers–they found beautiful dresses in little more than two hours, for a grand total of about $300 (if you’ve shopped for these formal gowns, you know we got off light). I bid my compadres a reluctant adieu, lingering in the main gallery to listen to the pianist stroking the keys of baby grand piano–talk about atmosphere!–and we were gone, with a brief stop at a local hand-made candy shop.
On the drive home, my wife decided she had a hankering for a Primanti Brothers sandwich, so that was dinner, a satisfying end to a relatively painless day. Heck, I didn’t even have to drive, with two learner’s permits in the family: one daughter drove north in the morning, one drove south in the evening–all in all a painless day.
It’s been a while since I dove into the web and emerged, like a wild-eyed otter with a calm in it’s paws, with a tasty image between my teeth.
I wanted another summer picture, so I searched for “summer” and ended up with a lot of empty beach pictures and bikini girls. It’s really astounding how much we equate summer with bikinis–I mean, not really and…yay for me. I would have no problem filling a blog just with pictures of attractive women, but that would be admitting I’m a bit of a dog. (A dog and an otter–go figure.) Which leaves me with a dilemma, but I think I’ve found a good solution….
I love to tell stories with words and images, often with a darkly magical twist. While speculative fiction & dissecting pop culture are my primary passions, I also work with clients & brands by assisting with content creation, editing, marketing & design.