Skip to main content

I Miss My Uniform








I Miss My Uniform



Hawaii, aside from where I'm employed, is gorgeous.

I'll admit that my sartorial leanings, however, have fallen by the wayside, due to both circumstance and laziness.

I struggle valiantly against the omniscient tropical breeze, clad in Levi's and cowboy boots.

During the relatively calmer winter and autumn months I'd don a beanie or black denim trucker jacket.

These would only last a few hours however, as the temperature would invariably rise and I'd once again be forced to strip by the overbearing warmth.

It hums and errs continuously in the background like an efficient A/C unit, prodding and poking, reminding me that the lowest the thermometer will ever drop is to the iconic 75, with the sun an assumed afterthought.

As my time draws ever thinner here, I've allowed my mind the privilege and indulgence of fantasizing about the battlegear Ill once again be garbed in.

There are many benefits to living where others vacation, but one of them is certainly not the expression of my own personal style.

Black T-Shirts and Tan Cargo Shorts mixed with random Vans may be classic Southern California, but I generally prefer something sturdier.

And, despite the fact that I'm currently holding them hostage with my apparently horrid feet, I will forever hate flip flops.

Not my jam.





My jam. Preferably in mason jars.






The Leather Jacket

Iconic, rugged and weathered.

The modern bearskin of the road warrior.

A favored mainstay on both my back and my coat rack.

Growing up around bikers, my Dad, Uncles, and their friends namely, I was enraptured by this rebellious article.

It captivated me, screaming freedom and bleeding confidence.

James Dean, Marlon Brando, 70's Punk Rock, the Hollister Riots, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest and the Sons Of Anarchy.

I longed to join them all, to embody their independence and reckless fearlessness.

As an 18 year old neophyte bodybuilder, all of 134 pounds, I'd wrap my Uncle Tony's XXL canvas around myself like a security blanket, appearing comedically tiny but feeling boisterously brazen.

I'd later grow into that same jacket, eventually diverting from my family and friends in my tastes, preferring a tighter, fitted piece, rather than the lumbering, loosely gripping choices of my predecessors.

This earned their good natured derision and cemented my identity as a worthy heir to our own unique niche of American Outlaw.

Several of my friends ride in assorted clubs now, and I'm eager to join them, to trade blue for black.

The clock is ticking.




It doesn't get any more clasically cool than James Dean.







Boots

My childhood footwear was a unique juxtaposition of Vans skate shoes and miniature cowboy boots.

Chalk it up to having a father from South Texas that, in addition to being enamored with California from a young age, was baptized vicariously by the priests of Dogtown and Zephyr, led by Tony Alva, Stacy Peralta and Jay Adams.

The result was that I'm able to literally run in heels as fast and fluidly as somebody clad in Nike trainers.

As a teenager, I stood only 5'5", before growing to my towering, "adult" height of 5'7".

My obviously overbearing stature led me to lean towards boots as my primary footwear, because when dealing with high school girls, every inch counted.

Though I eventually outgrew this insecurely primitive mindset, my affinity for Justins, Timberlands, Red Wings and Durangos stubbornly remained.

Siphon out the garbage and you're left with the gold.

As previously stated, I've often faced the astonishing Summer heat on Oahu kitted up in 513's and Durangos.

If I ventured out near dusk or in complete darkness, I was somewhat fine.

The muggy humidity was fended off by the late hour.

If I opted to ride out during the afternoon, however, I was DOA.

While I may abhor the snow, and enduring rain and sleet arent my favored activities, I'll begrudgingly meet them with modest courteousness if it means I can once again don my preferred sole protection without being buried alive in a furnace.


Own these. Love and miss them everyday. 






Jeans

Self-explanatory.

Levi's.

Once again, Levi's.

Forever.

Specifically 513's.

Slim Straight, fitted nicely but loose enough that you're able to avoid association with the infuriatingly banal hipster crowd.

I've attempted Wranglers before, but despite my aforementioned boots I'm no poseur urban cowboy and refused them immediately, much to my Dad's disdain.

Reminiscent of Sonny Barger's stripped, Spartan chopper, I believe jeans should be understated, clean and simple.

Iron And Tweed, an indispensably essential fashion oriented blog for bodybuilders, preaches that time honored advice;

Trends pass, but Style is eternal.

This is gospel, and nothing is more stalwart or legendary than a worn pair of dark blue denim jeans.

My friends have attempted to entice me into dabbling in their respective looks.

White Levi's, skinny.

Acid washed offerings from overpriced strip stores.

Most offensively, bedazzled True Religion pants, sprinkling in the false light, coated in unicorn vomit, led me to suppress sudden homicidal urges.

Distinctive and versatile are the order of the day, adornment or not.


I've lived in these jeans longer and more consistently than any apartment.




If this piece was a bit solipsistic, I beg your forgiveness.

I was mired by homesickness, and drunm on the excitement of my approaching return home with old buddies in a chaotic group chat.

I've said before that, unless one is a native Hawaiian, you can never really know them truly while you're both imprisoned on this opulent rock.

The vast majority of us arent Islanders, and our individuality is dampened by our surroundings.

The incessant sunlight and rabid heat demands we show skin and fleet about in loose fitting, light clothing.

Hardly a horrible thing, especially regarding women, but it's similar to how the East Coast requires adherence to a strict dress code of  heavy jackets, stretching scarves, and esoterically amusing balaclavas.

As fun as it's been, I'm eager to realign myself with my own private uniformity once more.

My tan can fade, as long as my tattoos remain sharp.

Life can increase its presently glacial pace for me as I rejoin my life on the Mainland.

My exile in Polynesia's Elysian Fields has nearly concluded. and while I'll yearn to relive the memories dearly, the time has come to sail on, back into the embrace of, in a departure from my past, an uncharacteristically comforting and certain horizon.

I may hold on to the Adidas flip flops though.

They're hardly a hindrance on the beach, and double as decent shower shoes.


THIS IS NOT EVEN MY FINAL FORM!!!



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shameless IG Plug

https://www.instagram.com/p/BjCacWplX6FygVNS5qOdcWnQRGLOPC3DlvI18o0/

We exist in a world where it seems every skill, talent or gift, no matter how esoteric or seemingly inapplicable, can, through the bittersweet, pyrrhic blessing of social media, be monetized, commodified and capitalized upon. I harbor no unrealistic goals, because realism has become hyperreal. I live a simple life, one that appears to have placed me at odds with the world's status quo. Good, fuck them. Take happiness where you can grasp and steal it, whether it's by drinking overpowering, ironically cheap beer with great friends, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs for the shock value, or doing feats of strength on public benches. In my case, everything is words and handstands. The rest is irrelevant. Forever flawed. Forever rebellious.

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me

Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me


Multiple weddings are looming on the horizon of my social life.
Family by blood and salt water are imploring me to attend their betrothals, and I'm eager to follow.
These occasions are always joyous, representative of the birth of fresh beginnings and requited love.
Unfortunately, questions often bloom like weeds, stubborn and resilient, durable and recalcitrant.
Chief among them is the dreaded, "When do you plan on getting married, Gino?".
I always respond with solid sarcasm, assuring the inquirer that they will recieve an invitation to my theoretical wedding before I turn 50.
This is usually enough to dissuade the prying escapades, but the otherwise serene pond of my mind is still left rippling and torrential.
"When will I get married?", I hound myself, wondering aloud and musing self-indulgently.
The honest truth is that I could go my entire life without shacking up.
Though I've been told my ad…