Sunday, November 21, 2010

Baby Grey.


If you know me, you know my future child will be named that.

Olivia, Sophia, Reagan, Leighton, Monroe, Blake, Kennedy, Charlie, Ford, Rhys, Harper:
all  candidates.

What type of POTUS effery.

Per the refreshingly douchey guys over at FuckYeahMensWear, another poem has been penned.

a piece by FuckYeahMensWear

Nature vs. nurture?
It’s tough to say.
When you’re DNA is this fucking crispy.
And as a young’n you kicked it in Pari.
Your kid probably geeks out over trivial shit.
Like butterflies.
Or clouds.
Or glitter.
My kid gets wide eyed.
When we discuss the merits of white jeans in winter.
Monochromatic palettes.
And well worn DB’s in exclusive colorways.
We took him out of school 2 years ago.
So he could blog full time.
His diffusion line for Heelys hits Target next month.
Apparently it’s Jil inspired.
I’ve only seen the sketches.
You probably heard him at SXSW.
Moderating a panel with Lil Gevi.
And that dude who created Mad Men’s son.
Talking about the merits of social media.
And musing on what it means.
To inspire a generation of designers.
Who made names for themselves.
Before any of these Rugrats were even born.
They say rents live vicariously through their seed.
I’d have to agree.
I tweet vicariously through him.
Kingston Rossdale
Because he has more followers than me.
While you’re in a Town & Country.
Stuck in traffic.
Taking your worthless brat to soccer practice.
I’m speeding in a Hummer limo.
With my kin.
And Uncle Karl.
Popping bottles.
Making our way to the front row.
This really shouldn’t come as a shock.
I mean.
He was conceived.
In Brunello’s booth.
At Pitti Uomo.
My meal ticket.
My only son.
The truth.
The future.
My legacy.
Steezus Christ.
My only son.

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