Black tie event tonight. Funny, coming up in the seventies and early eighties, being sneeringly sloven was the rebuke of choice against parental-approved dress code norms. It began with a boyhood disdain for pleated pants; looking nice for others — and who else could it be for, I’d thought, certainly not me — was a mark of obsequiousness, as far this young rebel was concerned it was. Unpressed corduroys, patch-worn the better, a tie dye shirt and sneakers bandaged with duct tape, those were the rags of revolt. I wanted to wear them everywhere!
Heroes change and norms follow. Sebastian and Joplin were cool, sure, but then Fleming came and brought us Bond, the James Bond, who got the girl, always. And why?
Cue ZZ:
Clean shirt, new shoes
And I don’t know where I am goin’ to.
Silk suit,black tie,
I don’t need a reason why.
They come runnin’ just as fast as they can
Coz’ every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man
That’s why. And so it is still, you want the girl, you appeal to what sets them crazy.
Joplin ‘n Hendrix? Oh, they’re still here, brightly swirled tanks and tees folded and reverently laid in a drawer. Beneath my sock drawer! Ready ‘n waiting when wanted to awaken the rebel within.
But not tonight.
Tonight at Raven’s Ball we men will set the ladies a-swooning, dapperly, in the convention of post six pm dress introduced during, and unchanged since, the reign of King Edward. Dear Readers, please, permit my indulgence: I will be dressed in a Tuxedo.