Off the (w)rack(ed with guilt)

Spent the early afternoon at a big, outdoor outlet mall up in New York state, where I spent money I probably shouldn’t have (since I’m supposed to be salting everything away for a number of reasons), on a variety of things:

$20 on books (The September 11 Photo Project, The Muse Asylum, and Baby, I Don’t Care);
$35 on t-shirts, underwear and a three-quarter-sleeve shirt at Jockey;
$60 on a sportcoat at Claiborne for Men (so I’m a homo, alright?);
$25 on a hooded fleece overshirt at The North Face.

None of these purchases made me feel too guilty. The problem was at the end of the line, when I walked into the Hugo Boss outlet. Now, I told myself I was going in just to browse around, maybe gawk at the Russians and Japanese who were filling up the place, get some ideas for neat looks (because my current one probably isn’t that appealing).

After all, I couldn’t possibly buy clothing from a company whose founder was renowned for designing dress uniforms for the SS, and using slave labor to manufacture it, could I? Why, just a few days ago, walking through Garden State Plaza, I saw some suits in the window of the Hugo Boss store, and thought, “Nice look. If only it wasn’t named after a guy who made the SS look so snappy.”

And that got me reflecting on the intersection of fashion and fascism, which I really don’t need to get into right now.

Why not? Because I found a sharp, $800 suit marked down to $100, that’s why. I tried it on. It fit wonderfully, looked great, and made me feel pretty bad. Until I thought, “Y’know, Gil, at this price, it’s actually hurting them more than if you boycott the place.”