…Clothes are white noise to boys. Clothes they throw over their skin—like soap and water—because you make them. They do not form emotional associations with clothing; they form emotional attachments to scars. Riiiight?

When I was six, I had a pair of gray-and-purple pants with loud 60s stripes. I remember hating those. Pulling them on, I was violated. Not what I would choose to wear, had I a say.

I also had a polo shirt—kind of a dark lime green; yes, I know if it was dark it can’t be lime anymore, but I don’t know what the word would be for such a green—with a golden unicorn embroidered on it. I remember thinking, I really like this shirt. Nowadays I would not; but we’ll move on.

There were many unliked clothes. An only child, everybody thought I was bought for special. Fact is, I got hand-me-downs from an older cousin, who had taste for shit. And there was the obligatory toddler Gramma treatment, which included a sailor suit—cap and whistle complete. A fearful foreshadowing of my career as a laddie Tadzio…

At the same time I had a boss Batman t-shirt—emblazoned with the classic Bob Kane logo of the thirties. I don’t remember it; I only since discovered it in old photographs, negatives developed just last year—never seen by me till after age forty. Seems I also owned a choice baseball cap covered with Major League logos. But talking about clothes I don’t remember does not advance my point…

Clothes and sexuality got mixed up for me early. As mentioned elsewhere, I had a huge boy-crush on a thirteen-year-old in my neighborhood, named David Robinson. I was eight.

He was a punk, shaggy brown-haired, resplendent in tees and blue jeans and sneakers and white socks. Like Jughead, he always seemed to have his eyes closed. Only when his older brother was pummeling on him did I see those gray gems unshuttered, gleaming with fear. I rushed to his aid, knowing Billy—home on naval furlough—always did my bidding, as—alas—David would not. He released David, who shot down the gravel driveway like an offended tomcat.

David just plain smelled good, and I liked to inhabit his room when he was away. His sister (my babysitter) would warn me not to dare that threshold, but if David would have kicked my ass, at least I’d know he knew I was alive. I still remember the way his voice sounded. How I wished, in some fashion or another, to inhabit his skin. He was how I defined cool, in my primer.

Shortly I began to acquire David’s wardrobe, by virtue of the yard sale—a quarter an item. My sense of conquest as I slid into his tight-thigh, bell-bottomed blue jeans was sublime. I know how Patroclus got so carried away.

When my father had his way, I was stuck in goof-ass Osh Kosh knockoffs. My mother had no sense of taste for a male. But now there I was, in never-fading denim, with a crisp white cotton t-shirt, usually crested with some beer logo. It would take a year of washing to get the smell of David Robinson out of these duds, and I dreaded the day that came so.

There were killer pieces. The nylon t-shirt with the screen-print photo of a dirtbiker racing. The Champion sparkplug sigle on an otherwise blank white tee. Tie-dyed button shirts that shrieked “Sell me a Dimebag!”

It was almost as if I were now David Robinson.

Look back in store catalogs circa 1975-1981, and you’ll gasp at how chinsy the clothes look. Someone recently retorted “we all looked like third-worlders in that stuff.” I, wearing my armor of the late-sixties/earliest seventies, sailed through those narrowing waters safely. Shirts and jeans from back before 1975 were goddam indestructible. I’ve often argued—with proofs—that the American Empire ceased to exist in AD 1970.

I felt sexy in denim pants, with large cuffs. We used to run around barefoot (and shirtless) in those full pants in the summertime, so that our toes were tanned, while our feet remained bright white. Of course when we were shod—inevitably it was high-top Chuck Taylors, black or red. We rarely wore socks—when the little interior picture of the hoop shooter was rubbed clean by your heel, it was time for new shoes.

I had a bright orange tee with Mickey Mouse strutting along, a red Coca-Cola tee, a…waitaminit, I still have them. They’re on my top closet shelf, in plastic. I saved them. But guys don’t save clothes, right? I must have overlooked throwing them out…

I crave those oldies back, sized right. I miss that dirtbike shirt, underneath my rough Levi jacket. With my Italian-style ankle boots, it was tout sweet—forget that freaking sailor suit, that was what Tadzio was wearing in 1975.

Look how young males dress now, and you’ll see they are hella aware what they have on. There is an attention to accessory that my generation spurned. True, they are drenched to the skin with Axe like French (male) whores, but that just sets my point in bold type.

In the 1970s, very few kids over eight were dressed straight and narrow—those plastic-ish short sleeve buttoners with corduroy slacks. We all looked like post-hippie-apocalypse skater punks, long-haired with beaucoup denim and lotsa offending t-shirts. It wasn’t until high school when the multiple camps began—starting with the Prep Look.

I never made it to the Preps. I replaced my jean jackets with leather. I ran to the suede skate sneaker. I dunno, blue jeans always seemed to hold my copy of Walden better. But there you are: in the middle of declaring that I-don’t-care, I chose with care the clothes that would speak loudest.

So it is with boys, a culture where showing you don’t care, where never saying you’re sorry, is all.