#72 - Rainbow-colored Men's Underwear

It was the decade when...

Men's underwear got all cute n' stuff!

Underwear used to be so easy. It should be easy, after all, the whole point of the garment is that it's meant not to be seen. The design of underwear ought to be entirely utilitarian. Pure function. When buying underwear two questions should be asked: 1. Does it hold my junk? 2. Is it cheap?

Of course, things aren't so simple. Not in a capitalist, fashion conscious society where every thing you eat, wear, use or play with - essentially anything purchasable - says something important about you.

Info about someone's underwear drawer can be the key to deciphering their personality. After all, it was through his predilection for boxer briefs that Will Truman's laundry companion deduced he was homo on the sitcom Will & Grace. "The homosexual is the leading exponent of the underpant hybrid." said Will in explanation. Sing it Sister. But of course, the significance of any particular style of underwear is always contextually linked to the era in which it is worn. The popularity of the boxer short in the 90's perfectly suited the slacker aesthetic that dominated the alt-pop culture of that decade; constriction of any sort was not a trademark of the era. Baggy clothes, torn jeans, loose undies - it all went together. Just try to imagine Kurt Cobain in tighty-whities. Might as well try to imagine Elton John in something tasteful.

In some ways, the dichotomy between boxers and briefs make a man's undie preference even more profound than a women's. And let's not even talk about going commando; those people are freaks.

In the AUGHTS a new underwear trend took hold. Gone were the loose, carefree days of boxer dominance. Boxer-briefs made a small foothold in the early part of the decade, as the aforementioned Will & Grace reference attests, but it was the brief, the sperm killer itself, that made a startling comeback in the Aughts. Let it be known, these were not your dad's assembly-line white briefs bought in a bulk pack at K-Mart with some generic muscly, headless torso modeling on the package, NO! Briefs were now to be purchased one at a time, in boutique fashion chains, and, most important of all, in many pretty-pretty colors. If an advertisement did show a model sporting the chromatic couture he was likely not muscular, had acne, and was a good 20 lbs underweight.

So what's the appeal of this apparel? Only the same appeal that a super-duper big box of crayons has to a ten year old; how transfixing the difference between rust and amber! The panoply of totally superfluous options - each pair is actually exactly the same in style and material - puts the consumer in a crisis: having just one color would be deeply unsatisfying. After all, are you always in a red mood? Do I feel Fuchsia today? The only way out of this neurotic predicament is to purchase the whole rainbow. Even more recently the trend has been shifting from solid colors to elaborate patterned undies, some with superheroes on them. And yes, I am talking about underwear for adult men.

So, in brief, (yuck, yuck): Boxers? Tres uncouth. Boxer-Briefs? If you must homos. Tightie-Whities? Whatever floats your boat grandpa, if your boat can still float that is. Colored and/or patterned briefs? Welcome to the 21st Century!

You AUGHT to remember...

#73 -The HUMMER

It was the decade when...

Suburban mothers drove their kids to school in military tanks.

H is for HUGE, the size of the beast.
U is for UGLY, your taste is deceased.
M is for MONEY, the price is sky high.
M is for Merchandise; so much crap you can buy!
E is for Earth; it does its best to destroy, and
R is for R.I.P, so let's all jump for joy.

P.S. - This blog was NOT written on a Hummer laptop.

You AUGHT to remember...

#74 - World of Warcraft

It was the decade when...

nerds still couldn't get laid but were too preoccupied raiding Blackwing Lair and slaying the black dragon Nefarian to care.

Sucking up the leisure time of a whole generation of otherwise able-bodied young men, World of Warcraft, the most popular MMORPG of all time, took the forumla of the perennial Dorks-Anonymous support group that is Dungeons & Dragons, combined it with the graphical capabilites of the computer, amplified the whole thing using the networking potential of the internet and sealed the deal with the business model of cable-television. The result: A black hole of fantasy ephemera that eats dollars with the same rapaciousness as it does time. The team at Blizzard (World of Warcraft's software company) certainly know what they are doing. Just keep holding that carrot in front of the donkey. Their strategy: Make a massive, complex, densely plotted game without an ending (it can't be "beat,") then charge people a mothly fee to keep playing! And keep playing they do. And playing. And dropping out of college. And playing...

Some eleven million would be wizards and orcs and elves have invested time and money to join this half-assed middle-earth. What percentage of these subscribers are bespectacled, pimpled males who spent a lot of time jammed in thier Jr. High School locker has yet to be determined by science, but the back-of-the-envelope estimate is high.

Those who play WOW speak in an alternate vocabulary from that of any recognised language on planet earth. But on Azeroth, it all makes sense. For example if a WOW player were to say this:

I'll tell you why I wont spec my warrior for port: I like PVP and I hate grinding, The Arms/Fury spec keeps my dmg and attack rate high, and I didn't need defense bc my bro is a holy pally and my RGF is a mage with uber CC. I already have a druid tank anyway, and I was our guild's MT all through vanilla WOW + BC WOTLK was my caster phase but I wanna spec for melee dmg in cataclysm. BTW, I don't really have a RGF...yet!

They really mean:

Why won't a girl kiss me? I'm a level-60 Paladin!

Does World of Warcraft offer any positive social value to the world whatsoever? Well, virtual epidemiology, it turns out, is a good model of the real thing. Scientists have looked into the spread of magic diseases in Azeroth as a guide to the effects of real-world outbreaks. I shit thee not. Political organizing is also making a foothold in WOW's virtual reality with various "guilds" having an online rally for a presidential candidate at some snowcapped mountain locale within Warcraft's vast fictional landscape...the fact that the candidate was Ron Paul is moderately curious.

Of course, a total lack of irony is what allows these pseudo-serious dramas of dungeon raiding and dragon slaying to thrive in the imagination; the self-conciousness attendant in humor would be an intrusion of reality, the whole silly house-of-cards would come crashing down. Ironically, the necessary severity with which the game and its players treat the fantasy makes it all the more justifiably risible to an outsider. There was a time not so long-ago when, if an adult man openly and unashamedly admitted a compulsive obsession with a pre-adolesencent fantasy universe -- dwarves and dragons, broadswords and enchantments, knights and gnomes -- the disclosure would be a cause for embarrassment. In the Aughts we have to listen to grown men talk about such things and accept it as legitimate. With World of Warcraft, an entire swath of the population has figured out a way to live in their 7th grade daydreams. The obvious truth, inaccessible it seems to the Warcraft player, is that it is really they who are being played.

You AUGHT to remember...

#75 - Pinkberry

It was the decade when...

We couldn't stop eating sour ice cream.


Pinkberry fact sheet:

(The following are incontrovertibly true facts about the uber-trendy frozen yogurt chain known as "Pinkberry.")

Pinkberry yogurt is neither pink nor berry flavored.

Pinkberry yogurt tastes like, well...if you had walked into a frozen yogurt store 15 years ago and had been served Pinkberry you would have spit it back in your cup and asked for a refund because your ice cream was sour; that's what it tastes like.

Pinkberry's amazing contribution to world cuisine is that it sells itself as yogurt that tastes like yogurt.

Pinkberry is not yogurt.

Pinkberry, when confronted with the embarrassing fact that their yogurt wasn't yogurt, renamed the product "chilly bliss."

Pinkberry serves its yogurt-esque product in stores that look like the interior of the space station in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Pinkberry has convinced people it's good for them.

Pinkberry has a celebrity clientele, and where Leo DiCaprio dines, so dines the nation.

Pinkberry only tastes good when you load it up with toppings, like big ass blackberries or Cap'n Crunch, which, of course, costs you more money.

Pinkberry's main competitor, Red Mango, serves yogurt that is neither red nor mango flavored.

Pinkberry is almost totally unknown to people outside New York and Los Angeles thereby letting these urbanites feel cooler about their overpriced dessert decisions.

Pinkberry serves a coffee flavor that tastes like a latte made with rancid cream.

Pinkberry is so addictive its nickname is Crackberry.

Pinkberry only serves one flavor at a time, so don't even ASK for a swirl!

Pinkberry is a special kind of delicious; even rats like it.

You AUGHT to remember.

#76 - Steve Jobs Riseth Again

It was the decade when...

We worshiped at the altar of Steve.

And it came to pass that in the year of our lord one-thousand nine hundred and fifty five, a child would be borne in the city of Saint Francis. And he would bring unto the world untold riches. And he too would make untold riches. And from his lowly state he would rise to sit on a throne of cash, and be worshipped by the multitudes of nerds.

And, lo, his name was Steve. And he was good. And he would bring to man much fruit. And his company would be synonymous with home computing for many years.

And it came to pass that Jobs found such success that neither he nor his partner St. Woz could control their empire. And so, Jobs proclaimed another as his king but he was a deceiver. And the Deceiver wore the crown of fruit.

Now, the deceiver knew no allegiance to Steve. He hath doubted his maker. And so he said, "thou hast given me power over thee Steve. And I shall smite you with it." And the Deceiver banished Steve from his own kingdom.

And it came to pass that Steve, banished from his own kingdom, wondered the desert for half a score. Whilst abroad he ganeth in strength whilst his old kingdom fell feeble and meek. It was so that Satan prospered whilst Steve wondered. And Satan put forth a new program called Windows. Steve saw that all he had made was stolen by the evil one and this made him mad.

And it came to pass that after ten winters the gates would once again open to Steve. And he would be greeted by the multitude, and there would be much rejoicing. And in the year of two-thousand and aught he would be again crowned to lead his kingdom of fruit. For 10 years hence Steve would reign on high, wielding the power of the letter "I." And he would giveth to the masses much music. And he would build temples for believers to pray in. And he would preach before the techno-pharisees and dot.com moneylenders and offer to the crowd new idols to worship. And these sermons would be called "launch events." And there was much rejoicing.

In Seattle there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Rejoice! For Steve hath returned. And all was right with the world. And may we all eat his fruit for years to come. Amen.

You AUGHT to remember...

#77 - Long Term Kidnappers

It was the decade when...

It was trendy to lock your children up for years in horrific dungeon-like scenarios.

In the annals of psychopathology the serial killer has reigned supreme; a media darling inspiring countless movies, books, and TV shows, the serial killer has been everyone's favorite brand of psycho since a nut with a knife and deerstalker cap prowled the streets of foggy Whitechapel. The names are household: Bundy, Gacy, the Zodiac, Dahmer, the last of whom must take the cake when it comes to pure satanic salaciousness. But the stream of media-friendly psycho murderers had all but sputtered to a drip by the time the Aughts rolled around; wackos no longer posess the theatricality to send taunting, cryptic letters to newspapers (probably because no one reads them anymore) or moonlight as birthday party clowns. The stage was set for a new kind of monster to keep us awake an night. Ladies and Gentlemen, for your consideration may I present to you Mr. Josef Fritzl.

Successful electrical engineer, proud Austrian, devoted family man, Fritzl was a poster boy for middle-class mundanity. A father of seven with his devoted wife Rosemarie, his daughter Elisabeth was his favorite child. The sexual abuse started at age 11. Seven years later, faced with the prospect of losing his daughter to the world, Fritzl built an elaborate bunker underneath his backyard, lured 18 year old Elisabeth into it, knocked her out with ether and locked her inside...for 24 years-a captive beneath her own home. Frequently raping her in the new subterranean dwelling, Fritzl sired seven children with Elisabeth, all but one of whom survived infancy (Josef incinerated the lone fatality). The dungeon being too small for a full family Von Trapp, Fritzl raised three of the children upstairs with Rosemarie, claiming that his daughter (who, according to Fritzl's front story had joined a religious cult) left the children on their doorstep. Ping-Ponging back and forth between families in some kind of sick farce, Fritzl avoided detection for over two decades, his wife Rosemarie (she claims) believing the cult story all the while; the neighbors were totally oblivious. Only when one of the dungeon children had a medical emergency did Fritzl allow Elisabeth to again see light of day to take her sick child to the hospital. The facade quickly came crashing down, and Fritzl's chambers of horrors was exposed to a shocked public.

Right now you are probably thinking, "Holy Fucking Christ, I think that is the most fucked up story I have ever heard." And indeed, you'd be correct. This is the most fucked up story you have ever heard. This is the most fucked up story I have ever heard. This is the most fucked up story anyone has ever heard. And the award for sickest mother-fucker in history goes to: Josef Fritzl. Now, someone get Michael Haneke to make the movie.

If Fritzl was a one-off, a true lone nut, as horrifying as this story is, you'd nAUGHT want to remember. But sadly, Fritzl was but one in a bizarre and unsettling criminal trend to take hold in the Aughts: the long-term kidnapper. Now, no other psycho out there quite went "the full Fritzl" but, in what must be some aberrant schizo meme, the similarities with Austria's demonic Dad were often dismaying.

Even before Fritzl's dungeon was discovered Austria was aghast with the story of Natascha Kampusch, a ten-year old girl kidnapped by communication technician Wolfgang Priklopil in 1998. She was held in a custom-built basement dungeon (isn't it hard to build a dungeon?) for eight years before she escaped. Showing a modicum of self-awareness, Prikopil had the good sense to jump in front of a train when he discovered that his captive had escaped. Kampusch has gone on to become a television host in Austria and animal rights activist. She currently owns Prikopil's old house, and, according to some reports, lives there. She will soon auction off some dungeon items for "good causes." It's like Elie Wiesel summering at Belsen. Weird.

There was an Australian Fritzl, who trapped his daughter from age 11 and gave birth to four children with her, three of whom survived despite severe health problems. This freak was just discovered this year. There was an Italian Fritzl, also caught in 2009, who imprisoned and raped his own daughter for 25 years, sometimes with his son participating in the festivities. (It seems that these liaisons bore no fruit of the womb - thank god.) The son would abuse his own daughters as well, imitating his father as best he could. There was a British Fritzl who, though he had no "dungeon," relocated his family often to avoid detection. He frequently raped both his daughters, and, over the course of 25 years, fathered nine children/grandchildren with them. He impregnated them a total of 19 times but lost 10 to either miscarriages or terminations. He was caught in 2008. Finally, also in 2009, there was a Colombian Fritzl who locked up and raped his adopted daughter for 25 years.

Jesus. H. Christ.

Thankfully, America has yet to produce a true Fritzl but the recent discovery of Jaycee Lee Duggard, kidnapped and held captive for 18 years over which time she gave birth to two daughters, is a case study that comes close. At least the captor in this particular horror show was a delusional stranger (with a blog no less).

One things for certain, the Aughts certainly gave a new meaning to the phrase "family values."

You AUGHT to remember.

#78-Red Sox win the World Series.

It was the decade when...

Prospects for a No No Nanette revival looked slim.

What is "The Curse of the Bambino?" Sounds like some some horrible Mafia expression. "I'm putting the curse of the bambino on Frankie the Snake. That good-for-nothing louse crossed ma famigilia one too many times and so, (insert thumb in mouth.)" (Note: My knowledge of mafia patois is entirely constituted by the stories of Damon Runyon and occasional dining trips to Umberto's Clam House on Mulberry Street.)

Actually, no. The curse of the Bambino traces back to the worst sports sale in history, when Babe Ruth was traded by Red Sox owner Harry Frazee to the New York Yankees in order to fund Frazee's investment in a Broadway production of the musical comedy No No Nannette, or so goes the lore. In actuality, the money was used to mount a new play called My Lady Friends, the source material that No No Nanette was eventually based on. (But the story works better when it's a faggoty musical, doesn't it?) Whatever the show, Babe Ruth joined the Yankees. The Red Sox, once a powerhouse of baseball clubs - the Sox won the very first world series and garnered the title again five times before trading Ruth - hit a dry spell. Very dry. Death Valley Dry. Bob Newhart Dry. Betty White Vagina Dry.

From 1918 to 2003 the Red Sox were, well, losers. Not a single World Series title. Attempts were made. The team got close ('46, '67, '75, '86) but the cigar remained ever elusive. The plight of the Red Sox fan had become Sisyphian; it was a masochistic existence. The Susan Lucci of baseball, Boston's losing streak was so predominant over the years that the Red Sox had come to be defined more about their losses then their wins. And all too often the dreams were foiled (before they even got to The Series) at the hands of the ball club that cursed them. Yep, the damn yankees.

So, hooray, the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 against the Cardinals (which itself had some historical value as the Cardinals had beaten the Sox in the '46 and '67 series) but the series itself lacked drama; it was a sweep by the Sox. The real triumph, the win that killed the curse, was the Sox's dramatic defeat of the Yankees to take the Pennant. After losing the first three games to the Yankees, it looked as if the Sox were in for another year of disappointment. No team had ever come back from 3-0 in the pennant championship before. But, miraculously the Sox turned things around in game 4 and went on to win the American League Championship in the most dramatic fashion possible, four straight victories against the Yankees, each win being necessary. After a pennant success like that, against their nemesis, the Sox weren't about to let the Series go south. The curse was lifted. Even Miss Cleo didn't see that one coming.

The joy of Boston fans was ecstatic.

I think it was the worst thing to ever happen to them.

Disappointment is addictive and chronic disappointment especially so. With the curse lifted, with the moment of victory and it's attendant release of surplus excitement passed, the Red Sox devotee is now a ball club fan like any other. For the Bostonian no summit will ever scale as high as World Series Victory night 2004. It's all downhill from that moment on. There is a reason that writer and Red Sox fan Bill Simmons titles his book about the championship "I Can Die Now."

At least Cubs fans can continue to live in blissful agony.

You AUGHT to remember.