Urban Outraged
Another day, another new contributor. Today's the day that Kim Rollins (not pictured) starts rolling with the Seattlest crew and we're happy to have her even if she's iffy on whether she hearts us back. We're sure you'll love her. Here she is, the glamorous Kim Rollins!
When Urban Outfitters appeared in Broadway Market in the early nineties, we were initially tickled: it offered us the broken-in, effortless clothes that we'd previously procured at thrift stores, yet lacked the pervasive odors of mothballs, ancient perspiration, and human wretchedness that permeate Value Village, Goodwill, et al. Sure, UO's prices were immoderate, but there were occasional in-store premiums such as the Suburban Sampler (a free CD that gave us a taste of the then-current Sub Pop catalog) -- surely with such indie cred we were supporting a local boutique, right?
A glance at the receipt for our overdyed camisoles and waffle-weave thermal shirts revealed the horrible truth, for printed across the top was URBAN OUTFITTERS #52. Fifty-two! Some faceless corporation was tapping into the élan of Seattle and selling it back to us at a premium. Noses slightly out of joint but still taken by their wearability and convenience, we continued to patronize UO, and browsed its elder-sister store Anthropologie (although, truth be told, we set foot in Anthropologie largely out of morbid curiosity, for its stock struck us, by and large, as pieces that only Björk could love.) UO's grunge esthetic has given way over the past decade to seventies retro, which in turn gave way to...
We're still uncertain how to characterize the current racks at UO. Much of it is unsightly. Some of it is unsightly in an all-the-rage manner, such as those satin-and-lace strappy tops that look like Granny's dainties (even Old Navy has their version), or those elasticized-bosom smocks that would hide a pregnancy well into the third trimester (Exhibit B, from which you may have to avert your eyes.) But much of it is unsightly in a uniquely horrifying way that is utterly inexplicable. Goo d god in heaven, why? Isn 't sweater torture like this against the Geneva Convention?
We refuse to believe that our befuddlement, our flabbergastednesss at Urban Outfitters' current offerings is a sign of our impending old age. We have yet to begin a sentence with the death-knell phrase "Kids today." Rather, we don't see the kids today wearing this garbage either, whether they're on or off our lawns. Stock turnover is strikingly high, with a lot of this fetid garbage going upstairs to the bedraggled Clearance rack in a manner of weeks; witness (or you may prefer not to) this $6. 99 bastardized shawl whatever, originally $38. What doth profit a store to churn out reams of get-ups in which no one would be caught dead?
Whatever tatters of UO's above-mentioned indie cred remained were blown away entirely when AlterNet revealed last year that the store's cofounder and president has been kicking cash towards Dan Savage's favorite senator, Rick Santorum. That, if nothing else, ought to stop you from shelling out real American dollars for a cap-sleeved shirt featuring a gravestone and a giraffe splattered in gull excrement.
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