|Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before|
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Trucker hats are so six months ago! (And by the way, I meant to tell you that six months ago!) You look idiotic. You look childish. You look dumb. You look like you are trying too hard, although you are trying to make it look like you don't try at all. You look like you are not fooling anyone.
If there is any indication that these are no longer hip, it is the fact that Ashton Kutcher is always seen with one on. Come on. He should change his name to Ashton Kitscher. Once something gets to MTV, you know it's no longer cool. Even Trishelle wears one. Which reminds me -- ladies, you look even stupider in them than guys do.
By the way, I know that bitching about trucker hats is nothing new. It's just taken me a while to get to it.
For those that may not be aware, trucker hats are the old foam and mesh hats most of us kids wore when we were in Little League. That's what they were known as before they were trucker hats. Foam and mesh. I just found my old baseball hat from my Little League team. We were sponsored by Adam's Garage. I could probably sell that in my neighborhood for 15 bucks.
"Dude, where'd you get that hat? Adam's Garage? It's so obscure and retro."
"Oh, dude, I know. Just bought it from this dude. Only 15 bucks."
Not that people in my neighborhood always talk like Bill and Ted, but let's just pretend they do. Actually they probably wouldn't talk about it, because it's too cool to even talk about it. That whole exchange up there would have been done through their knowing looks at each other.
Anyway, foam and mesh hats almost killed my best friend, so perhaps this is why I also hate them.
My friend Rich and I, when we both worked at Disney World would drive to work together. In the area that we would park, we usually drove by a parking attendant who would be directing traffic. One typically disgusting humid Orlando day, we felt pity for this guy. Well, not pity so much as gratitude for not having his job; standing on the hot asphalt by himself, pointing at cars, telling them to go, stop, turn, etc. Boring. A traffic light with feelings. See, in our job, we were driving boats. We were on the water! The open seas! The wind in our hair! The children vomiting! The fathers, wishing they never had kids, taking it out on us! It was a magical time.
Seriously, as I'm sure I've explained before, it was a great job.
We drove past this guy and Rich said, "Foam and mesh hats. I'm so glad we don't have to wear those." I agreed and we drove on, looking at that poor bastard with his stupid hat and yellow shorts. Meanwhile, we were dressed up like pirates or something, but whatever, there was neither foam, nor mesh involved in our jobs.
I think our foam and mesh hat conversation continued on for a bit, then we parked the car. Now, to get to our job, we had to walk back to where that guy was directing traffic. So we approach the intersection where we usually have to wait for him to give us the go-ahead, letting us know we are allowed to safely cross.
Before I go further, here is a little background on Rich: He doesn't always have the best attention span. Another time we were driving to work and Rich asked me about a problem he was having. His "problem" was the fact that he was dating two girls at the same time. I felt really bad for him too, considering the night before I spent a romantic evening with my pillow. So I gave him some truly heartfelt advice. Rich stared out the window for a while and I thought, Wow, I really got through to him. My advice is really sinking in! After about 30 seconds of silence, he exclaimed in amazement, "How does Disney own all this land?!" A good question, yes, but not one you want to hear when you feel like you just channeled the spirit of Dear Abby.
Anyway, back to the story. We were walking, approaching the parking attendant, and Rich was to my right. I looked to my left and noticed a bus coming down the road. I remember this bus because the side of it read "WALT DISNEY CONSTRUCTION COMPANY". I watched the bus approach the intersection at about 40 miles per hour and thought to myself, Hmmm, why would the construction company need a bus?
As I watched the bus pass in front of me, I followed it, trying to answer my own question. As it got to my right, I see Rich looking to his right, still walking, not even noticing the bus. My body froze. My eyes were open, but I know I wanted to close them, because I was about to see my friend get plastered by a bus. The bus flew by him, missing him by no more than a few inches. Rich stopped, shocked. He turned around to look at me. I looked at him. I yelled, "You almost got hit by a bus!" He replied back, "I almost got hit by a bus!"
The parking attendant let us know it was now safe to go, and we crossed. He looked at Rich, like he wanted to say, "Dude. You almost got hit by a bus."
We kept walking.
"Rich, you almost got hit by a bus."
"I know. I almost got hit by a bus," he replied.
The conversation went on like that for a little while longer. We got to where we clocked in for work, and we immediately told everyone, "He almost got hit by a bus!" "I almost got hit by a bus!"
Finally, I said to Rich, "What the hell were you doing? How did you not see that bus?" He turned, looked at me intently and paused. He then said, "I was looking at that guy's foam and mesh hat."
So thank God he wasn't killed that day, because not only would I have witnessed my best friend dying in a most violent manner, but it would have been due to a trucker hat. If that had happened, I would have lost my mind every time I saw Ashton Kutcher on Punk'd, or every time I walked down Bedford Avenue.
I went out to a bar on Christmas night and saw a guy stroll in with what was obviously a brand new trucker hat he found under his tree that morning. It's bad enough to wear one, but when it looks brand-spanking new, it's a million times worse. Unless his hat read, "I'm a horrid fucking cliché", it was without a doubt a terrible hat.
So please, put your trucker hats back in the thrift shops from whence they came, and leave them there for another generation of idiots to discover them.