26/04/2021
PANTS
My father was particular about pants. He lived to the age of 94, and I am confident the myriad of fashion changes over nearly a century had a pronounced effect on him. Trousers, slacks, knickers were all present the year my father was born. Over the years, and not to be lost on reality, his involvement in the music and entertainment industry accentuated his focus on the coveted garment.
The thirties and forties introduced Zoot Suits with and Three Piece Suits with wide brimmed hats. The fifties brought forth jeans and pinpoints, the sixties introduced either conservative wear or no wear whatsoever. The seventies came with flair bottomed polyester and matching wide lapels, accompanied by silk patterned button downs with lavish buttons or snaps. Don’t forget the stacks as footwear.
The eighties were as bit of a different nature. It was a time when anything was acceptable; teased hair, co***ne, gratuitous make up both male and female was en vogue.
My father kept current with whatever the current fashion trend happened to be. He was enthusiastic to participate. I remember him triumphantly coming home one night with a new pair of running shoes he purchased for Athlete’s Warehouse on Belmont Boulevard, although in complete transparency I never saw him run. They were bright green Addidas’ with neon yellow stripes and black soles that ran the length of heel and toe. I’m sure they were the most recent addition to the collection of new product. He proudly wore them to his next session with what was known in the industry as the “A” list lineup of studio musicians. I am unaware of who the specific artist was for the recording, but someone in the lineup coined them his “California Go Faster” shoes. Out of sheer spite, he continued to wear them until the soles fell off.
But I digress. Dad’s pants were always interesting. Some were plaid. There was Sansabelt. Some had odd polo players on horses strewn about the canvas, and yet he never rode a horse or had any interest in polo. What my sister and I specifically remember were a pair of electric blue pants with white matchsticks topped with bright red phosphorus tips. We referred to them as his “angry” pants because ironically every time he wore them there seemed to be some traumatic event taking place. But, that was dad; ephemeral in moment.
I was fourteen the summer of 1983. Dad was attuned to the latest fashion trends, and I had befriended a boy, well the only child my age living in the neighborhood, who was privileged enough to have a drum kit and a motorcycle. He had left the motorcycle at our house for whatever reason, and I was having a fabulous time riding the bike around the yard. Mom was outside doing yard work and trying to address a massive brick pile they opted to have dropped off years before from some house that had been demolished. As a child I was convinced there was treasure buried beneath it, and I constantly dug in search of the gold to no avail.
At some point I had to go back inside the house to my room and heard a cacophony of banging and thuds from my parents’ bedroom. It was about five in the afternoon, and that bedroom faced the West Side of the house. Finally, the door swung open and slammed against the opposite wall. My father stood in the opening, perfect backlighting from the afternoon sun.
“I can’t find my purple pants, for chrissake!!”, he announced. “You go out and tell your mother if I can’t find my purple pants, I’m leaving the house!!”
I had no idea what he was raging about, but I knew I had nothing to do with it which was a plus. Also, I was perplexed as to who would purchase purple pants other than Prince. So, I dutifully went back outside, started the motorcycle and rode the 150 feet to the aforementioned brick pile.
“Mom, dad is upset. He says if he can’t find his purple pants he’s leaving the house.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” she responded.
Shortly thereafter, he located them and the world was safe. Dad didn’t leave that night. It would be three years before that trigger was pulled.
….but in reality, the pants were gray.
