Walking on the shade-y side of the street, this dude-panion gets his picture in the blog for what he is not wearing (the G.O.D. damn male uniform of t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts and flipflops sported by 99.9% of testosterone sufferers), and for what he is wearing (freak flag, brainwarmer, Wayfarers, a virtual party from the neck up). I can't speak to the tragic accident that happened on the tank top -- I had the good taste not to mention it. I'm also grateful to him for sucking it up and risking a little heat rash for the sake of nice dark wash denim all smothery-like down to the ankles. Thanks man, 'preciate it.
His partner in shades and dreds has washed the patchouli right out of her Indian top and rockabillied it up with great big cuffs and cute little flats. I don't know how they did it, but these two rebels managed to have a Grand Old Time despite not being able to smack three crying toddlers upside the head and shrieking, I said two hunks of fried dough and an inflatable assault rifle each and thas all yer gonna git.
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