In retrospect, our first issue is really not as bad as you'd think. Some good suits, a few nice sweaters--timeless stuff, nothing too trendy or flashy. Then there's This Guy. With those black kneesocks and saddle shoes, This Guy is a monument to all that is wrong with wearing shorts. Especially striped ones. If This Guy were your boss, he'd point at you in the hallway with both hands and say, "Hey, Champ." Then you'd get fired and not even know why. Damn you, This Guy.
In this long-ago issue, we presented a model who--for lack of more accurate documentation--can now be referred to only as Mr. Tablecloth Man. He deserves both the Mr. and the Man, you see, because he's so hyperbolically masculine, what with his powerful cleft chin and his splayed Baretta-on-acid collar and all. Even now he taunts us with those eyes, those knowing gray eyes that thirty-two years later let us know we're barking up the wrong tree: "Yeah, I'm wearing a tablecloth. What of it ... punk?"
We've always been big sports fans, but sometimes we let our enthusiasm get the better of us. Witness this ill-conceived fashion shoot, reminiscent of nothing so much as a Hitler Youth gymnastics-squad practice. But at least we were careful to outfit our models in the snuggest tank tops and shortest short shorts available-because even Fascist apparatchiks deserve the fit and freedom that we in the States have been accustomed to for decades. Now bounce, Fritzi! Bounce for the fatherland!
With the holidays upon us, it's time once again to down some nog and nestle by the fire with a special friend. To that end, we've revived the Polychromatic Troubadour, here to soothe your ears with his home-brewed melange of romantic melodies. He sings for lovers, you see; not for fighters, nor for people who can't appreciate the astonishing number of colors he's able to wear simultaneously. His soulful stare alone should let you know his tasty ditties are like multivitamins for your libido. And we won't bother mentioning the aphrodisiac power of the brown velvet pants and pink butterfly collar. So take two of his crooned ballads, wash them down with a jug of screw-top wine, and get ready to make some sweet sweet love. Oh yeahhhhh.
It's a classic question: "Should I smile with feeling, or should I just stare at the camera with my dead, dead eyes?" We feel your pain, Disingenuous Rictus Man. It's not easy trying to balance a Jheri curl with so many shades of salmon. Nor is it easy dealing with that orange-clad homunculus and tiny version of yourself in leather pants so tight they're sold with application oil. Still, it's a great rictus. Keep up the good work.
Hey, Li'l Handyman! All ready for your first day on the site? Better make sure you keep your pants nice and snu--ah, you already have that taken care of. Well, remember, the merit of a man can be measured by the number of giant rivets circling the waist of his overal--ah, you've got that covered as well. Ok, then, last but not least: real rough-and-tumble carpenters always make sure their eyebrows resemble giant anchov--damn it, you beat us to the punch again! Li'l Handyman, you so crazy!
Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Leering '70s Adult Cinematographer. We lost sight of you after you headed to Burbank to start your soft-core career. And now look at you. You're surrounded by cats who dig your Abbie Hoffman Ashkenafro and your R. Crumb degenerate-nebbish appeal. But most of all, they dig those cute widdle lions and zebras on your pants, the true mark of a most discriminating flesh peddler.
Sir, something about you makes us think a voice-over is about to announce: "Welcome back to the conclusion of The Visored Mercenary on PAX TV.” Like you're some kind of dandy colonialist detective who roams the Haitian countryside. But how do you collar a perp when you can't get your hands out of those high-waisted shorts? We think it's time to retire...to the veranda, for a planter's punch and a hearty chuckle!
Thirty-one years ago, we were absolutely convinced that the Next Big Thing would be...overalls. If this weren't problem enough, we managed to make matters even worse by dressing Frankie Avalon as a bottle of Dimetapp. Disturbingly enough, the caption on the photo reads "I'm an erstwhile doo-wop star on the go! Bow before me lest my pompadour consume you all!"
As our man here demonstrates, nothing says "cool" like denim. OK, that's not entirely accurate, Sometimes nothing says "ticket scalper" like a Dacron-and-wool blend that looks like denim but feels like you're wearing a suit of brambles. Good thing those enormous cuffs distract him from what must be the textural nadir of his entire turtlenecked existence. Rumor has it that after the shoot, the Dacron Warrior stood in front of a strip mall and leered menacingly at underage girls--girls who, if they deigned to talk to him, ran a serious risk of losing an eye to that collar of his. GQ sez: Man, is that thing pointy.