Your dad wore raw denim before you did and he’s got the faded indigo to prove it. His blues read like a biography of debauchery. They had a whiskey patina with a 10w30 Pollock treatment around the pockets. The fibers smelled of rich pine, adventure and stories words can’t describe. After years of shit-kicking across the earth, each pair was retired from his legs and buried ceremoniously.
So hipsters, when you’re donning your stank filled Japanese selvedge and chasing the white rhino of fade lines, remember this…
It’s called breaking in denim because your dad knew you had to break the spirit of the jeans in order for them to truly be yours.
Your dad is judging you, and he’s not impressed.
Your dad was a badass mother fucker.
Your dad had street style before you did and he has the non-military camo jacket to prove it. He was like the Marty McFly of being fly because his style was so fresh it was from the future. 40 years later and the world finally caught up with him.
Your dad was in an indie band before you were and he’s written the whining ballads to prove it. He was the Picasso of lyrical metaphors who birthed life into six strings every time he seduced the music from his guitar. To call him a genius is like saying the Swiss Alps are just hills. He was so far ahead of his time that his melodic masterpieces went unappreciated, thus making him the most indie of indie bands because nobody has every heard of him.
So hipsters, when you’re dry-raping the frets in hopes you can “find your sound” and make it so big that hundreds of people know who you are, remember this…
Your dad can give you lessons when you’re ready to finally swallow your pride and ask.