In a haggardly haze, I break free from my raggedy ways.

You ever had one of those mornings where you look in your closet, not knowing what the hell you’re going to wear? Then suddenly, by the grace of God, you manage to spot see two pieces that would seemingly be dope together. You’re geeked, anticipating how fly you’re going to look that day. So you get ready, excitedly tip-toe towards the mirror to gaze in awe at the finished product.  Only when you get there you realize you look like hell ran-over. Well, for me that morning was this one. But since I was running late, I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror until I was on the escalator down from my apartment to the main street. When I finally saw myself, it was if the world stood still and almost involuntarily, in a tone that should only be used in a Shakespearian tragedy, I cried out in solemn terror: “Dear God, what have I done!” But it was too late to turn back then. I had a departmental meeting that I couldn’t be late for. So now I’m at my desk and come hell or high water I’m not leaving. I don’t want the world to see me like this. Avert your eyes from the horror of these rags that I don! Forgive me, for I knew not what I did.

When he saw what I was wearing he immediately slapped the shit out of me and demanded to know, "Bitch, what the fuck was you thankin'?"

Banking attire is really just a uniform: dark pants, and a plain white or pale blue shirt. Everybody has on the same thing. But not me. I just couldn’t go with the flow. See, I’m a prime example of why you shouldn’t give black people jobs. Our need to shine outweighs our need for financial security (I know, it’s not really “our need,” it’s just mine. But fuck that, you can’t only use the collective voice when it’s convenient for you. If you want to go out in the streets screaming “We Won!” when Barack becomes president, you have to hang your head in shame and say, “We look like a damn fool” when I decide to come to work dressed like a washed up pimp from 47th street. Like it or not, we’re both skinfolk and kinfolk).  

However, not all bad came from this. Inspired by this tragic turn of events, I’ve decided that after all that I’ve learned about investing in futures and indexis and hedge funds and other productive ways to make my money grow, as soon as I get paid I’m going straight to the mall and spending every last dime on a whole new wardrobe (see: “our need to shine outweighs our need for financial security”). I’ve been quite looking haggardly as of late–lately being the last 3 years. Part 3 of “The Emancipation of Saddy” is all about getting fly again (Part 1 was getting back in shape–which is not to be confused with Part 4: “Getting Ripped.” Part 2 was escaping from Dalian. Part 5 and 6 will be revealed at a later date.) 

Everything in Hong Kong is about 75% of what it would cost in the States, except for clothes. Clothes here are easily more than twice what clothes would cost in the US (and about 10 times more than I would pay for them–I don’t think I’ve ever bought any clothes that weren’t on clearance). Brooks Brothers is supposedly having a “Blow-Out Sale” so about 7 times in the past two weeks I’ve gone there to get some shirts for work. And every single time I pick out what I want, go to the cash register, have them ring up my stuff and right as I’m about to hand over my credit card something comes over me. “Wait, sorry, I can’t do this. I just…can’t. I apologize.” And then I scurry on out–raped of my dignity, but my bank account unmolested. The employees are used to me now so they laugh (or roll their eyes) when I come in. Seriously though, $70 for a plain white shirt? Lawd Hammercy! Nothing in my wardrobe costs $70. Not a coat. Not a shoe. Nothing. The dress shirts that I currently have cost $6. You read that right—$6 a piece. Knockoff Paul Smith–and don’t nobody know the difference but me and you. My couch in my apartment cost $40. My family size refrigerator costs $47. I lubs me a good bargain and I will scour the hilltops of hell until I find one. Or at least until I find the man the sells shit that “fell off the truck.”

 

All the beautiful shit in this picture: $66.94

One homely ass shirt: $70

In the words of the internationally-renowned scholar and poet Alexyss K. Tylor: “This don’t make no sense!”

I have a really schizophrenic relationship with money–meaning, I’m not the traditional cheap prick. I’m always the first one of grab the check if I’m out to lunch with friends, or when I lend someone money I never expect to get it back, and don’t pursue it. But if I know I can manage to find something for 15% of normal price, then why the hell would I pay full price. 

But anyway, times are getting tough, and I’m getting raggedy so I might have to just go on and buy those $70 shirts….Wait, I’m talking crazy. Ain’t no way in hell I’m spending $70 for a plain white shirt! What I look like–”BooBoo Da Fool?” I don’t know how but I promise you that in one month’s time I will be decked out in a fresh-to-death new wardrobe for grand total of less than $300. 

Young, fly and flashy by any means necessary, 

TG