Some reflections on Colorado and Colorado Springs

This is a state built upon pretenses: we can not be anybody unless we have a fancy home and vehicle. Having lived in California for half of my life, I can assure you that the Natives who move to Colorado are the ones who could not hack it in California. They are the plastic cast-offs of a plastic scene, embroiled in their desires to be seen as cultured while battling the shackles of their own blue collar upbringing. These are not the true Fruits and Nuts of the Wacky State. They are the crumbs oft found in the bottom of the trail mix bag. They live on credit cards and broken dreams, purchase homes too expensive for their budgets, and drape themselves in what they think is high fashion. Nowhere but in Colorado can one find a women in her forties walking around in torn-apart Birkenstocks, Route 66 jeans (ala K-mart) and a Tahari knit sweater (covered in fuzz balls), all the while reeking of cheap Tommy Girl. Said woman then climbs into her 2007 Jaguar XKR convertible and putters off to her $380K (1,100 sq ft) home, which is nestled between the cookie cutter copies of her neighbor’s homes, not more than eight feet between the buildings. Welcome to Colorado: land of the misfits.

We can forget all about educating them to Victor & Rolf, Bvlgari or Jivago. White Shoulders, Obsession, and other “tried and true” scents are the norm. There are more Prada knockoffs around here than at a hooker convention. The clothing is a mixed bag: Perry Ellis might be on every street corner, but you will not see anyone wearing a Stefano Genovese unless they are some lost businessman trapped here on a layover. I highly doubt any of these people have touched a Hugo Boss suit, let alone heard of the name. Versace? What is that? (While I am on that subject, I saw an exquisite Versace men’s two button single breasted suit that I would simply adore seeing on Better Half. It would compliment his skin tone perfectly, lending a steel grey cast to his eyes. I thought about mugging the kindly gentleman who was wearing it, but airport security would have locked me in chains.)

Where was I?

“You were dogging the Coloradoans, Aut.”

Yes, how about those Denver Broncos?

Bah, I could lament the obtuse townsfolk all night. I am reasonably confident that I gave you an accurate enough picture of their (lack) of actual taste. I do not have any problems with people who do not recognize what fashion is (I myself am clueless as to women’s fashion.) I do have a problem with people who pretend that they fit the “rich bitch” bill, behave as if they are God’s gift to the “scene” and have not even so much as a scrap of common sense – while working at Arbys and possessing an income level that qualifies them for public assistance. Expensive clothing does not make one classy; appropriate attitude and poise do. Should I stuff a pig into an Armani Collezioni wool suit, it would still be a pig. This holds true of those who purchase to impress their neighbors. (Aut, do you own any expensive Italian suits? I do not. I drive a basic car, live in a lovely old home replete with older furniture and appliances, and only check my labels for the correct size. I am a lot happier for it too. I never have to bother with dry cleaning.)