There Is No Swag Left, For Scott Disick Has It All
I must start with a confession here. Despite their uncanny ability to permeate society in a way that I imagine only the wheel or fire before them was capable of doing, I have only seen about three episodes of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. I have been lucky enough, though, in those limited glimpses into their lives, to be graced with plot lines that centered around the only good thing about that family, one Scottislas Disick IV.
My memories of him are really sparse, as with most Viking trickster Gods of his stature — he exists in my mind as a concept more than an actual man. There is a flash of him shoving a hundred dollar bill into a snippy waiter’s mouth, running around the halls of a 5-star hotel smoking in a fluffy white bathrobe, or having some inane argument with the most monotone of a group of already profoundly dead-behind-the-eyes sisters. His life is a blur of “entrepreneurship,” Patron shots with the “boys,” and attaching himself like a barnacle to the family that, despite the indisputable dearth of any actual talent, will continue to make money like 21st-century Rockefellers.
And I hold all of the same issues with the Kardashian family that everyone else does. I find myself equally unsettled by the implications their fame and ubiquity has on our society and us as human beings, but who the f-ck cares, this man’s clothing game is breaking new fields of science as we speak. Truly, he is the high point of that mutated mass of a family unit, and only because his existence is just utter whipped cream — there is no point, no deeper meaning, and he has gone balls to the wall with his Patrick Bateman-meets-Ivy League-frat-boy-who’s-picking-the-hookers-and-blow-up-for-our-yacht-party American Classic Style. I mean, let’s be honest, no one’s going to look at a brown haired white guy walking down the street in a floor-length mink coat, double-breasted lavender suit, velvet mocassins, and cane, and be like, “Who is that guy?”
We know who that guy is. That guy is Scott Disick.
I mean, you have to tip your hat at him, no matter how you personally feel about his style, personality, or choice of life partner. He clearly has an image of the man he wants to be firmly in his mind, and he’s going to hire as many Yes-Men stylists as it takes to get there. Floor-length, crushed-velvet, fur-lined turquoise coat? Scott Disick will take two, please. And frankly, no matter how gaudy his look can get occasionally, he is standing as a firm example of Man Who Accepts His Love Of Extravagant Style, and who makes no apologies for it. If he inspires just one single man to go find a decent tailor and maybe take a day trip to Paul Smith every now again, he’s accomplished enough in life.
And we give passes non-stop for women who are clearly heavily invested and in love with their own appearances, it’s high time we start affording men the same luxury. If a man wants to spend the GDP of several small countries keeping himself in a rainbow of pastel suits and paisley pocket squares, who are we to judge him? I just want to watch him get drunk and yell at people for being too poor while wearing a fuchsia smoking jacket and shining/buffing his face. He wanted to be a villain of some kind, and he has achieved that, while wearing the wardrobe of a European micronation Prince. He is a modern-day fop, and we need more of him
So, Mr. Disick, keep doing you. We need it, as a culture, and frankly — you’re probably keeping several American designers employed during these difficult economic times. Continue to be the most fantastic, outlandish, boozy, WASPy man you can possibly be, and we’ll keep loving you.
Also, don’t ever drop the Patrick Bateman look, it’s hot.
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I screw up with relationships and I mess up at work. I get angry and say things I don’t mean to my friends or people I love.
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