Thursday, 9 January 2014


When I was eight, I was fat.

Ok, chunky.

I longed to be a Parisian school girl with the uniform, the accent, and the inherent understanding of culture that all Americans aside from Laurel Holland lacked. Do you know about Laurel Holland? I have a big complex about her. She’s amazing. Kind of. She is so incredibly physically beautiful that she actually has an aura. She is also a little delusional but that’s ok because when you’re a complete cynic like myself, you need a little delusion in your life. Laurel Holland was the original wearer of a bright yellow puffy coat in high school. She had huge blonde hair that was naturally curly, giant tits, and skinny thighs. I loved her.

Laurel Holland could play the piano, sing, swim, and be cute all at once. I could do none of those activities well on their own let alone successfully together. My weird obsession began around the time I was 4 and at the Walla Walla Country Club pool taking swim lessons. I recall finishing a “50” which was actually more like a 21-yard swim and breaching from the water to see a slender modelesque 5 year old girl wandering along the edge with the same shoes from ShopKo, not at all worried that she was five minutes late. From then on, I have been weirdly obsessed with her.

When I moved to New York to find myself in my mid-twenties (I’m not above a cliché) I was unsuccessfully applying for an endless merry-go-round of design jobs in a West Village coffee shop when she called me. Obviously I ignored her call trying to seem somewhat unavailable or “busy”, which was embarrassing when she was standing right behind me a few moments later, still modelesque, on the edge of anorexic looking, and, obviously, still radiating sunshine out of her perfect and probably bleached anus.

“Hey! Do you live here now? It’s so great to see you!” Laurel Holland said.

“Ummm...yes. Sorry I ignored your call...I’ve just been pretty busy applying for jobs and, um, stuff.”

“Oh I totally understand. I’m writing my autobiography of my dad’s biography.”

Stunned silence.

I was 26. She was 27.

So...that’s cool. Seriously the summer earlier at a mutual friend’s wedding her mom told me that she was in a film at Cannes. I mean, that’s impressive. Her mom also wanted to clarify to me that Laurel and the film writer/director/lead actor weren’t “lovers”, which is something I could stand to never hear ever again from someone’s mom.

Moving on.

The food a Prospect Point Elementary was never enough. Soft tacos filled with horse meat, cheese “zombies”, fish was barely a sustainable amount of calories for a child with such athletic thighs. My mom still maintains what my childhood pediatrician told her; that I was “all muscle”. He has since developed early-onset Alzheimers, so I’m not entirely sure that his opinion was valid. The best days at Prospect Point were the ones where you could help out in the cafeteria, thus receiving the leftover food as a sort of helper’s bonus situation. I didn’t figure out this arrangement until the fifth grade, which is sad because up to that point I had literally taken to eating my nails as an additional form of sustenance. I was always a little slow to sign up for the cafeteria helpers, so people like Trista Rogers got to help on the good days with the Zippy Dogs and chicken nuggets. I somehow always ended up helping on the only days left available, the days of fish sticks.

Kids are above fish sticks. At least, in the ‘90s they were. In the 50’s I’m sure that fish sticks were some kind of wonder food, the kind of delicacy the Czar of Russia would have to break up the monotony of cabbage soup. All people in the 50’s ate disgusting foods. Like aspic.

Do you know what that is? My parents tried to bring aspic back to our dining table somewhere around 1998. It was vetoed and has since never made a reappearance. Aspic is a suspicious looking so-called salad of unflavored gelatin made with tomato juice and some celery chunks. It is served with a creamy mayonnaise-esque salad dressing. The combination, which I’m sure began in France where the gelatin is legitimately extracted from pigs hooves and was probably a delicacy during the revolution, is fairly disgusting. This comes from a child willing to eat mounds of leftover school cafeteria fish sticks. As most Americans know, we either ruin or completely revolutionize the world’s best foods. Tell me that our version of Italian food isn’t way better than what you eat in Italy. Admit it. On the other hand, our watered down version of any kind of East-Asian cuisine can go straight in the toilet. School children in France probably love aspic.

I bet Laurel Holland adores aspic.

God. She's so chic.

Wednesday, 26 June 2013

Keep on Clenching, Friend

Ahhhh. I just got this email in my inbox about 10 minutes ago, and felt that I had to share it with the world on a mass level (or the 5 people who read this blog). Ashley is amazing. She had a baby in a blow up kiddie pool a couple of years ago and swore she would never, ever have another child. Then her husband knocked her up again and now she's due with their second. I thought this might help anyone else who is going into labor soon or considering having a child. Namaste!

Reasons Not to Go into Labor 
by Ashley Trout

If your baby is facing the wrong way you should sit upside-down with your butt in the air for at least 30 minutes multiple times a day.  Unfortunately this can’t be done in public or while performing any task that can’t be performed… upside-down.  Follow this with funny looking cat exercises all day long- also not suitable for public settings. 

Be sure not to recline ever- not at the movies, not in your car seat and not on your sofa.  Notice how uncomfortable everyone gets when they think that due to your posture you are always seconds away from jumping out of your seat to announce that you are bored and want out.  It’s fun for the whole family.  Until these result in a positively faced baby, do not go into labor.

Do not give birth if your two year old is still not potty trained and has decided within the past month to no longer sleep through the night in her own bed.

Going into labor during the hottest forecasted day of the entire year is ill advised.  110 degrees is generally reserved for things like sailing or movie theatre double features while birth-giving falls much lower on the list.

For those planning on doing a home birth, one should make sure that the midwife’s previous appointment does not live 6 hours away and is not 6 days overdue.   This leads to an array of complications.

If you ordered a sofa bed 2 months prior to the due date partly in honor of the midwife and it is
expected to show up 1 week after the birth, find a blow up mattress for the lady or do not go into labor.

Also, having one’s entire sewage system back up and simultaneously explode in every plumbing-related receptacle in the house is viewed as unsanitary.  This would be a reason not to go into labor. 

Call the plumber when you see feces floating in your bathtub.  I f he shows up and his name is Clayton, run.  If he calls his boss on your front lawn 4 times before noon, this is a bad sign.  Clenching is strongly advised.  Do not go into labor.

When Clayton and your husband have to resort to pick axing the front yard to access plumbing established in the late 1800’s, leave home.  Leave it quietly.

If you come back and there is now magically dried feces juice on the floors, walls and, get ready for it: ceiling, you should not, I repeat not, use so much bleach to clean it that your eyes burn and everyone in the house gets headaches.  This does not help the overall net effect. 

Wake your 2 year old at 11 pm and get a room at the Travelodge till both the feces and the bleach smell are removed from the house.

Until all of these feats have been overcome, clench.  Clench hard.

Wednesday, 12 June 2013


It's high-time I put some real personal information up on this post. I've received some comments asking about my personal life because I tend to stay away from that kind of topic on here, so this is it. I'll let you in.

This is Fredrik.

Fredrik Archibald Tigerbear III is our cat. Unlike his name, which means "peaceful ruler" his personality is more akin to "devil asshole with fur". Fredrik lives with Carol and Phil these days, so as not to disturb the chi that Ben and I have carefully cultivated in the apartment. You might think that's mean, but trust me, we all sleep a lot better with the separation. This is the story of Fredrik.

You should know, as a disclaimer, that I have a notoriously bad track record of picking out cats, but that's for another post.

It was my 25th or 26th birthday (I'm so old now, who even cares) and I begged and begged and begged Ben to let me get a cat. The reasons to not get one were obvious to him: the hair, the food, the kitty shitter, the claws, the clear violation of the lease. The reasons to get one were clear to me: it's fuzzy. In the end, my logic won out and I ended up at the Humane Society eyeballing the merchandise like a society girl in Barneys. I test drove all of them (except the weird ones with gooey eyes) by picking them up, cuddling them, playing fetch, and doing this maneuver. What? It's just bonding. I was almost convinced to get a cat named Snugglekins or Snickerlovins or something, a clumpy whiteish cat who probably only had a few years left in him. He would have been a great cat...mellow, lazy, and on the last legs of life just in case it didn't work out.

Just as I was about to claim Snigginpooper as my own, I saw a beautiful pink nose poking out from a shadowy cage. "How did I miss this?" I thought. I walked over and saw a handsome orange tabby with the most perfect pink nose you could ever wish for. He looked at me; I looked at him. At nine months old, he was a little younger than I was hoping for, but oh, that nose. I took him out of the cage for a brief petting session, where he bewitched me with his lively antics. He was so loving and cute and had great, thick fur. I honestly thought that Ben would love him more than Sugarmitts and my allegiance was quickly changed to this little angel of a cat.

Warning #1 that this was going to be an asshole cat: his name was Pauly D. I confused him with Pauly Shore. Apparently it's this douche from MTV. Pauly Shore is probably a lot nicer.

Warning #2 came shortly after I settled up with the front desk. After I went back to pluck my new best friend from the walls of purgatory and take him to the palace in the sky that is Clinton Court, he attacked me. At the fucking humane society. This was a full-body, kitty ball wrapped around the arm back legs kicking attack. Did I drop kick him and tell him to fuck himself at that moment? No. Being a stranger to commitment had made me afraid of being labeled a commitmentphobe, so I packed him in the crate and took him home anyway.

Funny thing, when you notice balls on a cat and the woman at the Humane Society says, "Oh that? That's just swelling." know that the whorebag is wrong. Very, very wrong. Ben and I found Fredrik humping a fuzzy green blanket Brokeback Mountain-style and we thought, "Hm. That's weird." A week later when we took him in for his check up, the vet laughed and told us that those fuzzy little mounds were indeed testicles...the testicles that were supposed to be removed at the Humane Society.

The nights were rough. Fredrik attacked our hands, feet, elbows or any other body part that moved during the night. He tracked litter throughout our pretty clean apartment. He dumped his food over. He mercilessly chased cat toys up and down the hardwood floor hall for hours as soon as we went to bed. Fredrik was everywhere when you least expected him to be. He would sneak onto window sills and swipe you as you walked by. He would be in the bathtub waiting for you to shower. He would hide and stalk you when you, bleary-eyed and half awake in the middle of the night, had to pee. We called those drive-by kitty attacks, because your leg would be scratched and bitten before you even knew what was going on. He hit you when you were at your most vulnerable. Most of the laces of our shoes are 5 inches shorter due to him chewing through them. The worst infraction was when I was awakened by Fredrik ass-stamping the bed with his dirty little kitty butthole. I'm pretty sure he purposefully pinched off early to keep a little poo smear right on his 42 wrinkles (are there 42 on a cat?). This went on for endless months. I started developing PTSD from the nightly attacks.

One day, I couldn't take it anymore. I was moving to New York and Fredrik would have to wait until I had an apartment and a job before I could bring him along. That was several years ago. Several years and two cities ago, actually. Fredrik never made it to New York. Fredrik never made it to Seattle, either. Strangely enough, Fredrik still hasn't returned to my care since moving back home. It sure is nice to see him when I go to rummage through mom and dad's fridge.

I still ask people if they want to adopt a cat from me. Everyone says no. Well guess what, people? He's not up for adoption anymore. Fredrik is now the leader of the weight-loss boot camp for kitties at the Chateau Morgan, where he has 5500 square feet to run around and harass other cats. I love Fredrik, but I'm glad he doesn't live with me anymore.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

How to cure a sunburn overnight!

Ok, ok. I swear the post with the playboy bunny and the medical cannabis chocolate is next. I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to write about another attempt to heal thyself. This was Tuesday night, and this is what I look like on the couch:

You like that shirtless pic, don't you, you perv. Hey guess what. That's not a racerback tank I'm wearing, that's a sunburn. Looks good, eh? Oh, and that thing on my foot? That's an ice pack for a yet-to-be-diagnosed foot problem, which I'm pretty sure (based on WebMd, of course) is a stress fracture. Awesommmmmme.

I hate sunburns. I can't imagine that anyone actually enjoys them, but they are pretty high up there with annoyingly stupid things that you could have avoided. Like most of my injuries, they are dumb and predictable. Once, when I was a lifeguard and was in the intense summer sun from 9am to 6pm every day without break, sitting in front of a shimmering pool, I was so tan I looked gross, similar to a 40 year old woman with chubby 16 year old cheeks. Then I burned, but only right at my hairline, so when that peeled it was pink. I had a neopolitan head that was so horribly disfiguring only my straw cowboy hat could save me (OMG so many mistakes all in one summer). I also once burned the letters "T O M" onto my stomach with strategically placed sunscreen, which was awful because it hurt so much I couldn't sleep with any covers on for a week. Plus I looked like an idiot until November. I never had a chance with Tom, so even though he found out about it it's not like that was a big loss. Ahhh. To be thirteen again.

Anyway, I've really embraced being super white in the past few years. I mean, not really. I, too, think it looks horrible to be ghostly pale all through the summer but my hypocritical dad (yes, the one with the beautiful, deeply-tanned man calves come August) has basically beaten into us that we WILL get cancer from the sun if we dare to go outside without block. This attitude, like most decisions you know are good for you but make you pretty square, means that you can't allow others to enjoy being tan, either. I can't be running around with lobster-red wings for the next several days, because I am WAY too self-righteous about sunscreen and sunburns to let anyone see me like this.

So what do we do when we have a problem? GOOGLE IT! Fortunately I had some aloe on hand from an aloe juice cleanse that I couldn't handle. (How the fuck does Izzie drink that shit? If you want her recipe for a sure-fire way to shit your pants, here it is: peel a giant piece of aloe vera, blend it with some lemon juice and water, then try to not gag as you drink it, if you can even get to the point of it going back to your throat without spitting it out. Horrible. Literally the worst thing I've ever had in  my mouse.) Anyway, so I had my lovely bedside man-nurse, Benjamin, rub a little fresh aloe on me, which of course did not yield immediate redness relief within 5 minutes, so I turned to the internet, the source of all divine answers to important questions (i.e. "signs he's a douche").  

Well, oh, well! (I just heard that in Nate's voice that he uses for the dog). It seems my good buddy HONEY came up as a solution! If you're not familiar with what happened last time I tried a homeopathic remedy with honey, go here. That went pretty terribly, but it's been awhile since I tried to cure myself and now appears to be a good time to try, try again. It seems that if I just rub a little honey and coconut oil on my back, I'll be sitting pretty come tomorrow morning. See this blog for the amazing testimonials. I feel like everyone thinks I'm pretty, oh what's the word...gullible, but seriously, how could you not believe it? Coconuts grow in tropical places. People in tropical places are in the sun a lot and must need a sunburn solution. According to honey, honey cures everything. Ben said it's a bad idea, but I think it's going to work out really well.

Right. So here's what happened. Turns out that when Ben dutifully covered my back with honey and coconut oil, it made everything really sticky. Really, really sticky. And oily. I'm wearing one of his t-shirts so I don't get mine all gross (he loves that!). So now, instead of just feeling like I have satan's fire billowing hot air onto my back, Ben's shirt is stuck to me and my skin feels like it's peeling off. Super. Thanks a fucking lot, Google! What are you going to tell me next, to get an x-ray on my foot? "Consult a physician"? Screw you. I go to bed and fire up a few minutes of Game of Thrones, just to soothe my tired soul before drifting into a fitful sleep.


Lindsay and I used to spend a LOT of time at the Country Club pool in the summers. I think most kids, given the option of swimming in a pool for five hours or being at home watching Young and the Restless with their mom or Mormon babysitter, will gladly hang at a pool and order milkshakes all day long. I got into this thing where I would take a spare towel, sneak it into the pool with me, then pretend to ride it underwater like a magic carpet. Imagine being the lifeguard watching that...I don't know why no one stopped me. Wasn't anyone concerned about this towel getting wrapped around my body and dragging me to the depths of the pool, where my hand would get caught in the drain and I would drown and be featured on that hit show, Emergency 911 Calls? I could play the magic carpet self-entertainment game for HOURS. I got super sunburned every time, and that in conjunction with holding my breath for really long periods of time while I was "flying" would leave me so exhausted that I would pass out within fifteen minutes of being home. I was THAT tired yesterday, my skin being unused to any kind of sun radiation, and I'm pretty sure that's what conjured up a weird-ass dream. Anyway, I digress.

I awaken in anticipation after an insane dream involving Ben, Katelin, and a double decker bike that I built myself. Ben was a real creep in this dream, and I actually saved Katelin until I started driving on a highway in Portland going the wrong way. Oops! I realise I might have experienced heat stroke as well. I pull up the shirt and reveal softly-scented coconut butter-smooth skin...which still looks radioactive red. Exciting. I would say that it had 0% to -5% effect. Upon further internet research it appears that putting oil on a burn is considered by some to be a terrible idea, similar to throwing grease onto a fire. I'm not sure what the honey was supposed to do but I can assure you that Ben's shirt is now crunchy like it has some kind of unmentionable body fluid on it.

My rating of this internet-found remedy? -2 stars. Zero for the ineffectiveness, minus one for the false testimonials, and minus one for the ugly pink website that it comes from.

Disappointment stings, and so do my shoulders.

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

A Fool's Paradise

This is a little different than the usual post on this blog. Lest you worry that this is suddenly going to be all serious or, even worse, heartfelt, I have been working on a piece involving a piece of medicinal marijuana chocolate, a corduroy couch, and a playboy playmate. What can I say? This is my life.

I have at least three notebooks going at any one time. They are supposed to be for different things, but it all gets messed up when I have only one and I'm working on project A which is supposed to go in a different notebook but I need to write stuff down even though it's in notebook get the idea. I was foraging through one of my older notebooks that I mostly used during my brief stint as a New York resident and chanced upon something that someone might find useful. Actually useful (though if anyone has taken anything from this blog thus far, I hope that it is to never try and wax your own asshole). The pages before this are filled with appointments, companies to which I should submit applications/resumes, grocery lists, and lots of other Things I Should Do. Bah! You know how I feel about those things. If a list on your hand isn't good enough, then you have too much stuff going on.

Everyone says that your mid-twenties are a time of great personal growth and blah blah blah. As if I would listen to that crap. Turns out that most of the time, the older people in our lives are wiser (don't tell Carol I admitted to that). The past two years of life have taught me a lot about, well, life. And isn't that what life is really all about? Here is the little blurb that I found. Maybe you'll find it inspiring or useful or take away something, but if not, then call me an idiot and move on with your day.

September 29, 2011

Your cheesecake cannot seduce me, New York.

Let's discuss expectations. I have pretty big expectations for my life, my family, my friends, and myself. I have never thought they were unrealistic until I realized that I have been consistently disappointed in something for most of the past ten years. Ten years! That's more than a third of my life that I have spent feeling shitty about things I can't control. Relationships haven't been perfect, people run late, I fuck something big or small up, and something constantly needs improvement. Get better, get faster, get stronger, get healthier, get more. Get get get. Take take take.

Did I mention that for the better part of a decade I have been exhausted? Really, truly, exhausted and annoyed with just about everything. We aren't talking about exhaustion in the "I just spent all day outside in the sun, working the garden, or feeling the breeze on my back as I zoom around on my bike all day" kind of exhaustion. I'm talking about the bad kind that leads to ulcers and dissatisfaction and acne. Or bacne. High blood pressure and just pressure in general. This is the stuff that leads people to kill themselves.

In moving from Washington to New York, I claimed - and somehow believed - that I had no expectations of the experience. I even told that to my therapist (oh what a fool's paradise we live in in the mind). In retrospect, I see how delusional I have been. I thought I was running to a life I had always wanted and away from one I was scared of. Truthfully, staying in my prior circumstance would have led to a long road of unhappiness. No matter how much you love something you have to be free in your mind, otherwise you will constantly look for freedom outside of yourself. I honestly forgot to look at life (LIFE! How can you forget about life?) and instead focused on this fantasy that I have somehow outgrown before I even touched down at Newark.

When do we become the people we thought we would be? When do we become the people we really are?

I have values that I never thought I would and I've lost touch with so many along the way. My disillusionment with life has been in code purple, or red, or sunshine yellow, or whatever the TSA has deemed as the worst. The more people I meet, books I read, discussions I have and ultimately, find a way to lead with my heart, the less I want the life I have spent so long trying to cultivate. You know that time I told so-and-so I was adopted from New York? I must have been seven or eight. We were sitting on the porch of the Walla Walla Country Club and I was already consumed with "making something of myself". It's really fucking exhausting to worry about how you're going to prove your worth to the world.

New York is awful and I can't stand to be around this many blind, aimless people chasing goals and careers and love. New York is wonderful because without being here, I would have never understood just what a shitty path I've been on. The world we see is the reflection of our souls.

I guess the most important thing I have learned along the way is that life is a choice. Be who you are instead of who you think you should be. Live how you actually need to live. Be honest with yourself. Stop pushing and fighting so much. Give up control, get lost, wander, cry, talk to strangers, and soak it up. Give up expectations and just let it happen.

Live like you are living.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013


It's no secret that I eat a lot of weird shit. Friends at work in Seattle and New York commented daily about the concoctions I would pull out of the microwave, usually involving some mixture of kale/spinach, TJ's masala burger patty, 5 tomatoes, and beans. Throughout the year, that menu changed to just eating 10 tomatoes on a plate or just a bowl of beans. My eating habits have evolved as I've become more compulsive in my advancing age. As a kid, I used to adore school lunches, even the ones that every rational child thought were disgusting. Cheese Zombies? Check. Zippy Dog? Of course. "Soft Tacos" made of horse meat? Give me seconds. For after school snacks I used to beg my mom to take me to Dairy Queen and get me a chili dog or the #2 meal from McDonalds. Eating well, a term that has changed from quantity to quality throughout the years, has always been valued in the Morgan household.

All throughout college and for some time after, I was a fish-eating vegetarian. You can still eat a whole lot of disgusting stuff as a vegetarian, dairy being the main culprit of an unhealthy vegetarian lifestyle. Look at the menu at the next standard restaurant you go to. If you don't eat meat, I can guarantee that there will only be two choices: some kind of salad with cheese and nuts, and either butternut squash ravioli OR some kind of cheese and cream covered pasta. Dairy is the crutch of the vegetarian world. Once I moved for grad school and started living with Shawnz, a Chinese dude from Singapore, and Soraya, a Thai girl, I decided this whole "vegetarian" thing would have to go. As they led me through the underbelly of the London East Asian food scene, I found that pretty much all of the food I had been ever been exposed to was bland by comparison. Bland and disappointingly inauthentic. This is where I developed a true love for offal, odd cuts of meat, and shellfish in varying stages of rotted, pickled, or dried. Clearly, I've had a real love affair with food my entire life.

Recently, though, because of my yoga practice and escalating compulsions regarding food, health, and politics, I have become vegan-ish. Vegan-ish essentially means that I'm incredibly picky and annoying to eat with or prepare food for, as almost everything delicious that my family knows how to make and nearly all of the best authentic Thai, Singaporean, Indian, and French food is meat or dairy laden. That's disappointing to me, but not unworkable. Listen, I can't help that my family has a history of high cholesterol. Why waste your time on boneless-skiness chicken breasts when you can eat something with some real flavor? This is my philosophy, and I'm sticking to it. Let me show you my food pyramid, and you'll see where I make the exception between vegan and vegan-ish.

I think it seems perfectly reasonable. You?

Also, if anyone is in the market for a true gift that will keep on giving...this Paté of the Month Club is perfect for me.

Friday, 8 February 2013

15 More Signs He's a Douchebag (With Visuals!)

One source of continual amazement to me is how people end up reading my blog. I don't have facebook or twitter, so the fact that I have had a pretty good amount of hits on my blog is pretty surprising. The traffic, it seems, comes mostly from one of life's biggest questions:

How to tell if he is a douchbag.

I stand by my original theory (found on this post) that if you have resorted to a google search to determine if someone has a pretty major character flaw, you are in a really desperate place in your life. Or you're not very good at listening to your gut, friends, parents, bodega owner, or therapist. Look at these stats, taken directly from this blog's statistics page.

Traffic Sources : Key Search

signs he's a douchebag 5306

signs of a douchebag    2953

signs he is a douchebag  893

how to know he's a douche  421

he is a douche  399

signs he's a douche  237

unfit to advise  224

douchebag signs  202

signs he is a douche  116

signs of a douche 97

A whopping 97% of top traffic on this site has something to do with people searching for answers about their douchebag boyfriend. Over ten thousand people have searched about douchebags and have ended up on this page in the last 15 months. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

I am going to make this as clear as I possibly can for you, so let's work with some visuals.

If he takes FB pictures of himself like this:

If he wears anything remotely like this:

Pays someone for this more than once every five years:

Styles his hair like this:

Or possibly this:

Enjoys beverages anywhere in this realm:

Ever, EVER poses like this for a picture:

Continues to wear this:


and this:

thinks this combo is great:

thinks this guy is "the shit":


makes you feel like you have to look like this:

has ever done this:

confuses having this with having done something good in life:

And finally, addresses anyone as "bro" or "boss" and/or uses the word "gnar", which means he is probably wearing something like this:

and this:

He is a douchebag.

I hope this helps.