I have a blazer that is particularly striking. Given to me at the end of my tenure at the University of Waterloo's Theatre department, I had a lot of sentimental attachment to it. It still features a cuff button I broke in a production of "Taming of the Shrew". I love it. Our Wardrobe Mistress, whom I always had a crush on, was kind enough to give it to my upon my departure from the department.
It's yellow and blue thatch pattern, with a fox hunting motif on the liner. No kidding. And tonight, with my black slacks and tie-your-own black bowtie, I owned the city's fashion scene.
And of the legion of compliments I have received over the years (because when I wear it out and about, I wear it--it does not wear me) I received the finest one this evening in the Edmonton Coast Plaza Hotel's lift. Three girls, returning from the bar, shared the elevator with me--and once the doors closed, one of them got up the courage to comment:
A- "That's a sweet suit, man!"
A- (busting out a rhyme) "That ain't a suit, it's a goddamn warhead! It's spittin' nukes like American war dead!"
I thanked her and departed--I was only on the 6th floor, and we got on at the Lobby; however, I was pretty impressed what she was busting out. I like the idea of thinking of my blazer as a warhead.