After Sept. 11 2001, one pundit claimed that the stark presentation of good (courageous firefighters) versus evil (you know who), and its rude reminder of that seemingly forgotten but rather grave matter of “life and death”, brought to America “the end of the age of irony.” This sound bite was seized upon by those eager to launch a broad, sweeping attack on the culture of snide critics, irreverent comedians, and American Beauty cynicism. But, with all due respect to the aforementioned tragedy, irony is blessedly alive, and I’ll offer two quick tales that celebrate its vitality, both true enough to get past the fact-checkers at our professional publication.
White Boy Clothing is the vision of Jimmy Thomas, a lifetime Irish tough guy, who currently enjoys a content existence in happening Los Angeles. Among Jimmy’s accomplishments: he holds the bench press record in the Illinois football program, which has sent dozens to the NFL; he starred in an action movie alongside Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which played at many leading film festivals, and he was briefly the Gillette Man in television commercials. Today, presumably in response to Cross Colors, Rocawear, FUBU, Sean Jean and other trendy and successful Afro-American clothing lines, Jimmy has fashioned his own line of mesh baseball hats, hooded sweatshirts, and clever T-shirts for the most maligned minority in all of urban wear-the hard white guy.
Initially, I was skeptical of the venture, and unhappy with its race-baiting nature. However, I became curious after the recruitment of a successful, experienced-and African-American-fashion CFO, and rumors of a potential acquisition by a rap mogul’s clothing line. On a summer night at a dive just off Sunset Boulevard, which had all the hallmarks of a post-Swingers L.A. hot spot-inconspicuous fa?ade, red vinyl booths, minimal overhead lighting, short and tight hair and skirts-I caught a glimpse of my first piece of White Boy wear: a green mesh baseball cap, with a simple “White Boy” inscription, worn by the bartender. He told me that the brand had received a great reception on the retail circuit, and it was putting together some major distribution agreements. In the meantime, it was creating a buzz by following the Lollapalooza tour and strategically placing itself through bartenders and other leading cultural trend setters. (Foreign affairs students, disappointingly, do not fit that moniker.)
In mid-summer, White Boy Clothing hosted a launch party in Chicago, Jimmy’s hometown. Aside from featuring a collection of young women as top-heavy as a Howard Stern guest panel, the party presented the promise that White Boy, through its simple statement of macho Caucasian affirmation, would restore the dignity to a demographic that for thirty years has been abused by various waves of black pride, gay pride, and all other movements of triumphant political correctness, however unbecoming or un-American.
The night before the party, Jimmy and a couple of buddies, all a few years removed from the Chicago nightlife, stumbled into a bar they used to frequent. They soon discovered that they picked the wrong joint: they had entered a private party for a group of Puerto Ricans, and the new arrivals were not welcome. Some hostile words were exchanged. The details of who did what remain unclear in the fog of a semi-drunken, semi-lit barroom brawl. Whether he deserved it or not, Jimmy Thomas got beat up the night before his big launch party.
Yes, the founder and visionary of White Boy clothing got beat up for being the unwelcome white guy in a Puerto Rican bar. And if that is not sufficiently precious to convince you to join me in celebrating the return of irony, consider the story of Alfredo Santos.
The July 23, 2003 issue of SF Weekly included a feature story on Alfredo, a former inmate at San Quentin who painted a remarkable series of murals in the penitentiary’s mess halls the 1950s while he served time for a heroin conviction. It is an amazing narrative, which chronicles Santos’ journey from inmate to Disneyland cartoonist to fugitive to Mexico to successful artist, in both Mexico and ultimately at home in America. Throughout his life; Santos has never spoken of his work in the prison, and few art fans or critics, naturally, have had a chance to visit San Quentin and appreciate the murals that are most commonly likened to the expansive murals inside San Francisco’s Coit Tower: thoughtful depictions of decades of California’s history, social change, and vibrant daily life.
Five decades after he left the prison, through the dogged efforts of a friend of Santos: and a genuine gesture of appreciation from the warden’s office, Santos will be brought back to San Quentin to see his murals again, and to receive recognition for the work that continues to be enjoyed by an appreciative, captive prison audience.
What did the prison officials choose as the proper gesture of gratitude? Will they name the mess hall after him? No. Or perhaps the library, where he learned much of the history and politics that informed his murals? No. Will they open a new arts center in the prison, or will they contribute to arts in communities of at risk-youth? No. Are there any equivalents of a medal of honor in the Department of Corrections that they could bestow on him, like a bronzed packet of contraband cigarettes? No. What will they give Alfredo, who often worked furiously through the night so he could finish the murals in time for his dreamed-of parole date? Alfredo, who later fled to Mexico in desperate fear of returning to the loathed hell hole that is San Quentin?
He will be awarded a key to the prison.
Jason Maurice is a first-year graduate student. He looks to Los Angeles, for the language he uses.
