Up with American Apparel, If I Must

[First, a disclaimer: I have only seen Seasons 1 and 2 of Entourage, and my beef with the show is based on limited knowledge. I have not seen any of the seasons that won all the fancy prizes, so I don't know if the writing grew more complex as time went on. Arguing about AA being "better" or "worse" than Entourage, with citations, is therefore pointless. I would like to discuss, instead, the cultural space that these institutions occupy.]

It is now 2am, officially "super late" by my standard. The one-man audience for the Entourage v. American Apparel (hereafter: AA) throwdown grows impatient, and one hopes never to disappoint the Wag. I still do not know who it was that challenged me to this; as it's part of the charm, I'll choose to remain ignorant. But, the reasons themselves are clear. Both Entourage and AA are LA-based phenomena, both savagely feed from the local culture's chic trough like it was yesterday's tater skins, both equate pop culture's sense of the Beautiful with its notion of the Good, and, finally, both monger the cult of authenticity.* They are therefore hateful to me. But like any good hypocrite, I partake of both with relish. I have watched Entourage and will, in time, watch more. Also, as I write this I am wearing an article of clothing from AA--this red, hooded sweatshirt, staple of my personal aesthetic.

The final likeness, the authenticity-mongering, is where I actually think they differ most significantly. Entourage, I posit, is selling us the same old Hollyworld glamour life that we got, in the 90's, from Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place, and are currently getting from MTV shows like Newport Harbor and The Hills, except in the latter two the acting is fake (i.e. the "stars" pretend to not be acting). While the MTV shows sell themselves as portraying "real" people who are obviously fake, Entourage uses the Marky-Mark-Wahlberg-created-this-show premise to assert that these fake people are actually "real," as in "the real deal," or, at least, more genuine human beings than the other Hollywoodians, personified by Ari Gold. Entourage banks on the audience loving its characters, and therefore taking stake in their misadventures, because of their Authenticity, personified by Eric "E" Murphy, the show's moral barometer. They did this to us with Fresh Prince of Bel Air, whose tough Philly moral code and softer, bumbling side made him the genuine article. You are meant to relate to this and every other show I've cited because you stand alongside the heroes in moral triumph over fake-ass, plastic corporate culture. Even while you're selling out there's no way you could ever sell out.

Now, what AA does is sell covetousness and nostalgia. They sell us what we want to be like in the most vain corners of our filthy minds: sexy, young, urban. AA sells the counter cultural aesthetic to the mainstream, marked up 300%, no apologies.** The "urban" aspect they promote heavily on their website: all of the clothes are made in Downtown LA, all of the photo shoots done on the premises, all of the models amateurs who often pose pro bono. The look of the models is "urban" as well: vague ethnicities, many shades of brown, dark, curly hair, etc. Their ads, as everyone knows, are erotic. If you're dressing for pragmatism and warmth, you're missing the point. AA also commodified thrift store shopping. For every time you went in a thrift store and were disappointed: if only these pants didn't have a poo stain, if only this shirt was in a different shade of gray. AA is vintage clothes outside of time. No more vintage-style; Vintage is the style, reduced to color, line and form. The wave of the future. The fashion aesthetic for these people is not a certain cuff, a certain seam, a certain pattern, a certain material. All of those things are basically set, with minor wiggle room. The clothes are cotton, unisex, solid colored (most often primary colors and grays). The fashion is, simply, what is fashionable. With the rise of AA we are seeing a move toward the apogee of fashion in late-stage Capitalism: virtual fashion. The simulacrum of fashion. At American Apparel we sell you solid-colored silhouettes of your remembered self, now with sex. Watch. The style at AA will progress steadily twenty years behind whatever is contemporary.

Pressed, I choose American Apparel simply because it is much more fascinating. It is more revealing of where we are as a society in the 20-oughts than Entourage is (or was). Entourage pretends to reflect our social mores back at us. American Apparel doesn't bother with all that nonsense. It just reflects reflects reflects reflects. Like the sphere in Michael Crichton's The Sphere. Like the hall of mirrors in Enter the Dragon. Bring on the Nostalgia; this is as real as it's gonna get.

* This phrase belongs, whole hog, to Brandon Holmquest, coiner extraordinaire.
**There is a cognitive dissonance here for me. The AA clothing aesthetic is designed around recalling the colors, cuts, and styles of our youth (or, if you're me, the style of the people about five years older, whose girls you stood really really close to in a crowd and whose boys you postured). There's something uncanny about it all. This sweatshirt I'm wearing, for example, fits like sweatshirts fit me when I was eight or nine, long in the sleeve, tight at the waist, yet the intended efffect is sexual. It's a sexualized version of young me, a curious amalgam that combines two vanities: youth and sex. This line of thought intersects, somewhere, with an essay in the first issue of n + 1, about how the people at McSweeney's are selling us "childhood as a way of life."