At Beth's recommendation, I picked up this Esquire on my recent flight to Seattle to read the Clooney interview. I can't help it. I dig the guy.

Inside the front cover, I found this advertisement for Prada:

Now don't get me wrong. I like Prada. I was wearing Prada frames when I read the magazine. And maybe, just maybe, this former metrosexual from OC is getting a little long in the tooth, but I can't begin to tell just how much about this campaign turns my stomach. It's not just the effete, androgynous tweens masquerading as male models. It's not the colors ripped from the worst of a 1986 MTV television promo. It's not even the mixed patterns that threaten to give me an epileptic seizure.

But a purple, checkered JUMPSUIT?

With an orange striped shirt!

God forbid I see one fucker wearing a purple checkered jumpsuit that isn't Barbara Bach on a Lamborghini, a convict on a prison road detail or a dude in full face paint and touring with Ringling Bros, and I'm going to personally make it my life's mission to see that the denim and flannel and work boots of 1991 make their righteous and glorious comeback as a response to this nylon nightmare.

End rant. I'm signing off.