I’m gonna judge the fuck out of you. Right up front: if I see you wearing this, I will judge you until my knees go weak. (And, yes, I know that John Mayer has one; I stand by my statement.) Why, Grateful Dead, why? Did you see a market opening in the “chilly grandmas” demo? Who approved that two-tone? What is that collar’s form and function? I feel bad for the wool. It could have been a child’s favorite winter hat, but instead it got knitted into an ugly sweater.
Bright side: you can give these to homeless people when it gets cold.
This is official merch, too, and because the Grateful Dead is dedicated to sustainability and related whatnottery, there’s a photo essay about where the sweaters come from, and how the sweaters were all raised cage-free and fed grass.
Oh, excuse me. Don’t mind if I take out my hand fan.
How do you do, muscly farm boy?
“Um, hello, sir.”
Call me daddy.
Get out of here. I’m making a run at Farmer Brown.
He’s a healthy-looking young man.
I want him to treat me like he’s treating that sheep.
Can you stop sexually harassing photographs and get back to insulting sweaters?
It all sounds so meaningless when you say it like that.
Okay, look at this. It’s where they dry the wool, or blanche it, or braise it. Perhaps there is a ceviche involved, I did not bother to read the captions.
The entire Industrial Revolution culminated in the production of that sweater, Enthusiasts. And this one:
Look how embarrassed the model is. (This was the best take; in all the others, he’s covering his face with the hat.)
And they’re $470 fucking dollars.
Sell tee-shirts, Grateful Dead.