Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway killed himself with a shotgun purchased at Abercrombie & Fitch. Yes, that Abercrombie & Fitch. You see, way back before they became the defacto uniform of drunken frat boys, they were a sporting goods store, outfitting the likes of Amelia Earhart and Teddy Roosevelt. How very sad. And now A&F has infected my home, becoming the store of choice for my teenage daughter. (Hold on, let me take some Excedrin. Okay, I’m back). Here’s how the parent/teenager arguments have been going: Me: “How can you wear Abercrombie & Fitch? I mean, they charge $70 for a shirt made in a Saipan sweatshop?” Her: “So?” Me: “So...they make their clothes in Asia, but then come out with a line of t-shirts with Asian slurs. Doesn't that seem somewhat disingenuous?” Her: “So?” Me: “Then they had to pay $45 million to settle a lawsuit for not hiring minorities—and when they did, they made them work in the storeroom, while they put the “pretty white people” up front. Her: “So?” Me: “You’re part Asian.” Her: “Oh, yeah,” She says, while texting her friends. “So, can you take me to Abercrombie?” No, I never win these battles. The social inertia is just too great. It doesn’t matter if I mention that the soft-core A&F Quarterly was sold to minors or that A&F was slapped for marketing a line of thong underwear with slogans like “Eye Candy” to grade school girls. The Abercrombie zombies are winning. I wish they still sold shotguns. ...
Anytime
