Hate It: Hawaiian Shirts

Love It/Hate It: Hawaiian Shirts
Gregory B. Johnston

Look around. Do you see sparkling tropical oceans? Do you see a sandy beach? No. We are in an urban environment where the nearest body of water is even colder than Boston manners. After a summer of enduring the sight of desperate nerds donning colorful fabrics in a sad attempt at fun, I have had enough. The Hawaiian shirt must go.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for celebrating one’s origins. If this is the case, though, why aren’t all you tri-state d-bags wearing shirts with armpits that perpetually smell like the body odor of industry from the state called “New Jersey”? When you see someone wearing a dress that looks like a potato sack, you don’t call it the “Idaho,” do you? How about West Coasters dress themselves only in a fairy crown of marijuana leaves and dub it “California”?

Listen, underdressed idiots of the world: as a concerned citizen of the Greater Boston Area, I ask you, what has happened to business casual? You wouldn’t wear sandals with socks. Sun visors are for athletic people —and, let’s face it, the only ones who can really pull them off are Olympians. Cargo shorts, by the way, are for virgins. So why do you insist on besmudging our community’s street cred by donning the main accoutrement of the middle-aged dad?

Take off the tacky florals and accept that the closest thing to Hawaii is in your punch bowl.

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