I first saw a pair of tits in 1991.

Well, not first saw. I’d obviously seen my mother’s. Then, there was also that odd experience with my aunt on that weird trip to Palm Springs.

But, the first pair. The first REAL pair. I saw those in the summer of 1991.

The moment was a seminal point in my youth. At age 10, the idea that staring creepily at women was fun had begun to filter into my life. I’d begun to dream that party scenes like those in the brilliant Meatballs 3 were real. I’d begun to believe that the call “show us your stuff” might actually entice a woman to pull up her top.

Simply put, I’d become a little pervert.

Nothing wrong with that, right? Boys being boys stuff. Learning about the birds and the bees, and that.

I assume most other young men become obsessed with breasts before any other female body part. We probably all grow into an interest in ass, and thighs, and lastly a nice smile. At 10, boobs are the be all and end all of the female universe.

My brother, for example, lived that sentiment as complete truism. Between 1988 and 1992 he amassed a magnificent collection of Page 3 sheets from the sun. These were stashed in various places, and at one time took a journey from London to Brussels, on a bus.

That brief anecdote should be enough to hammer down the point that boobs are important to young men.

And, they were incredibly important in the summer of 1991.

I was in Ocean City, Maryland. Wearing, embarrassingly, a blue pair of Umbro shorts as swimming trunks. Had I been old enough to pull, I’d have been exactly what the women would have avoided. As it stood, I was just a little shaver, not harmful and not innocent enough for any young lass to say “aw, what a cute little dude.” Must have been the singular stare to the chest.

Being mid-summer, and being Ocean City, Maryland, the beach was full of some buxom coeds. They had alluring bikinis. I had a boogie board and bad shorts. I was playing in the ocean when a lovely lass sprinted into the sea, dove through a wave, and emerged topless. Meatballs 3 had, in an instant, become tangible. Random breasts. Just feet away.

She looked at my piercing eyes. She screamed. The breasts were swiftly covered up, top retrieved, and girl retreated back to the beach.

I stood, awkward in my bad shorts, stunned.

But, feeling like a grown up.

Having swiftly discussed t-shirts in my last entry, I will now turn attention to pants.

Combining the utility of wind pants with the comfort of sweats, the pants supplied to and preferred by prep school athletic programs are a distinct breed. My own were acquired through the hockey team. A classmate, promoted to varsity goal keeper for practice purposes mid-season, was on a frantic search to fill minimum numbers. Such are the pull of the pants. One isn’t on the team without them. Being an advantageous bastard, I agreed to help… with the request that he pay for them.

And, with that I arrived at these:

Owing to the fact that hockey was not my game, I opted against using my real name. Nick Danger, a character from Firesign Theater provided inspiration. The number 3 chosen via an Allen Iverson fetish.

Enough of these particular pants, let’s get to more general detail.

Like many prep pants these were produced in the Philadelphia area. Rennoc is based in Vineland, NJ and like Boathouse Sports, supplies general athletic garments directly to schools and universities. At Loomis, the bulk of our jackets (more on these later) came from Boathouse. Both manufacturers fall into a long history of athletic garment production in the Philadelphia area.

While New England is regularly understood as the heartland of American textile weaving (at least during the 19th and 20th-centuries), Philadelphia’s range of garment and textile related industry far surpassed its northern neighbors. In 1909 Philadelphia was the world’s largest textile center. Without going into enormous detail (something I will be in doing in a current project), the city is remarkable for birthing iconic brands like Stetson and simultaneously maintaining a diverse cross-section of the textile industry. Sportswear, and most explicitly athletic apparel, has been well represented in Greater Philadelphia and South Jersey.

Rennoc has been in operation for 50 years. They have recently discontinued the manufacture of nylon goods, focusing exclusively on wool. Though Rennoc will no longer produce the trousers that reminded me of their existence, the style of the warm-ups – like the tab t-shirt – fit a particular vision of prep school life.

As I mentioned before, the usual trappings of a “prep” look are not those that defined my prep school life. Athletic apparel, on the other hand, did. And, looking back the connection between the schools and relatively small American manufacturers helped to define both a distinct look and refine an appreciation for the pieces.

I’d be hard pressed to imagine any lasting feeling about our warm up pants had they come from Adidas or Nike. That they were made in America was hardly important, but the open cuff, short zip and sweat lining was. The details make the pants peculiar, far more casual than athletic. As such they become part of the prep weekend uniform. Coveted more, in some respects, by the bulk of the student body than by the athletes.

When I arrived at Loomis, Bubba Berenzwieg was on his way to the University of Michigan. The Wolverines triumphed in the NCAAs, Pelican hockey generated less glory. Like any freshman, I looked around my new surroundings and noticed what conveyed status. Hockey gear. Lacrosse gear. Not the technical attire, but the sweats.

My own desire was certainly prompted by the pull of varsity cool. These are pants that evoke a feeling. They don’t have a spectacular hand. They are not produced of the best material. In that way, they are quite indicative of most American made things. Purpose built through garment know how rather than technological expertise.

Like the tab t-shirt, these warm-ups make up the fabric of my prep life. It is distinctly American. It’s also, in my opinion, a touch under the radar. Sure, Abercrombie has made similar looking wind pants. But, they never quite get it right. The pieces made by small American firms and creating garments for the schools I attended did so with complete disregard for fashion. So, like all good things they became fashionable… or were given new use… through appropriation.

This is the soundtrack to my youth.

Triple headers. Knicks vs. Pacers. Jordan vs. … well, everyone. Ahmad Rashad’s bad suits. (were they Jordan’s suits?). Flat tops. Reeboks. The Dream. That guy on the rockets that looks like an alien.

John Tesh’s “NBA on NBC” theme song inspired instant good moods. I miss it only slightly more than I miss my ex-girlfriend.

(Also, I am rather upset that I am not going to all-star weekend, the best weekend in America).

One of the benefits of being a semi-professional tattoo historian is spending time with people like Philadelphia Eddie. Last night, at Independence Seaport Museum, Eddie arrived as our special guest. After my dry lecture, his stories really warmed up the crowd. He’s a legendary story teller and it made for a glorious night.

Also had the honor of sharing the stage with Chuck Eldridge of the Tattoo Archive and Troy Temple, who puts together some top shelve conventions. Kate Hellenbrand showed up as well.

Here’s a Philadelphia Eddie story:

A few pictures from the last couple months.

A bar in St. Paul… this bloke’s speedo was on the wall celebrating his achievement in local swimming races.

The Paul Molitor Burger (he’s a St. Paul native)… and this is a version of the “juicy lucy” stuffed with Jack cheese.

Super classy wedding cakes.

Horrid bar nachos consumed in St. Paul.

The World Bike Polo Championships, in Fishtown, USA.