While shopping in Banana Republic yesterday--

(pause until the cries of DIE YUPPIE SCUM die down)

--I overheard the staff person asking a customer, “And do you intend to wear the shirt untucked or tucked in?”

The customer replied “Tucked in,” and a brief pause ensued and then the staff person said “I see.”

I wasn’t surprised by the staff person’s question and I wasn’t surprised by his patronizing follow through.  I read in the Times a while back that keeping shirttails flying is the new trend.  There’s even a major designer who refuses to wear his shirts tucked in.  It’s a way for young men to separate themselves from an older generation, demonstrating their hipness and edge.

I don’t like keeping my shirts untucked.  It’s not tidy.  And you say, oh, well, you’re just revealing your lack of hipness and edginess in the face of this new, unkempt generation.  But it’s more than that. These kids don’t understand the importance of multiple identities.

What these hipsters fail to recognize is that it’s necessary to be both Clark Kent and Superman.  Wearing tucked in shirts to work and other respectable locales is being Clark Kent. Then, on your own time, you can be Superman.

These kids want to be all Superman, all the time.  It won’t work.  Not even Superman can be Superman all the time.

Take the case of Jimmy Chapman, 24-year old Wall Street stockbroker.  Jimmy will start the day by arriving at the office and doing his presentation, shirttails flying, making everyone uncomfortable and sweaty because this young turk is apparently a slob yet doing a great job--and then he’ll go to a power lunch, kicking back martinis, shirttails still flying--and then he’ll get off work and go shop at Pottery Barn and Sharper Image and then he’ll hit the club, and he’s getting a bit tired now, because he’s still in Superman mode as evidenced by his flying shirttails--and eventually he’ll take drugs and get in a fight and someone will kick his ass and he’ll lie bleeding in an alley somewhere, his loose shirttails flapping morosely in the chill night air like two, small white flags of surrender.

And when that happens, I’ll be there.

I’ll stand over poor Jimmy’s body.  And I’ll say, “Jimmy, you can’t be Superman all day.  Some times you have to be Clark Kent.”

And also: “The only reason you don’t tuck in your shirt is because you’re trying to hide an enormous beer gut.*

*In other news: just when you think keeping a blog is super lame, someone who comments on your site emails you and says she’ll be in town, and so you meet up, and she says “How about a beer on me?” And you say “Really?” And she says “No, not really” and you say “Awwww” and she says “It’s actually TWO beers” and you say “Rock!” and you talk and she’s very interesting and totally nice!  Although it’s weird when talking to someone who reads your site and frequently references things you’ve posted, and you’re all “You mean I actually mentioned that I’m a color-blind albino hermaphrodite?” and she’s all “Sure, back in October 2003.” It was fun!  Thanks Frank!**

**Can’t link to her*** site because she just reads and comments; she doesn’t have a blog.  So those of you with blogs who only meet other people with blogs, eat it.  Commenters rule.

***Who the hell names their daughter Frank?  I don’t know, but my dad is apparently now named “Papa Goose” so I don’t cast stones.