Pop goes the collar, and the collar goes pop

Every now and then, I’ll fall for a fashion trend. Boss tattoo? Back of my left arm. Earrings?… Every now and then, I’ll fall for a fashion trend. Boss tattoo? Back of my left arm. Earrings? Three of ’em. I even continue to wear my ball caps backward. But there is one trend that makes me so sick, I can’t believe I fell for it — even for a whole five minutes.

I first witnessed this debacle about a year ago while slugging back my fair share of Miller Lites at Hemingway’s. As I sat there, unsuccessfully hitting on what I hoped were hot girls, I saw it. The Hollister poster boy waltzed into the crowded watering hole, but something was visibly wrong.

“His collar!” I drunkenly told myself. “It’s sticking straight up!” Indeed, the collar of the dude’s magenta polo was pointed skyward. Why anybody would ever do this was beyond me. There had to be a logical explanation, I thought. Was he bitten by a vampire? Was he hiding a hickey that a girl other than his girlfriend gave him? Vexed, I ordered a Jager bomb and decided to investigate.

My mind told me to seek answers, yet my body told me to slap the hell out of each and every collar “popper” at the bar that evening. Knowing this would prove futile, I staggered home — very drunk and slightly perturbed.

The poppers invaded my dreams that night. I dreamt I was home in Lancaster, driving through the country. However, the scene had an eerie feel to it — something was wrong with the plain folk. “Jesus,” I told myself. “They’re poppers!” Sure enough, Jacob and Ishmael were tilling the fields, manure encrusted on their upturned collars. I woke up in a cold sweat, and for the second time that night, I was confused. Then I threw up.

In the morning, I took a glance through my closet. I had my share of polo shirts — Gap, Old Navy, Structure and even a lone frat-boy-crombie, er, Abercrombie. “I have a perfect collection of polo shirts,” I thought. “But I know how to wear them.”

Over the next few months, the poppers’ numbers grew faster than I ever expected. They were the kids in recitation next to me. They were the idiots I stood next to on the bus. Hell, even the one swiper at Eddie’s popped the collar to his dingy, aqua polo. “Yes, I want to use a meal block,” I thought. “But hold the collar.”

Finally, this past summer, the poppers got the best of me. I remember the night well. It was warm and … OK I don’t remember it too well because I drank too much. Point is, I became a popper that night — for about the time it takes to cross Bigelow Boulevard.

My friend Jay and I were throwing darts at Pittsburgh Cafe when I realized I was wearing a polo. Nonchalantly, I popped. The bar fell dead silent as I did this. Even the crickets shut the hell up. After about eight minutes of quiet, my friends exploded in uproarious laughter. I looked down to make sure I had pants on. I did. I checked my nose for “danglers.” No problem. What was wrong, then?

Jay came over to me and popped his collar as well and said, “Ben, you’re my boy and always know how to make us laugh.” He threw his arm around me, and our friend Jenny rushed over with a camera. In one disorienting flash, my place in popping history was sealed.

I didn’t get it. If I had a tattoo with three Greek letters, collar popping would be fine. But since I don’t, I was ridiculed. I put my collar down as abruptly as it went up, and for the rest of the night, I fumed. And drank. And fumed some more.

I counted my blessings that not many people witnessed my foray into the world of popping. But some people aren’t as lucky. They venture out every weekend, looking like complete jackasses. To them, I say a simple, yet stern, “Stop it!”

So poppers, I hope you had fun briefly sucking me into your sick, twisted world. However, being open-minded, I can live with your life decisions. While I think popping is immoral and probably goes against the Bible, we can live in peace. While I can accept popping, just don’t pop while wearing pink. Pink is not, nor will it ever be, the new black.

Ben Greiner is pretty sure collar popping is the new pogs. Remember pogs? If you do, Ben will trade you 25 pogs for a dope slammer. E-mail him at bmg16@pitt.edu.