I ain’t no damn dirty hippie. I’m a rascally little rat, and I like to stay clean and pretty and carry myself with the sort of black-haired distinction that leaves folks wondering “Who does he think he is?”
But God strike me dead if I don’t appreciate the hippies’ many contributions to the kaleidoscope of American society. They’re very good at extracting juice from things, for example.
I also like tie-dyed tee shirts. The idea of them, that is. I don’t own any. The sad irony of the tie-dyed tee, and the reason I steer clear, is that what was meant to be a symbol of beautiful chaos and inimitable originality has become so commonplace that it’s lost all meaning.
In order for the tie-dyed tee to live on, it needed to be reborn into a garment so freaky that no amount of acid could coax its conception. Indeed, one must possess a direct and unadulterated line to the cosmos to conjure such a product on this earthly plane.
With a lifetime of vigilance, I have established this connection.
I began my fateful experiments with sauce-dyed apparel in the early summer of this year. They were promising from the start, and I soon perfected the process. All that remained was choosing the right sauce, and the right time, to take my stain babies public.
Luckily I have access to the third-eye vision of Whit Hiler. He saw the future and he told me what had to be done and when to do it. KFC gravy. Thanksgiving. Yes. Total tie-dyed destruction.
Feast your eyes…
The sauce prophecy hath been fulfilled!
Praise be to the champions at Kentucky for Kentucky for putting in the extra work. Praise be to my buddies Whompuss Cat and Kai Muhammad for blasting things into outer space with their musical prowess and raw sex appeal. And praise be to Cassie Lopez for coming through in the clutch to document it all.
Photos by Erick Moore and Cassie Lopez