Tie Dye Clothes Quotes

Should previous decades be defined by an article of clothing and an intoxicant—a gray flannel suit and a martini, tie-dye and marijuana, bell-bottoms and hallucinogens, shoulder pads and cocaine—the mid-nineties were relaxed-fit Gap jeans and light beer. An

She stepped back into the house. “I want to show you something.” Trying to get his legs back, his head wobbly, and his internal referee still giving him the eight count, Myron followed her silently up the stairway. She led him down a darkened corridor lined with modern lithographs. She stopped, opened a door, and flipped on the lights. The room was teenage-cluttered, as if someone had put all the belongings in the center of the room and dropped a hand grenade on them. The posters on the walls—Michael Jordan, Keith Van Horn, Greg Downing, Austin Powers, the words YEAH, BABY! across his middle in pink tie-dye lettering—had been hung askew, all tattered corners and missing pushpins. There was a Nerf basketball hoop on the closet door. There was a computer on the desk and a baseball cap dangling from a desk lamp. The corkboard had a mix of family snapshots and construction-paper crayons signed by Jeremy’s sister, all held up by oversized pushpins. There were footballs and autographed baseballs and cheap trophies and a couple of blue ribbons and three basketballs, one with no air in it. There were stacks of computer-game CD-ROMs and a Game Boy on the unmade bed and a surprising amount of books, several opened and facedown. Clothes littered the floor like war wounded; the drawers were half open, shirts and underwear hanging out like they’d been shot mid-escape. The room had the slight, oddly comforting smell of kids’ socks.

Fell finally led Lucas into a clothing store that apparently hadn't changed either stock or customers since '69. Every male customer other than Lucas was bearded, and three of the four women customers wore tie-dye. Lucas bought an ill-fitting leather porkpie hat. In the mirror, he looked like a hippie designer's idea of an Amazon explorer.

During this period of his life, Rader lived for his so-called motel parties. According to his journals, he’d drive out of town, check into a room, lock the door, and spend hours alone, fondling the belongings of his victims, dressing in their clothes, wearing wigs and masks he’d prettied up with lipstick and mascara, then binding himself in ropes and tying plastic bags over his head. Sometimes he’d cover the bed with scantily clad Barbie dolls, set up his camera on a tripod, and squat down beside the dolls. He’d position the camera far enough away so that when the shutter snapped he appeared to be the same size as the dolls—all of which he imagined were his real-life victims. It just didn’t get any better than that, as far as he was concerned, because the Barbie doll was the symbol of the perfect female. I’d seen this type of behavior in men who would hang dolls, blow them up with M-80s, and smear red dye all over them to simulate blood. Surprisingly, some of these guys never progressed past the stage of torturing dolls. They seemed to sense what Rader later found out—that the fantasy, where they are forever in control, is always better than the actual crime.