Mad Atoms

I thought my dad’s midlife crisis was over when he filed for divorce, bought a sports car and put in a sound proof room for “jamming” in our basement, but then, he walked into the living room piss drunk and wearing a shirt covered in jewels.   

Appalled, I threw my book down, jumped off the couch and demanded that he tell me why he was wearing an asshole costume. “Asshole costume,” he scoffed. “This is cool. It’s Ed Hardy. “ And it was then I knew Ed Hardy must die.

I was okay with this Ed fellow for a while; his glittery concoctions had helped to me to easily discern people I would rather die than fornicate with even in the darkest of club lighting and the thickest of whiskey hazes. But now, with his bedazzled claws sinking into my dear old dad, he’s finally gone too far.

I began my hunt for this mysterious “Ed,” in the same way anyone sniffing out an outlaw might; by asking all the right questions.

Knowing my father, typically a sweater and collared shirt combo type of guy, I realized there was no way he could have ended up in this shimmering shit storm on his own. “Dad,” I said “It’s very important that you tell me where you got this shirt.”

“I want to go to Popeyes,” he replied, a failed attempt at distracting me.

“Nice try,” I shot back “Tell me where you got that thing and you can have all the fried chicken you want.”

“Mischa gave it to me,” he said, referring to his girlfriend, a woman with a spray tan the color of cheese whiz and implants about as believable as the moon landing. 

“A ha!” I said, scribbling down the word “whore” and knowing I had found my first lead.

To Miami! 

But the first stop would be the internet, where after typing in “Ed Hardy” and “whores” I found the most disturbing information yet (Note: this is before I saw my father’s tattooed and studded robe). I gasped as images of a dead ringer for Dora the Explorer, outfitted in his hellish concoctions popped up one after another. With her chubby 7-year-old face smiling out at me, like she knew one day she would let a fat, old dude slap her ass for money, I was more determined than ever to find him.

It wasn’t too long after this that I discovered Hardy, like most slimeballs, was operating under a stolen identity and this wouldn’t be his first time. (Does anyone remember Von Dutch?) As it turns out the man behind the madness is really named Christian Audigier. "Ed Hardy" is merely his front. A rough and tough tattoo artist stripped of every last bit of credibility once Audigier broke his bedazzler out onto his artwork. Still, he should have known that when you make a deal with the devil, or a man with a platinum membership card to Sunset Tan you’re going to get burned. Just ask Kenny Howard, the mechanic whose trademark trucker hats took a glitter bath with Audigier and ended up on top of Britney Spears’ weave.

I haven’t heard much about him lately, but I’m guessing he killed himself. So for him, and for Hardy, Latino children everywhere and my dad (whose midlife crisis wear and enthusiasm for Ed Hardy are very literally shit on daily, lining the floor of our bird Colonel Canary’s cage ), Audigier, is going down. And thanks to his conspicuous outerwear, he’s relatively easy to track down.  I have a promising lead. 700 Lombard Street in San Francisco is apparently Hardy Headquarters (according to his website). And that, if you were wondering, is where I am on my way to right now, so if you don’t mind I have a little something to take care of.