Jenny Lewis’ new album dropped* yesterday. And although I’ve only heard a couple of songs on it, I think it’s safe to say that it’ll be amazing—seeing as at worst she makes good music, and at best she makes tear-inducing music that makes me excrete a sound that should make everyone around concerned for my health.
But I’m not here to talk to you about Lewis’ music. No, I’m here to talk to you about something else completely: Jenny Lewis’ Magical-fucking-Pants Suit.
There are actually (at least) two pants suits that she’s worn so far on the media-and-concert circuit that goes with a new album. Both of which give me an unexplainable sense of respect toward her—like a most powerful wizard giving an approving nod to a seemingly unpowerful Hobbit†.
She wears it and I immediately want to not only buy her new album, but every album of hers that I’ve missed over the years. Also, Rilo Kiley albums I don’t yet have. And The Postal Service’s one album—despite the fact that I already own it.
It’s like these pants suits give Lewis a plus four to her Charisma modifier—MODIFIER, NOT SCORE, PEOPLE. I’m talking a plus four to her already ridiculously high Charisma score! Twenty-five, or something! Not to mention a bump in her Perform (Sing) and Perform (String Instrument) skills—which, again, were already high to begin with!
Here’s the thing, though—there’s a background to those suits; a background I’m trying desperately to avoid. I’ve deliberately stayed away from interviews and articles explaining the origins and reasons behind the white outfits decked out with star-stenciled airbrushing. I’ve tried real hard because there’s a certain mythos misting around the back of my head that I don’t want destroyed.
Because I want to fucking believe in the Magic of Jenny Lewis’ Pants Suit—and so should you.
I want to believe that they were made from the hide of an albino chimera that was felled by a hero so legendary, that even the fairies aren’t sure if it’s true.
I want to believe that they were given to Lewis by an odd couple-style of friends—one a leprechaun and the other a unicorn named Fred—after they stole it from the trophy room of a High Elf.
I want to believe that the suits were given to Lewis because she rescued a prince(ss?) sporting a fake mustache and track suit from a keep being guarded by a gold dragon.
A GOLD FUCKING DRAGON.
I want to believe that after defeating the dragon and getting the suits from the leprechaun and Fred (who are always hilariously arguing with each other about silly things like who does the dishes on Tuesday nights and the best way of slaying a group of kobolds) that Lewis returned to our realm in the most nonchalant way and picked up her guitar to start on a new album.
But wait a minute—her guitar matches her suits? Holy shit! Did she go back to the magical plane after getting the suits and explore the Underdark on her own until she found a guitar shaped mimic, defeated it, and then pulled the magical guitar from its belly and rocked her way out of the deep?
Of course she did. She did it like a badass. She did it so amazingly that when she emerged from the darkness, all the villagers started to applaud and the nearest Cleric used Raise Undead on Gary Gygax who then made a new class for Version 4 with special retrospective rules for every other core edition.
That new class? Jenny-Fucking-Lewis—starting level one hundred; one million spells per day; and a starter pack that includes a star-spangled white-and-purple guitar and not one, but two sets of magical garb. What garb, you ask?
Magical Pants Suit, that’s what garb.