“Nice racing stripes,” scoffed a newly made acquaintance, pointing to the selvedge on the cuff of my Left Field jeans. Little did this asshole know about my recent struggle to get these slubby beauties: The shop sent me the wrong tracking number; my mailman misdelivered the package then retired the following week; and the postmaster claimed it was most likely stolen off of my doorstep, adding that it had been “delivered” so it was no longer the USPS’ responsibility. The ordeal, which was documented in a 20+ long email conversation that sat starred atop my gmail inbox, was exhausting for both vendor and customer. Three weeks went by before the unintended recipient of my wayward package, my neighbor and friend Julie, mentioned in passing, “Ohhhh, I think I have a package for you or something…” And to think that I used to find her attractive.
Racing stripes?! Fuck this guy, I had been through too much to let that comment roll off my back. Sure, maybe I was overreacting and just maybe I would sound like a pretentious schmuck while defending my $200 jeans, but I had earned the right to wear and cuff these japanese-woven-american-made-natural-indigo-dreamboats through a war with the Postal Service. A bond between textile and flesh had been forged in fire. I was defensive and proud. Besides, I paid for these as a graduate research assistant; we make the same amount to “Invent the Future” as someone who helps clog the future’s arteries with McBullshit. What did this guy know about sacrifice?
“…You mean the hem?” my friend Tucker dryly jabbed back before I could even open my mouth. With those four words my new enemy was shamed and I was humbled. Just a hem, just a pair of jeans, just a joke. Bravo, Tucker. Bravo.
Later that night Tucker would hook up with one of my buddies not two feet away from where I was trying to sleep, on a cold, concrete basement floor. Pain shot from my spine down my arm, caused by a herniated disc in my neck that I did not know I had until then, and I cursed everything and everyone. Selvedge be damned.
But these NATO style watch straps are pretty killer at $15 a pop.
When I get to wear a bow tie I feel somewhere between dignified and smugly debonair, a refreshing change for an under-appreciated graduate student who tries his best to keep his style humble in this dull southern town that is quick to label any adornment as ostentatious. As you can guess, bows are rarely seen in these parts—not helped by the ritual of our rivals donning them for football games. “Fucking pretentious yuppies!” we snarl.
Certainly bow ties are not for everyone and they are not for every occasion (e.g. football), but more young men should try wearing them to break the monotony of neckties. At the very least more should learn how to tie one just in case they find themselves with an invite to a black tie event; you do not want to spend the entire night ruminating, “fuck, did I tie this damn thing right? It’s wrong, oh jesus, it’s all wrong. What am I doing? She knows it is wrong. Everyone here knows it is wrong. I am done for. I am a sham.” Shh shh shh, compose yourself, everything will be okay. Learning the knot is straightforward but it does take some practice. I will admit that it was not until my graduation last year that I asked my dad to teach me how to tie one but I am glad I finally did. I will die happy knowing that I did not sacrifice a classic father-son moment by using google image search.
The Cordial Churchman is hands down my favorite place to get bows and one of my favorite online vendors period. Handmade by a woman named Ellie LaVeer in North Carolina, the summer cotton choices exude both southern charm and Go-To-Hell aesthetic while the woolen fall and winter offerings are more subdued. You can specify your choice of bow style for each fabric but opt for sizes under 2 1/4” and under to keep with the more casual look in the summer. They are an absolute steal at $26, which is nearly a third of what Pierrepont Hicks and other comparable haberdashers ask. I personally own four of them and could not be happier.
And for god’s sake, replace that wrongfully conjured image of Pee-wee Herman with Chalky White.
Each package is sent with a personal note that will remind you that you made the right choice. Good job.
In two weeks I will be leaving for Bonnaroo and one of the essential items for my pale ass is going to be a hat. Now, I am certainly not a hat guy and therefore do not own any, but since I need one for practical reasons I might as well get something that has the potential to look good — even if only hanging from a hook on my wall after I am reminded by a fellow ‘roo attendee that I am trying too hard.
As it turns out, decent looking hats are not a dime a dozen. The Joneses and Stussy examples shown above are the best I have come across after scouring my usual resources and shops, featured by Ryan from YHBTI and James from Secret Forts, respectively. Steven Alan has nice pieces from Hattan, but certainly not nice enough to get me to part ways with $120, and Supreme always has a solid offering, but in the words of Tyler The Creator:
“Let me say this shit in slow-mo, homo / You don’t fucking skate, take off that box logo”
No argument here.
If you get one for yours, then I might steal her from you. With that being said, you should probably get her one.
After copping a pair of Mark McNairy dirty bucks at the beginning of this month, I resolved not to buy anymore shoes this summer — with the lone exception of sometime replacing my beat-to-hell-and-twice-as-stinky boat shoes. I am trying to stay strong but these beautiful blue suede bucks/PTB from Mark McNairy and Alden are calling my name from a faraway place, a place where frugality is a crime and everything is Goodyear welted. I can lose this battle but still win the war… right? Right.
Hi. My name is Colin, and I have a problem.
