The way I present myself usually lends a bit of understandable confusion. There is often a presumption that a guy like me – a guy who likes tailored clothes and puts some care into his appearance – is on the luxury spectrum and prepared to talk about or even relate to matters of luxury, designer clothes and other expensive things. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
When fans and writers discuss Carrie Fisher‘s film career, Princess Leia gets all of the attention – and for good reason. Leia was a damsel in distress who held her own and kicked considerable ass in the company of men. Fisher herself said, “I like Princess Leia… I like how she handles things; I like how she treats people.” I grew up with Star Wars. It’s an undeniable cultural phenomenon, and Leia is major for me, too.
But people either forget or are unaware that Fisher made her film debut two years before Star Wars in a little movie with Warren Beatty called Shampoo (1975). Directed by Hal Ashby, Shampoo revolves around a promiscuous Beverly Hills hairdresser (Beatty) who sleeps with virtually every woman who sits in his salon chair. It also stars Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn and Lee Grant, who play women he’s sleeping with who all think they’re the only women he’s sleeping with.
In a small but unforgettable role, a then 17 year old Carrie Fisher displayed a precocious razor-sharp wit that was beyond her years at the time – a foreshadow of the disarming and inimitable sass that would become her trademark, a savvy that saw so clearly and hilariously through the hoax of show business and of life itself. In her brief performance as Lee Grant’s daughter and another one of Beatty’s conquests (or was he her conquest?), she beautifully outmaneuvered two of the most lecherous, manipulative and selfish grown-ups (one being her mother) that any adolescent in safe, rich, white suburbia might ever encounter.
From its beginning, this blog has been about my pursuit of sartorial stealth and effective living. Comparatively speaking, the sartorial stuff is much easier and clearer to write about than the finer points of effective living, which encompasses pretty much everything outside the wardrobe.
As a middle-aged man returning home to an elderly mother who’s in the midst of a tumultuous stay in the hospital with a Whack a Mole set of medical issues, the pursuit of effective living presents a series of daunting and uncharted challenges. Put simply, it’s about showing up. Put more specifically, it’s about showing up in ways I’ve never had to show up before.
My return to my hometown has been tricky to say the least.
The cooler and edgier bros of the moment have been embracing all kinds of remixes and twists with classic tailoring. The suit has moved on, yo. It’s all about being short, brief, casual. A hyper-softening and casualization of the suit is in full swing, moving it closer to comfy and approachable athleisure. Slouchy, even.
According to the so-very-right-now, the classic tailored suit as you’ve known it is dead, bro. Or at least that’s the vibration on the street and the interwebs.
I went to a Broadway show the other night. When I arrived at my seat at the Lyceum Theatre for Nick Kroll and John Mulaney’s hilarious “Oh, Hello,” I took a look around the audience and quickly realized that I was the only one in a suit, let alone a tie. It looked like a crowd at a Yankees game.
This is where we are.
Jeans, sneakers, t-shirts, hoodies, shorts, flip-flops, baseball caps… at a Broadway show. I also hear that it’s not much different at the opera or the ballet. It’s no wonder why so many guys rely on anonymous nude or semi-nude profile photos on smartphone apps to get laid, because in person with clothes on, their chances are bleak. It’s a boner killer.
Our culture is awash in the relentless pursuit of super casual comfort. I look around and see a world dressed in the sartorial equivalent of mac ’n’ cheese, bringing the cozy, fleecy, stretchy, onesie, elastic waistband comfort of the couch at home with them wherever they go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d presume everyone was on his way to or from the gym. But one look at the bodies infected with the athleisure virus, and I know better. If it’s about dressing for the job you want, I’m seeing armies of aspiring camp counselors and intramural softball coaches.
It’s official. The answer to the question “Is It Time To Leave New York?” is Yes, at least for me. I signed an early termination form, giving my landlord 60 days’ notice for ending my lease early. By the end of November, I will no longer be a New Yorker. After 22 years, it’s a lot to think about.
Edward Albee’s “A Delicate Balance” had a glorious Broadway revival in 1996. I saw it three times. In the play, Agnes and Tobias, a retired well-off couple, are visited by their good friends Edna and Harry, who arrive at their door in a panic, asking to stay. When the hosts ask their friends what’s wrong, Edna can only say, “We were frightened.”
Harry and Edna’s terror is never explained in the play. It remained an unnamed fear. When I saw the play, I was only 26 and didn’t really understand this ambiguous fear. Now, at age 46, I think I get it.
Two years ago today (September 4, 2014), we lost a legend. At the beginning of that summer, three months prior to Joan Rivers’ death, I received a phone call that changed my life, pitching an opportunity to work for a comedy icon I had admired since her days guest hosting The Tonight Show.
Over the past decade, the internet and social media have enabled many entrepreneurs to start new businesses very quickly and relatively cheaply. Ventures like this used to require much more time and money than they do now, where we have a saturated market of young clothing, grooming and accessory brands. These young companies, however, often sell a product with a very shallow breadth of understanding, knowledge and appreciation of history and how/why things work the way they work.