Category Archives: Fashion

“It has made me better loving you… it has made me wiser, and easier, and brighter. I used to want a great many things before, and to be angry that I did not have them. Theoretically, I was satisfied. I flattered myself that I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to have morbid sterile hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I really am satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight, and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life, and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see that it’s a delightful story.” – Henry James, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’

Feeling the first flush of spring in a slightly longer and sunnier day of late, I put in an order of Bonobos pants in shades bright and Easter-like. Emboldened by their pastel prettiness, I allowed a brief fantasy of the world as we once knew it, when I could wear three pairs of pants to work in less than a week and still have a day or two left for more. 

On the inside waistband of the blue pair was the word ‘Wednesday‘ so this seems a fitting time to post this photo. Happy Hump Day! 

He was one of the coolest guys in high school, at least in my eyes. Popular, but not the football jock kind of popular. He played sports well, but he focused on tennis. His style was preppy and elegant, but more than all of that it seemed effortless. Most importantly, he introduced me to the top coat- that often-woolen overcoat that bedecked a proper gentleman in the cutting winter months, which is when the bulk of high school took place.

His was black, and slightly boxy on his short frame, but I didn’t notice the cut as much as the way it flapped about him almost like a cape, putting him into sartorial superman status in my envious eyes. It was the ultimate visage of studied sophistication, and I wanted it.

Like me, he had a younger brother, and like me he was a rarely seen fraternizing with him. He was a few grades above me – a senior to my freshman – but we shared a gym class, where he would change into gym clothes and reveal some rather bulky and uninspiring tighty-whities at the time when boxer briefs were becoming the rage. His chest was covered in a thick coating of hair, something foreign to most of us, when I’d furtively steal glances at him.

It wasn’t out of desire or want that I looked – my observation came from a place of curiosity and collection: I coveted the hair on his chest in the same way I coveted his top coat. It was a mark of manhood in my mind – a mark of what was desired by the world at large over any specific want or attraction of my own. Not that I didn’t sense or detect his chiseled beauty, but his confident smile and charismatic laugh were what I wanted to capture – that casual sense of self that I thought were made manifest in part by a top coat and chest hair.

He was my style mentor even if he didn’t realize it or directly play a part in my improvement. The previous year – in 8^thgrade – I’d started to hone a sense of style based on Bill Cosby sweaters and Benetton preppiness. By my freshman year of high school, I was ready to up my fashion game. He was my new inspiration, and so I watched closely, albeit from a distance, and worked to refine my nonchalance. It wasn’t what he wore so much as how he wore it – unconcerned, unaffected, and entirely unaware of the effect he was having. It was more mesmerizing than the simple preppy look he had adopted and made his own, and I wondered if such an effect was something he had actively worked on achieving or whether it came naturally, and that he really didn’t care. Whatever the case, I wanted it, however and whichever way it came to be.

I wondered, at first, if his powers originated in his top coat. That would seem to be the most forceful evidence of his might, seen in the way he strolled in and out of school, a formidable woolen shield against a world of literal sports jackets and puffy ski coats from which most kids hadn’t quite graduated. If that’s where his strength lay, it would be easy enough to approximate in a top coat of my own, and I eventually got a gray one for Christmas I think. It was my first major step in growing up and into a style that suited my old soul.

Other inspiration followed – I found docksiders in a light tan, similar but not quite the same as his dark brown ones. A hairy chest would not come to me for over a decade, so there was nothing to be done about that, and his bushy hair was kept tame by frequent haircuts instead of any magical product, so I took my own route to deal with my dark locks.

He was a good role model to have, even superficially. Probably in other ways as well, since he was a top student and well-liked. I was less about being well-liked at that point and more about being admired. There was already a hard line between the two, and I began a long journey of straddling that line, starting with a top coat.

Shame is pride’s cloak. ~ William Blake

There are many cloaks in this world. Not all are pretty or harmless. Some are dangerous. Some are filled with holes. Some don’t bother to do what they’re supposed to do. Some are flimsy failures. It’s not always easy to tell a good cloak from a bad one. That takes years of experience, lots of trial and error. One must inhabit a cloak to know how well it may or may not work. It has to be felt, it has to be filled, it has to ride against the wind and lift you up. Or let you down.

Pride perceiving humility honorable, often borrows her cloak. ~ Thomas Fuller

The good thing about a good cloak is that it can be picked up or put down as needed. It can act as protection and prettiness, for cold nights or scared hearts. Beauty is its own armor. Embroidery is security. A good cloak works on many levels, some of which cannot be seen, only felt. And sometimes, if it’s working well, you can’t even feel it.

There’s no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There’s only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof. ~Alan Moore

In the end, though, it’s not the cloak that matters. It’s not the exquisite fabric or enchanting design, it’s not even the warmth or the purpose that a cloak serves. It’s what the cloak hides that counts.

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Twitter bio, written by a once and future genius, describes me as a ‘social non-influencer’ because really, who has influence over whom? And what good is influence anyway? It’s one of those non-quantifiable qualities that doesn’t easily translate into anything very solid. And, as in most things in life, such as bowel movements, I prefer something solid to almost anything else.

My pal Nick has a blessedly-inflated view of my influence, and that’s always sweet to hear, because the reality is that if I had any sort of actual influence, I’d have changed the world by now. That, and everyone would be in bright velvet coats and big velvet flowers and their Zoom background would be filled with sparkle and shine.a

Alas, such influence is not within my power or purview, and I’ve reconciled myself to the limited possibilities, as they exist. It is enough being known for what I am by the few who mean the most to me. That’s power. That’s influence. That’s what matters. The rest of it is all fluff…

Like my Twitter account.

Like my FaceBook account.

Like my Instagram account.

Frivolous fluff and masturbation for the mind – these dangerous time-stompers steal and rob us of reality, and, more sadly, of mindfulness. You cannot be present with your eyes downcast and looking at a little screen. My time on those platforms grows less and less, when I can help it, when I make the effort to disengage and re-engage. I’m a hit-often, hit-quick, and exit-quicker kind of social media guy. Tons of posts, but little stalking or scrolling. It’s slightly selfish and self-serving, but what does one expect from a social non-influencer who isn’t getting paid a dime?

Lollo mi parla di quella ragazza
Di quanto a bellissima e quanto gli manca
Parlare con lei

Tu ancora le rolli a bandiera
Marco, che ha smesso da un po’
E l’anno prossimo
Parte per l’Olanda

E come si fa
Ora che gli idoli sono gli influencer
E noi non siamo niente
Noi non siamo niente
E come si fa, ooooh
Lancia i vestiti per aria, li raccolgono in alto
Quelli con gli aeroplani
Li vedi i miei piani, che volano via

Sotto a uno smercio ci mangiavo il McDonald’s
E ora ci vendono il fumo
E non ci va pia nessuno
E no che non piango
A solo l’allergia
Volevo fare una festa
Dentro camera mia

Lollo mi parla di quella ragazza
Di quanto bellissima e quanto gli manca
Scopare con lei

Coming home for the holidays during my college years was always a histrionic treat. There wasn’t an outfit that was crazy enough or a hat too outlandish. Back then, I took my cues from Madonna, walking into every room with a sense of star-power culled from the simple divine belief in myself. Whether faked or almost-realized, it was an attitude that could be seen as aloof or arrogant, as much as genuinely confident and powerful. Some would have said intimidating. Some still say intimidating.

Part of me expected all eyes to be on my every move. Whether it was walking into a crowded church on Christmas Eve or picking up some last minute groceries at the market, I demanded the notice of all, either by peculiar outfits or precisely-calibrated attitude. And with all honest reverence to the past, it was a gambit that largely succeeded. There is something very powerful and true to the adage ‘fake it ’til you make it‘ – there is something very real about manifesting the life you want to lead. It comes with a price, but it’s possible.

I was one of many typical college kids who returned to their small home-town feeling just slightly better than everyone else, confidently realizing that I had outgrown my humble beginnings, that the attitudes and narrow-minded views of so many around me were backward and behind and unworthy of the slightest nod. It wasn’t entirely false, and it wasn’t entirely fair. My arrogance was armor, and my aloofness saved me from things I didn’t even realize until I took it all off and saw the scratches, until I heard about various character-assassination attempts. Rather than retreat, I armed myself with Oscar Wilde quotes ~ “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about” ~ adding to my arsenal with haughtier behavior, honed by the musical inspiration of Madonna, cut sharp by the biting tongue of Bette Davis, and polished by the societal propriety found in the writings of Edith Wharton.

Oddly or luckily enough, my Icarus-like wings survived my sun-circling and selfish years ~ my reckoning would not come until much, much later (and much more recently), not that I didn’t consider certain set-backs and failures devastating defeats. But looking back, all that mattered then was the show, and the show was the exuberance of college-age youth, tackling Comparative Literature with the same gusto as gay equality, dazzling with philosophical theories as much as a gold lame shirt.

These days I carry a sense of genuine confidence that comes from a relatively-lately-learned humility, the ability to admit I will never be perfect, the ability to embrace such imperfections, the knowledge that I will never be completely right, and more importantly the knowledge that being right doesn’t always translate to being good.

I look back on the silliness I manifested when I came home form college, all bright-eyed and falsely-confident, and I nod with a slight smile. It was the best I could do. A lot has changed since then, but I still love a good hat, especially with a bird on it.

This plaid holiday jacket from Zara was not the easiest piece of clothing to acquire, and I owe it all to Suzie. The Boston location did not have my size, but it was absolutely perfect for a holiday party that year, so I called all over and the closest store that had one in a 40S was one in Manhattan. To give you an idea of how old this jacket is, Suzie was still living in New York at the time, and had not yet given birth to her first-born child Oona, so this was prior to 2006. Good friend that she is, Suzie managed to find it in Manhattan, then get it home that Thanksgiving, and I had just enough time to add the beaded adornments you see on the shoulders. (I was inspired by one of Barbra Streisand’s gowns in ‘Funny Girl’ at the time.)

From that moment on, I’ve worn it at least once every holiday season, not only because of the effort it took to get the damn thing, but also because I still absolutely adore it. Plaid is a timeless holiday pattern, and I’m embracing it even more as I get older.

This year, I put it on for a video conference with our office staff in which we were doing a group shot for some holiday show later on. Of course that demanded some tinsel and sparkle for the background, which should see me through all my video calls until 2021, and perhaps beyond since it’s so fun. The world needs some fun right now, and God knows I do too. So I got dolled up, plopped myself in front of the golden fringe, switched on an O-ring light, and took a few selfies to commemorate the moment. I even had pants on, though you can’t see them. It was a brief and nostalgic moment of feeling like my old self again, even if everything else had changed, even if we would never be our old selves again.