You probably thought I’d never leave. Not after 29 years together. But I just can’t do it anymore. Yeah, we may have a backslide or two—a stolen glance at a scoreboard, a drunken tryst on the occasional Monday night—but as a relationship, we’re deader than pigskin.
I know what you’re thinking: this is probably about the parade of concussions and other grisly injuries. Or the slap-on-the-wrist suspensions for wife beating. Or the maybe-racist team nickname. Or the byzantine set of rules.
Last weekend, I participated in my favorite of Christmas traditions: trading in all my gifts for shit that I actually want. And for the most part, it went as expected.
Sales were plundered. Sizes were corrected. Puppy-dog eyes were dispensed to account for missing receipts...
But in one final moment, a salesman turned the whole endeavor into a lesson on style, brand loyalty and what I will henceforth be referring to as the Brotherhood of the Bow Tie (trademark pending). And I’d like to thank him for that.
At this point we’ve already entered the backlash to the backlash stage of things, and it had us wondering how we all got here. In fact, it seems the answer is simpler than you’d expect. And it has a lot to do with timing, the unique advantages of the Internet age and the not-so-unique evolution of personal style.
On Friday, Gawker caused an uproar when they realized one of the pillars of rustic #menswear, Unionmade, was actually the name of a men’s shop in San Francisco and not a place to buy goods solely made by unionized laborers. We’ll overlook the fact that they’re three years late to the party (the shop opened in 2009) and say this: we’re outraged, too. And this isn’t the first time we’ve been bamboozled by shrewd corporate name-jockeying. (An Apple Store that doesn’t sell apples? Come on!) And we can’t keep quiet any longer...
We love the chunky tortoiseshell specs—they bring out the auteur in you. The rat fur epaulettes, not so much. The diamond earring—your call, brother. But seriously, what's up with the rodent pelt? If PETA sees you in that thing it'll really be *Mo' Better Blues*, and you know how they like to hang around outside movie premieres with their little paint cans.
Memo to gossip goblin Perez Hilton: no matter how much glitter you smear around your eye bags, gynecomastia is not a good look. What exactly, may we ask, induced you to dress this way for Svedka's New Year's Eve party at the Gansevoort?
If you want to defend your precarious position as the né plus ultra of men's fashion rags, you should put a little more effort into features like “The 50 Most Stylish Men of the Past 50 Years.” Specifically, how in god's name could you leave out Tom Wolfe? Not to mention Andy Warhol, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Cash…