A new weekly feature, starring stylish intel from our brothers-in-arms at UrbanDaddy. This week: a new custom shoe shop in NYC, a new menswear emporium/life skills school in Dallas, plus something called “voyeur showers” in Miami. Let’s get going, shall we...»
And now, a personal message of discontent from bicoastal Kempt contributor C. Brian Smith.
First, a caveat: I’m hardly the first person to bemoan the fact that things today are different than they were in the past (Andy Rooney cornered the market on this way of thinking years ago). But I’m mad as hell, so I’m going to do it anyway. I’m sick of seeing so many iconic New York City bars and restaurants close—institutions with decades upon decades of history cast aside in order to make way for another bank branch or pharmacy. It’s been bothering me for a while.
But when the Prime Burger on 51st Street closed last week, it got personal.
We each mourn the closing of landmarks differently, since we each experience New York City differently. Some avoid the Bowery altogether for fear of mistakenly walking by CBGB and seeing carefully distressed suede pants in the window. For others, the kick in the gut was Chumley’s crumbling to the ground in 2007. (It will reopen this year. Sort of.) Then there was Elaine’s, and Totonno’s, and the Fulton Fish Market and Bill’s Gay Nineties—sadly, the RIP list goes on and on, each new entry stinging a little bit more than the one before. And with every closing I can’t help but feel we’ve let down the past, and for the very worst reasons. Like we’re forgetting a little more, each time, about what makes a place a place.
Shorts Illustrated: Menswear always looks better in pencil form—courtesy of N’East Style. [Well Spent] Reporting Live from Turn 3: At the Indy 500, “where irresponsible behavior is mandatory and clothing is optional.” [Grantland]
Casting Dept.: In case you ever end up on the wrong end of a ski trip: Men of Habit digs up an old editorial spread featuring well-heeled men wearing casts. [Men of Habit]
Where Brooklyn’s At: A new form of urban cartography: mapping NYC by the stomping grounds of famous rappers. [A Very Small Array]
Target Acquired: On the heels of successful capsule collections with a few womenswear bigs, Target is now planning one with the impossibly stylish New York men’s shop Odin. Definitely something to keep an eye on. [A Bullseye View]
As the Crow Flies: An aerial slideshow of the secret New York City rooftops that lay hidden to most city dwellers, high above the fray. [NYMag]
Suit Yourself: Mark Zuckerberg’s hooded-sweatshirt-ness has been all fine and dandy until now—when you’ve got a few billion dollars (of real money) at stake, it might be time to get serious. [Bloomberg]
A Good Vintage: Mr. Lean embarks upon the yearly pilgrimage to Brimfield, MA, with fellow vintage enthusiasts, Americana-philes and our very own camouflage-panted editorial director. [A Continuous Lean]
This photo, from the New York City Department of Records’ recently released batch of about 800,000, was taken at a baseball game—but you’d never have guessed it with all those fedoras in the grandstands. Aside from the sight of Babe Ruth signing autographs front and center (this was snapped right before Game 1 of the 1936 World Series), we might as well be looking at Times Square in the ’30s. There’s not a single Yankees cap in the bunch. Compare that to a baseball game nowadays (or anywhere outdoors, for that matter) and it’s a much different story.
Before Stanley Kubrick got into film, he made his bones shooting pictures for LOOK Magazine—and now, a batch of the photos are hitting the market, courtesy of the Museum of the City of New York, shot between 1945 and 1950. His main subject was the nooks and crannies of New York, from boxers to carnival barkers to street kids, all shot with his famous eye for surreal compositions. We’ve thrown together a few of our favorites after the jump.
We were thrilled to learn that an actual hurricane was headed all the way to Manhattan.
Those of us in the northeast only got the tail ends growing up – the oozing (yet benign), detached organs once belonging to Hugo and Andrew and Gloria, and so on. Kids our age in Miami and Charleston and some magical place called “The Outer Banks” were being interviewed by Tom Brokaw on the evening news while horizontal rain pelted them every which way – the type of natural disaster that looks a whole lot like the coolest water park in the world.
The tri-state area, on the other hand, was soon thereafter blanketed with five-to-seven days of non-descript gray piss – just enough to cancel a little league game or a weekend camping trip or (almost) anything else a 12-year-old boy had to look forward to at the end of the summer.