Propaganda New Orleans or "And Now Here's Something You'll REALLY Enjoy...."

Propaganda New Orleans is a new project that the enviously multi-talented Christy Lorio is working on with some of her equally talented New Orleanians (I had to google that; spell check still doubts it). The website and video magazine will focus on topics in and around NOLA and highlight local events, artists, dining, retail and everything else that gives New Orleans such indelible character. Don't feel left out if you're not from the Crescent City, though, there will be plenty of great articles and videos for even the non-native. Check them out here at Propaganda New Orleans.

Catching Up: Remodeling, Hurricanes, Modernism and Everything in Between

I'm sitting here in my kitchen working on a tiny corner of table I've reclaimed from our vast array of kitch. Normally I, along with the kitch, would be in the other room, but currently there are men here fixing the fragmenting ceiling (once, long ago, our building decided to shuffle a bit in its sleep. The resulting spiderweb of lines stretch through most of the apartments). So, banished to the kitchen, I thought it a good time to catch up on some of the events of the last couple months (as for once my lack of writing has been due more to pure laziness than lack of news). My last post was in October, so I'll start there.

Halloween this year held so much promise. Jess and I had planned on a trip to Sleepy Hollow on the Monday prior to tour the graveyard, say hi to Washington Irving and perhaps hunt down a headless horseman. Then Tuesday, Mischief Night, we had planned to join some friends for a night of music, drinks and dancing at the Delancey. Finally on Wednesday we would hand out some candy in the neighborhood before heading down to the Village for the Halloween Parade; a perfect end to our three days of festivities. Instead I spent the week prior watching weather reports and hoping that Sandy would veer off into the sea or fade into a rain storm, neither of which was forecasted. By Friday I had resigned myself to the fact that our plans would be washed out and, indeed, Sleepy Hollow cemetery confirmed that afternoon that they had cancelled graveyard tours for the duration of the storm. So on Sunday, with mass transit scheduled to go offline by 7pm (a serious problem in a city where roughly 70% of the 8 million residents don't own a car) I left work at 5 to go meet Jess. She, unfortunately, was stuck at work awhile longer and advised I try and scrounge supplies at Whole Foods before we left. After waiting in line for 15 minutes just to get into the store, here are the "supplies" we procured:

- French Bread (1 dry loaf)

- Sausages (x 4)

- Assorted Vegetables (non-perishable for at least a few days

- Assorted Cheeses

- Beer (forgetting that Jess had picked up a six-pack the week before, and that I'd also got her a 6 pack of pumpkin beer a couple days later before it was sold out. This left us with no less than three full six-packs plus a bottle of wine I picked up later Sunday night. It may be time for help.)

- Kale Chips

- C Batteries (though our flashlight takes D)

Its more of a list one would make for a Superbowl party than a survival kit for a natural disaster. That night we sat round the television like 20 million others in the tri-state area and waited for the worst of it, which unfortunately we got. Jess and I did luck out, though. We live in Inwood/Washington Heights which is near the northern tip of Manhattan and the highest point on the island. In spite of a couple anxious flickers, our power held and there was no flooding by us. I was also happy to hear that, for the most part, our friends in Brooklyn had escaped relatively unscathed. For the next three days we tried to make the most of being marooned in northern Manhattan, just thankful to be safe and warm. We spent quite a lot of time at the restaurants in the area, had some friends over for an 80's goth themed horror movie marathon (Jess just wanted an excuse to wear the vintage black velvet dress she picked up recently and I just wanted to watch Friday the 13th; luckily Christian and Sam were into the idea also and we made a night of it). For Halloween we walked the neighborhood in costume (I a raven and Jess a magpie) and handed out candy to the throngs of children happy for an excuse to be outdoors after two days of seclusion. Jess was back to work Thursday while my work stayed dark until Friday evening (which is somewhat funny since Jess and I work literally around the corner from one another; on 26th street and 25th street respectively). The oddest experience of the whole storm was when I went down to meet Jess after work on Thursday and stood on the dividing line between the powered and the powerless; south of 25th draped in the thick black veil of darkness, unspoiled in the absence of light and sound. Though it wasn't what we originally planned, it honestly turned out to be a nice few days together and again I'm thankful we were so lucky. Hopefully this doesn't become an annual occurrence, though. The next Tuesday was the election and I'm equally thankful about that. Then a blizzard, then a brief bit of normality to soak in the full scope of the previous weeks, and then suddenly it was Thanksgiving.

Jess and I flew out to Indianapolis on the Monday before Thanksgiving. Our flight took us through North Carolina so I was able to check off two more states I've visited (Indiana and North Carolina, if ever so briefly). Indiana would be my first trip back to the Midwest since I was a teenager and I didn't notice too much difference between it's landscape of alternating fields and trees and Iowa's landscape of fields and trees. We drove south to Columbus where we would be spending the next few days with various grandmothers, aunts and cousins. Columbus, despite being a small Midwestern town, has the unexpected honor of being one of the country's top architectural design destinations. Cummins engines, based in Columbus, made a pledge that they would cover the architectural design fee of any public structure if the city agreed to choose from a list of architects provided by Cummins. Because of this, the city is now home to buildings from some of the 20th century's foremost architects (Eero Saarinen, I.M. Pei, Robert Venturi, etc.). The highlight of the city's seventy plus architectural treasures, for me anyway, was the Miller house. J. Irwin Miller, the 2nd CEO of Cummins, was deeply interested in architecture and was responsible for spearheading the architectural program with the city. Set behind a row of hedges, his expansive single story home was designed by Eero Saarinen (one of his few private residence projects) while the interiors were warmly decorated by Alexander Girrard; it is truly a masterpiece of mid-century modern architecture and design. In addition to various architectural tours, our time was happily spent with family, overindulging in good drinks, good food and good times. It was a great escape from the city and I hope we'll make it back again soon.

By the time we returned to New York the weather had improved dramatically from the snow and rain we bid farewell to only a few days earlier. Jess' birthday was the following Tuesday and it was a much welcomed quiet dinner out at our favorite spot (the Garden Cafe on 207th street and Broadway beats the hell out of anything you'll find in Little Italy). Since then, the city has looked a little more like Christmas with each passing day. I wish the days weren't going so quickly, though. Rather than sitting here watching plaster and paint go up I really need to be starting my Christmas shopping (Jess and I fly out to Wisconsin on the 22nd). Unfortunately my seemingly rational question last week of "can't the repairs wait until after the holidays?" was met with the not quite as rational response of "no, the insurance company wants to get the repairs done quickly". This would make sense if the repairs hadn't remained unattended to for at least the two years we've been in this apartment in addition to however long it was between the building's little shift and our moving in. But, in the spirit of the holidays I'm trying to stay positive and make the best of an annoying situation; hence writing. Hopefully the next entry will be a little less mundane and clouded by paint fumes.

"We Can Be Heroes..." - Cosplay and New York Comic Con 2012

October in New York brings with it so many of my favorite things; cooler days and fall foliage with a hint of pumpkin and the macabre in the air. But in addition to Halloween, October in New York brings yet another anticipated gathering of the costumed, the "weird" and the creative; Comic Con. Second only to San Diego's convention, the New York Comic Con ran from Thursday the 11th through Sunday the 14th this year and was filled with 115,000 collectors, creators, costumes and everyone in-between. And for the third time since moving to New York, my wife and I donned our newly created costumes and joined the fun.

For those who are unaware, cosplay (short for costume play) is one of the staples of any comic con. Cosplay takes on many forms, from those who simply purchase the replica costume to those who spend months working on their own interpretation of the character; assembling already made pieces or creating them by hand. Many of those who eschew "store-bought" replica costumes approach the DIY process with the same obsessive attention to detail and creativity as a painter, sculptor or any other artist and consider this their art form. For those like myself who assemble real world, ready-made clothing and accessory pieces into a convincing representation of a fictional character, the process can be a tedious cycle of trial and error riddled with frustration. It takes patience and an editing eye to execute well. Yet, I can attest that this method, while sometimes difficult, is firmly second to those who spend hours hunched over sewing machines or in their garages laboring with cloth, fiberglass, resin, cardboard, leather, metal, foam and every other conceivable material to bring their vision to life. To put it into more relative terms; my work is a collage, while theirs is oil on canvas and wholly their own.

So given the months of hard work, what is the appeal, then? I've certainly not found a way to make money at it and while there are a few who have gone into cosplay modeling (predominantly women in spandex or latex), the opportunities here are obviously limited (even more so for skinny Riddlers in vintage green suits, as you can imagine). Accolades, too, are few and far between. Aside from a costume contest at some comic cons, there are generally no awards presented in recognition of months spent toiling away at foam rubber. So then why do it? Why spend all that time, effort and money (lots of money) on something with seemingly no reward. I suppose the obvious response would be that the decision making skills and overall sanity of someone that dresses up as a masked villain and parades around in public for a weekend is dubious at best, but in truth cosplay provides ample return for the commitment it demands through immediate feedback (and ideally praise) for your hard work.

When you're walking around and you hear people saying "great costume", "you look awesome" and other such comments, or when people want a photo of you, to me it feels like I've succeeded in my work; that I've created something other people appreciate and for me its a validation of the time and effort, no matter how frivolous and inconsequential cosplay is to life beyond the convention doors. Smiling children are certainly the best part of this; the beaming face of an eight-year-old that genuinely believes that he or she is standing next to THE Batman, or THE Superman has the same warming result as watching kids waiting to meet Santa. When I asked my wife what was her favorite moment at this years comic con she didn't hesitate in mentioning the pint sized Poison Ivy, perhaps 5 years old at most, who spotted her in her Catwoman costume and came running into her arms. Its the same kind of immersion that makes theme parks work; the same willful suspension of disbelief that allows you to fall into the world of a book and its a shared experience with all who attend.

With that said; I've included below a few shots from this years comic con that, I think, provide a brief glimpse into the world of cosplay; whether its store bought or homemade.

We'll start off with the replicas. Generally people that do cosplay frown upon exceedingly expensive reproductions. The feeling is that store bought costumes defeat the purpose; that the idea of cosplay should be about your own attempts to mimic or reinterpret the character. However, store bought costumes can be amazing, as you can see:



Great Cobra Uniforms

                                               



Batman probably spent around $400 on his suit



Again, though, in buying the replica you're not able to make the character your own, which is one of the main components of true cosplay. Certainly the Batman above looks great, but for the cost of the suit he should. The equally good Joker, on the other hand, has an assembled costume. His addition of props like novelty chattering teeth and a comically over sized gun coupled with the fact that he mimicked the wild mannerisms of the character enhance his costume's authenticity and create a more accurate representation than the Batman costume.

Aside from replica costumes like these, there are similarly also people in professionally created costumes throughout the show. They are generally hired to promote something and range from "booth girls" (usually models who have little interest in comics but look good in spandex) to intricate, highly detailed costumes like Bumblebee below:

                                          

Its a really amazing creation, especially when you realize there is a guy inside there who is almost perfectly mimicking the movements of the fan favorite yellow Transformer. However, as I said above, it should look this good because it was professionally done. From a cosplay standpoint, its not as authentic. Great on the surface and amazing to look at, but inherently soulless. The following costume, however, is perfect:



Cardboard, duct-tape and paint





And he transforms!!!

 

He's about eight or so years old and has one of the most creative and inspiring DIY costumes I've seen. From standing robot position, he gets on his hands and knees and all the parts of his costume fall into place to form a car. His father (who should be canonized as best dad EVER) created the costume using duct tape, cardboard and paint (and more engineering skills than I will ever possess). That the piece looks so great in both robot and vehicle form is astounding when you think about the planning that must have gone into it to ensure that everything aligned correctly while still being wearable. This truly is the essence of cosplay; interpreting a character in a unique and personal way while trying to stay true to the character and source material. Though, to be fair, he did have some practice at it from last years comic con:

                                                        Painted Cardboard; Awesome!

Not everybody needs to be able to transform to have a great homemade costume though. Below are a few examples of well executed DIY costumes:



Demona from Gargoyles            Catwoman, Jack Skellington & Daredevil              Joker and Scarecrow

Demona's costume is entirely homemade, including the wings, and looks almost identical to the character in the cartoon. Jack Skellington was a favorite of mine last year and I was happy to see him again this year. He uses a custom suit and stilts to achieve an incredibly accurate portrayal of the character. Scarecrow has actually re-purposed burlap sacks (authenticity is always a plus), while the Joker has assembled his piece from secondhand finds and a great fitting suit that he dyed himself (it was once white). Additionally, his excellent make-up and hair, exhagerated flower and joy-buzzer ring are all small details that lend greater depth and authenticity to the costume as a whole.

For our part; Jessica, Danny and I went as 60s Julie Newmar era Catwoman, 80s/90s classic red Daredevil and Riddler, respectively. I'm happy to say we each received positive responses for our work and were lucky enough to be pulled aside by a few professional photographers who were covering the event. These amazingly skilled photographers are an integral part of the world of cosplay as, aside from smiling children and the occasional snapshot or "great costume", its their willingness to photograph the creations cosplayers have put so much time and effort into that further validates the work. Below are portraits of Jess, Danny and I taken by Senen Llanos on Saturday.

They're really beautiful shots and we're lucky to have been selected by him for photographing (and even luckier that he emailed us when he posted them; too many shots get lost to abyss of the Internet). You can see the rest of his work here http://www.senencito.com/.

For those who participate in cosplay, comic con is over far too soon. Luckily here in New York the event falls close to another favorite costuming occasion; Halloween. After that I, like many others, will start brainstorming my costume for next year; sourcing materials and sketching out plans in the hope that next year's work will be as successful and as appreciated at this year's was. However geeky and inconsequential it is, I can certainly think of worse vices and more dubious "art forms" to partake in.  

Because There's more to Life than Black and Brown

Men have a tendency to gravitate to safe sartorial choices, especially in their accessories. While black and brown are classic and will work with anything, a more colorful choice of accessory can be a great way to infuse your own sense of style into an otherwise muted outfit. Below are a few examples of how to liven up your fall attire this season.

1. Club Monaco Deerskin Gloves, $90.00 (www.clubmonaco.com). 2. Ted Baker Leather Satchel, $340.00 (www.tedbaker-london.com). 3. Burberry Walking Umbrella, $325.00 (www.burberry.com). 4. Valextra Mustard Credit Card Wallet, $380.00 (www.barneys.com). 5. Banana Republic Herringbone Scarf, $60.00 (www.bananarepublic.com). 6. Paul Smith Miller Brogues, $510.00 (www.paulsmith.co.uk).

A Suit of a Different Color....

Open most men's wardrobes and you'll find their suit selection tends to look as though it were rendered in grey scale; with the odd blue, khaki or pattern thrown into the mix for days when they're feeling "daring". This austerity is a holdover from the suit's somber Victorian heyday when it emerged as every gentleman's staple attire. While a mid-weight grey suit truly is the men's equivalent of the Little Black Dress and something that will rise to any occasion, sometimes a gentlemen needs to bring some color and attitude into his wardrobe. Dandies looking to venture outside the classic color scheme seem to be in luck this fall as a deep wine red suit has popped up in at least three fall collections over the last month. Keep in mind, though, that when venturing outside the standard suit color one must tread with caution as there are ample opportunities for catastrophe. Gentlemen know that fit trumps all else and this is never truer than when you try something a bit unorthodox. A too baggy crimson hued suit may leave you looking less rakish and more like a doorman or pimp; neither a desirable outcome. Furthermore, please note that the suits below are not bright, tomato-toned red; they are deep, refined, subtle shades that work well in an evening setting. Which brings me to the final stipulation; a red suit is not to be worn to the office, to court, to funerals or any other place that demands a sense of propriety (with the exception of nuptials, though it depends on the wedding). Showing up to cocktails or a dinner party in your crimson best, on the other hand, brings you one step closer to the rakish cool of dandies like Paul Weller and Johnny Marr; something the rest of us mortals can but strive for. With that said, here are a few options currently in stores:

Skinny Fit 2-piece Suit by Topman

77% Polyester, 20% Viscose, 3% Elastane

$400.00
www.us.topman.com/

I've started off with the worst of the bunch; though I could be biased and I encourage you to make your own decisions. My main qualm with Topman is that their quality doesn't match their price point. It is constructed entirely of man made materials which means it doesn't breath well and won't stand the test of time, but it will still cost you as much as or more than a superior wool or cotton version. The silhouette is nice and its convenient that you can order online; but there are better options. Additionally, I make it a rule not to buy a suit with "Machine Washable" in the care instructions.

Slim fit 3-piece suit by Zara

87% wool, 9% Polyamide, 4% Elastane

$360.00
www.zara.com

This three-piece suit by Zara is absolutely the best of the bunch when it comes to balancing cost, quality and versatility. The tailoring is decent off the rack, it has a high wool content (wool = good) and as you can see the price point for a three-piece is lower than that of both the Ben Sherman suit below and Topman's poorer quality plastic two-piece previously discussed. Anytime you have the chance to buy three-piece, do so. It allows you more versatility for blending it with the rest of your wardrobe which means you get more for your money in the end.

2-piece, 3-button Camden Fit (slim) suit by Ben Sherman

100% wool

$485.00

www.bensherman.com/us

This two-piece from Ben Sherman is the highest quality of the three. Ben Sherman in general tends to be better constructed than Zara or Topman, and they excel in tailoring. The drawbacks of this piece are the three-button jacket rather than two-button (a throwback to the Mods who popularized the look; though I believe a two-button version may be available soon) and the fact that it costs more than the Zara three-piece. In the end though, you would be getting better quality for the cost.

I am a Passenger...

"Oh the passenger
He rides and he rides
He sees things from under glass
He looks through his window side
He sees the things that he knows are his
He sees the bright and hollow sky
He sees the city sleep at night
He sees the stars are out tonight
And all of it is yours and mine
And all of it is yours and mine
So let's ride and ride and ride and ride"    

                              Iggy Pop - The Passenger

Moment 1: The station's hot and rank with trash and grime and as the sweat drips from my collared neck I stare down the dark tunnel and think of the cool car just beyond the approaching light. I am a passenger. The car is hot but empty and I sit and tap impatiently as we stop at 34, then 42, then 55 and finally at 59 where I dash out of the broiling can. I spy the A through a stairwell and pick up my pace. Down the stairs; rush, rush, dodge, rush, step, step, step through the closing doors; "Please stand clear of the closing doors". I am a passenger. The car is cool but crowded; no room to move, "pardon my step"; No room to breathe, "pardon my breath"; no room for reading, "pardon my stare". Ads I've read a thousand times run the length of the car and I read them over again wondering when they'll be rote. People insulating me; insulating themselves; hiding in words and music and moving pictures and sometimes hiding in stares; in ignorance. Ignoring the people. People standing, people sitting, people hanging from bars. People yelling, people smiling, people scowling and sneering and stealing and groping people, people, PEOPLE! Gotta get home, long day of work; need to get home, no time for beggars; want to just get home and away from the underground and the people and the chaos and the noise and the people and the PEOPLE! I am a passenger, and each day I ride... 

Moment 2: The train is bright; bright with light, with smiles and with people. People drifting home after dinners and drinks and dalliances and debauchery. We are all passengers on the same path; all destined for domesticity; for elevators and apartments and beds and the sleeping away of too many drinks. There is breakdancing and beatboxing to the broken beat of the constant clattering train and under the strobing lights of passing stations we all smile and laugh and wade leisurely in the warming jovial camaraderie of a boozy haze. Together we are passengers, and we ride and we ride and we ride into the night….

Moment 3: There was a delay; there's always a delay. I'm starved and the bags weigh me down and with each passing step the migraine squeezes tighter. As we exit the terminal the wind and cold are waiting to welcome us as only a New York winter can. The taxi line is long and I think I'll be used to the cold in a moment or two but as the minutes drag and my teeth chatter the hope slips further away. The taxi provides relief; even with its "lived in" upholstery, acrid with smoke and soda and ancient, rotted leather. Its a luxury after a long day of lines and flights. The numbness recedes slowly; my body warms and remembers the aches of a day spent in transit and I melt into the cushioned seat as we speed through Queens.  Manhattan peaks above Astoria's tree lined streets; a teasing glimpse hinting at it's its towers and lights and life and energy and that same sensation returns, the feeling that accompanies every refreshed view of the city; the surreal realization that I live here; I live HERE!   I close my eyes over the Triborough and let the city take me again, once more blissfully into the maelstrom, into the deafening euphoric deluge of pulsating dreams. I am a passenger.

Moment 4: The street weary leather soles of my brogues clack across the pavement and echo against the canyon of brownstones. I follow the streets; they know where to go. I follow them from asphalt to cobblestone and back again. Through winding park paths; through puddles of slush and piles of trash; under bridges and overpasses. They guide me through the night, tarted up in its electric best. They part and join and amble and end, west odds to east evens; each a separate vignette of time and place. Weaving their way through a tapestry of history and future colliding in an explosion of noise and light and kinetics. They carry me through the pulsing life of the metropolis; pushing forward, looking back They remind me that I am only a passenger, and I ride.

"The Future is Unwritten" - Rembembering Joe...

This past Tuesday would have been Joe Strummer’s 60th birthday had we not lost him like so many of our great voices. He was only 50 when he died and its hard to believe its already been ten years without him. In their prime the Clash were widely christened “The Only Band that Matters” and that sentiment has lost none of its truth in the passing years. With Paul bringing the style and swagger, Mick supplying consummate musicianship and Joe giving voice to the cause, the Clash succeeded in transcending the numerous labels heaped upon them in their all-too-brief existence. They were too big for punk and 2-tone’s limited scope but never lost sight of the values intrinsic to those worlds; infusing them into their later experimentation with rockabilly, rap, pop and the endless directions they pursued. They were punk with a soulful spirit; 2-tone with an incensed snarl; pop with an idealist’s manifesto. The intensity of their performances is legendary and has been described variously as a rallying discourse, a religious experience and a call to arms. It was the kind of intensity and urgency that can’t be controlled or sustained, always growing and looking for a release, and they would succumb to its pressure after ten short years, six albums and a vibrant flash of inspiration that we’re still only just learning to fully appreciate.

I was nine or ten the first time I heard Joe’s voice. I remember stumbling upon a cassette copy of Combat Rock somewhere around the house that must have belonged to my sister or one of her friends before she moved out. The only music I’d really been exposed to at this point were my parent’s old records; Steppenwolf, Janis, Elvis…not the worst but certainly not my own. I remember thinking the first time I heard “Know Your Rights” that it was unlike anything I’d ever heard before; it sounded angry and a little weird to my novice ears. There was a definite, desperate passion in the voice; he was pleading for me to listen, to act, to do….something, though I didn’t know what. I listened to the tape a few times and smiled whenever I heard “Rock the Casbah” or “Should I Stay or Should I Go” on the radio, thinking to myself “Hey, I know what this is”. After awhile my tastes changed; within a few years I was caught up in a whirlwind of De La Soul and Tribe Called Quest and The Clash had slipped away with my parent’s Buddy Holly and Creedence albums. I never saw the cassette after those first few months.

I didn't find the Clash again until I was sixteen. I was looking for new sounds and a brief flirtation with Nirvana and grunge provided a smooth transition into punk.  Whereas with my first experience I had jumped in at the end when the band was on the verge of collapse, this time I started in their frantic, idealistic youth. After hearing “Janie Jones” on a local AM punk radio show and being reminded of my first introduction a few years earlier I almost immediately ran out and picked up their 1977 self titled release . It was everything my angst-ridden teenage heart and soul yearned for; loud, confrontational, inspiring, alive. Songs like “White Riot”, “Hate and War” and “Career Opportunities” fueled my anger over social injustice and inequality and gave my teenage anger a cause to rail against and the words with which to do so. I spent the latter part of my teen years devouring Joe’s words; his thoughts and ideals about equality and justice. His belief that the poor and downtrodden masses were worth something; something more than their current lot anyway. That they deserved to be heard and the Clash could deliver this message to the world without compromising their integrity or losing sight of the message. I believed in the Clash and their message and still do to this day.

As my tastes evolved over time I was pleased to find that the Clash’s expansive catalogue kept pace. The two-tone beats of “Rudie Can’t Fail” and “Wrong ‘em Boyo” were there for my obsessive Specials phase while the haunting strums of “Straight to Hell” complimented my more melancholy tastes. I have sat and listened to "London Calling" until the days were indistinguishable and spread themselves leisurely across the span of a fortnight or more, and there have been near year-long stretches where I've not heard a word in Joe's voice, but have thought warmly of the words with the knowledge that they were intrinsically part of me. Other than the Cure no band has woven itself so completely into my fabric.

I remember the last and only time I saw Joe live; playing a small club in Phoenix with the Mescaleros. A weeknight concert and the general set-up of the club allowed me to push my way to only a few feet from the stage.Joe paced the spotlit stage; boxing our ears with his well honed  verbal assault that had lost none of it's frenetic energy after two decades of touring. I'd like to say I remember every song he played; every note and every word that transpired over those two hours, but in my excitement it passed before me in a glorious, hazy dream scape of sight and sound. When the encore came he spoke of Joey Ramone who had died less than a year earlier; about the importance of the Ramones to the Clash and every English band in the early punk years (and, in truth, to every rock band since as we are now realizing). He closed the night with a cover of Joey's classic "Blitzkrieg Bop"; and then the Blitzkrieg was over. I went home feeling like I'd cheated time somehow; that I'd been allowed a glimpse of some transitory yet timeless phenomenon, like the last bit of dream bleeding into the waking dawn. By the end of the year he was gone.

I'm older now; my hair isn't blue anymore and I packed my patch and button covered jacket away years ago. Most of all I'm not the angry, confrontational, punk I used to be. I know what I believe and try to live by those beliefs and let others do the same; but there are times when I feel the anger building just below the calm, responsible exterior; this twisting, clawing indignation building in the back of my throat at whatever social injustice has stirred me. I feel it and I know it's Joe reminding me to keep fighting the wrongs of the world; that there are some beliefs that must hold true and not be compromised. I don't know if its a code to live by, or whether it means he's my hero, but I like to think I'm a better man because I have that guiding voice. In the end Joe wouldn't have wanted to be thought of as a hero anyway; had that sort of status attracted him he could have achieved it by simply following in the footsteps of his father, a diplomat, or his mother, a nurse. Instead he chose a life where the music and the message were the weapons of change for a voiceless, downtrodden majority. In the end he is more than a hero; he is words and ideas that continue to inspire. With that in mind, I'll end with some of those words:

     “I'd like to say that people can change anything they want to; and that means everything in the world. Show me any country and there'll be people in it. And it's the people that make the country. People have got to stop pretending they're not on the world. People are running about following their little tracks. I am one of them. But we've all gotta stop just following our own little mouse trail. People can do anything; this is something that I'm beginning to learn. People are out there doing bad things to each other; it's because they've been dehumanized. It's time to take that humanity back into the centre of the ring and follow that for a time. Greed... it ain't going anywhere! They should have that on a big billboard across Times Square. Think on that. Without people you're nothing."

• Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten (2007)

I LoveHate you, New York...

Saturday the 18^th marks two years in New York for Jess and I; though often times the city still feels so completely alien and new. As is the case with any point on a map its life’s little, stolen moments of bliss that matter, not the few grandiose occasions that generally involve far more stress than enjoyment in the end. This is exponentially true in New York where realizing that you’re sitting in the sand at Rockaway Beach with the Ramones blaring in your ears renders all that day’s troubles to nothing more than vague background noise. Walking through winding streets in Greenwich Village; stumbling through the doors of a new found bar or restaurant that is this weeks “best food I’ve ever had in my life!”, these are moments of surreal perfection that only a handful of places in the world will ever be able to deliver.

Admittedly, however, there are also times when it seems like we’ve been here ages; too long to remember the hopes and dreams that brought us here and far past the point when the city’s sights are able to distract from the indelible struggle of life lived in subways and single room apartments with eight million other’s pushing against the same current as you. Your patience, once seemingly without limit, is spent by mid morning; the weather is perpetually too something not ideal, be it hot, cold, rainy, humid, snowy etc, etc. Your annoyance with yet another person begging for money on the A train when you’re just trying to get home from work is only compounded by your self-directed anger that you don’t care more about a fellow human’s misery when you know you should. You start questioning the kind of person you’ve become; what the grime and cynicism and intolerance of this city has turned you into. You wonder if leaving will bring you back to normal; a part of you is terrified it won’t.

I was talking with a friend and mentioned my love-hate of New York and she, a fellow transplant with a full two decades under her belt, said that feeling is the bond that unites most New Yorkers, especially those not born in the city. The discussion progressed until the realization hit us that living in New York is not un-like being in an abusive relationship. You’re initially attracted by the adventure and inherent coolness of it all; so hip, so cultured; full of parties and romance and knowledge. When you first start this relationship all you see is the excitement and adventure and you willfully ignore any incongruence. You fight for your new love; defend it against naysayers and question the mental faculties of any who would cast aspersions. When you start coming home in anger or tears; when you’re a little shorter with the people you encounter, you refuse to believe it could stem from your new surroundings. After awhile your calls to friends and family to remind them of how great it all is in New York morph into exasperated rants about being broke and the goddamned cold and the goddamned trains and how amenities used to be a pool, storage, weight room, fire place, patio and in apartment laundry and have somehow now been redefined as an elevator and an in building communal laundry, They tell you to just leave; you’re miserable. Deep down though, the thought terrifies you. You can’t leave; leaving means giving up and more than that you know, you absolutely KNOW that nowhere else could be as great as New York. Besides, it will get better, eventually.

I guess that little bit of hope is really the key to lasting in this city. I’ve known people who’ve come to New York on their parent’s dime and were back home within a couple months. Jess and I showed up two years ago homeless and jobless with four bags and two dogs; somehow we’re still here. For how much longer we’re not sure, but for now those few perfect moments are enough to nullify, or at least dampen the noise. The best example of this I can share occurred one Monday night this past summer. We had gone to a late movie at Lincoln Square on the upper west side and after the cinema spilled its crowds out into a perfect eighty degree city night we skipped the closest subway for one nearer the park. We walked through the night down the streets lined with stately, quiet mansions and museums; laughing and talking and feeling like the sleeping city was new and vibrant and at that moment belonged only to the lovers and dreamers awake enough to see its silent beauty. We got to the train and leaned against the pole as it ferried us and our fellow passengers swiftl and unnoticed beneath the streets and buildings that still echo the horns and voices of Harlem’s golden age. We’re talking, and laughing and just over Jess’ shoulder I can see the man laying down; sleeping; blissfully unaware of where the train would take him, as in truth we all were on some level. He twitched. He stirred. He shuffled in his haze. He snorted and rolled to his side and as he unzipped and began covering himself, the bench and the floor of the car in piss I gave Jess a calm and resolute look and stated “you need to follow me this way; NOW”. I pulled her toward the far end of the car, near the other passengers huddled close to the implied safety of the exit. Amidst the disgusted exultations of the passengers the man nearest me looked at Jess and I and spoke the timeless mantra which succeeds in excusing all the city’s transgressions to those willing to accept the truth of it’s simple reasoning; “Goddamn Man! Only in New York!!”

To infinity and beyond....

The Mars rover Curiosity is scheduled to touch down around 1:30am this evening and for fourteen minutes we won’t know if it ended in nothing more than a cloud of red dust and a tangle of twisted metal and wire. The unfortunate truth is that even if the rover sticks a landing so improbable that the entire scenario seems more based in science fiction than science fact, it will in all likelihood count for little in swaying the current opinion of space exploration; that we are better off worrying about the problems on earth than dreaming about the stars. The justifiable concern is that a disastrous landing would lead to complete disillusionment in the Mars program and a moratorium on our efforts to explore further; that the aspirations of the great, golden space age of the last century will finally be snuffed out entirely in our retreat from adversity. The truth is that space exploration compensates for the millions invested not in rocks or soil samples, but in increased knowledge and new technologies for all mankind; in inspiring us to work together to solve greater problems and in renewed hope and optimism for the human race. It forces us to embrace our future; to not wallow in our apathy or resign ourselves to the dystopian world that some would say is all but inevitable. It fosters the belief that one day all the sacrifices made and “wasted” efforts will lead to a discovery of such importance that it will unite us against our shared problems to benefit mankind as a whole. With that in mind I say good luck and safe landings with the hope that it marks a new age of exploration rather than signaling an end to an adventure that has barely begun.

Hiatus...

After a half a year of no posts I arrived at a conclusion; while I love fashion, I inherently dislike fashion blogs. Fashion will continue to be a frequent topic, however I've decided to broaden the scope a bit and include the many other thoughts, obsessions and peculiarities that run through my mind on a daily basis. With that in mind I've chosen a more appropriate title, Tommyrot, which better describes the future writings to be found here (i.e. nonsense). I'll try to keep posts more frequent, though I make no promises.

Cheers,
The Dandy Gent (Still)

How to Avoid Being Mistaken for an Ice-Cream Cone and Other Helpful Tips...

I’ve heard that if you ask for what you need the universe will eventually deliver, in its own way. For some time I had been on the hunt for a heavy coat as an alternative to my Spiewak pea coat. I was beginning to grow search weary when I happened upon a perfect piece by Schott Bros. NYC. The red and black plaid heavy wool coat has faux sherpa lining, a western cut yoke and leather buttons. Truthfully, I had my initial reservations about the piece given that my personal style is inclined more toward urban gentleman than rural rancher. However, rather than the traditional boxy, ill-fitting jackets that typify this particular style I found an impeccably tailored coat that fits better than most blazer’s I’ve tried on. This highlights one of the most important qualities of any garment; the fit. This simple three letter word should carry more weight than any designer name as even the most expensive suit will look abysmal if the tailoring isn’t correct for the body beneath it.

There is an unfortunate discrepancy between the ways clothes are marketed to men versus how they are marketed to women. Dispersed between the shots of models with their unrealistic physiques, one generally finds in women’s magazines helpful pointers on what styles work best with different bodies and what a woman who is “pear shaped” should avoid. These are not rules, but rather advice on how to dress the figure you’ve been given in the most flattering way, highlighting the assets and downplaying the imperfections, regardless what fruit your body is akin to. It is something almost wholly lacking in men’s magazines, which is unfortunate since highlighting whatever assets we’ve been bestowed with should be as important to men as it is to women. If they must daily live with unreal expectations of perfect hair, flawless make-up and stylish clothes then a man can certainly dress himself in clothes that fit.

The incorrect assumption is that one must be in peak physical condition in order to look good in their clothes. The “ideal” body shapes; a broad shouldered small waisted triangle for men and a curvy hourglass for women, would seem to exclude about 80% of the people on the planet. The truth is that these body types have, for better or worse, been considered attractive for at least the last four hundred years and well before we were counting calories and attempting to keep up with our gym regimen. In the absence of healthy diets, trips to the gym or exceptionally generous genes, clothes were tasked with creating the silhouettes deemed most appealing to those we wished to appeal to. This is as true today as it was then. There is not much difference in shape between the universally flattering A-Line skirt sold at J-Crew every year and the tight-bodice, full-skirt gowns of the 18^th century. Each is intended to highlight or give the illusion of a narrow waist while downplaying hips. It is a fine example of combining form and function with the added bonus that women today have been liberated from suffocating, corseted bodices.

So how do the technicalities of fit and proportion work with men’s styles? Unless you wear a kilt or have embraced the man-skirt along with Marc Jacobs, all that talk about A-lines must seem quite superfluous. However, men’s clothing is supposed to be as flattering to our shapes as a woman’s blouse is to her figure. Blazers, for example, should fit close to the body without being tight and nip in at the waist to help create the illusion of broad shoulders, even in instances where they are lacking (the excessive shoulder padding of the 1980’s also attempted to make up for this, however this is the poorer option as when you actually increase the shoulder size your head appears smaller by comparison; a look flattering to no one). Pants should be slim (not tight) and straight legged, or with at most the subtlest taper below the knee. This uniformity of line creates the illusion of height (the illusion is ruined, however if your pants are too long and pool at the cuff) and helps avoid the ice-cream cone shape one achieves by wearing pants which start out pleated and baggy at the waist and taper through the whole leg (a look solidified when one wears a too-large white button-up billowing out over a belt like some giant scoop of vanilla). Thin gentlemen should avoid wider lapels and ties as they will look like a child in their father’s work clothes; while larger gentlemen shouldn’t attempt skinny lapels and ties that will only highlight the expanse of shirt on either side. It seems a bit daunting at first, and again these are by no means steadfast rules, but taking these and other techniques of fit and proportion into consideration will help you achieve a look that is most flattering to your body. The way a garment fits entirely affects the outcome of the look. The aforementioned Schott jacket, regardless of its warmth, the great discount on price or its maker, would not have been a good purchase if I looked more like a lumberjack in it than someone who appreciates heritage brands. Fit is the too-seldom considered trait that makes all the difference.

The Curated Closet and Chasing Cary Grant down the "Middle of the Road"

Given my obsession with gentlemen’s fashion and my perpetual quest to achieve the same level of sophisticated cool as Cary Grant, my wife recently presented me the perfect gift. While researching issues of GQ from the 60’s for a project, she stumbled upon a couple interviews with the style icon and thoughtfully copied them for me. The three articles were each about a year apart from one another, yet there was a common theme that highlights why Grant is widely considered the archetype of the modern gentleman; an approach which should be the cornerstone of any stylish man’s philosophy.

When asked about perpetually being included on best dressed lists throughout his long career, Grant attributed this success to a style he refers to as “middle of the road”. This in no way implies that his clothes were overly conservative in style, as those that are tend to look outdated as rapidly as those that are overly trendy. Rather, it means he chose items that were timeless and would withstand the subtle changes in taste that transform every wardrobe over time. Today the best term I’ve heard for describing this philosophy is the “curated closet”.

The idea of curating your closet implies that, with a few exceptions, only items that coincide with your style and aesthetic are allowed into your wardrobe. Furthermore, these should be items that are not overtly trendy, but also not too conservative as to ensure their longevity. It is a disciplined approach as it means denying yourself something that you somewhat like in favor of the piece that perfectly fits the aesthetic you are trying to achieve. For my own style, the first step was omitting, or at least minimizing logos. This was not unlike a sea-change from the style choices of my early twenties and took some getting used to. After time, however, I realized that my goal was to dress in a way that the clothes spoke for themselves rather than a label speaking for them. It is, however, an ongoing discipline; I’ve forced myself to pass on really great G-Star or Diesel jackets, something at which each brand excels, because of their aggressive use of labels, at which they also both excel. Choices such as the ever-enduring two-button jacket rather than the more transitory one or three-button, the slim straight-leg trouser/jean as opposed to the baggy or skin-tight, or the round toe shoe instead of something mimicking a duck’s foot; all work seamlessly into any wardrobe. They are pieces that will remain viable for years to come (in one article; Cary Grant claimed that one suit he was routinely photographed in was nearly fifteen years old).

It’s not to say that one should cling desperately to every piece, or that one should shun every fashion trend as if it were the plague; the key is editing. Get rid of items that no longer work with your style or that are showing all the wrong signs of age (there is a difference between leather brogues with a fine patina and ones which are scratched and stained with age).  Work current trends into your base wardrobe subtly; a piece here and there rather than drowning in a fad entirely and only those which work with your already established style. This approach will help you achieve and maintain a lasting wardrobe rather than throwing money at fleeting fads year after year.

Most importantly, this approach is unique in that it both requires confidence and fosters confidence. In choosing the “middle of the road” and curating a closet, the onus of maintaining style is entirely upon the wearer. No longer can a brand name or homogenous graphic carry you. The success of the outfit depends solely on your choice of fit, texture, color and the myriad subtleties that make up true personal style; style that, as I’ve heard said, translates the way you see yourself to those around you. It reciprocates this initial offering of confidence by allowing you to feel more confident in your own individuality; that you are presenting yourself rather than a conglomeration of logos. It has the added bonus of inspiring comments like “I like your style” from those whom we welcome such comments.