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Day 1: Escape from Calypso
But if you only knew, down deep, what pains
are fated to fill your cup before you reach that shore,
you’d stay right here, preside in our house with me
and be immortal.
There are no princesses here. There is no fragrant bath of oil that awaits me, there are no wise goddesses disguised as heralds to watch over me and guide me to victory. There is only Pitti. There is only the ###. I am no king, triumphant. I could, however, pass as a beggar - which perhaps makes David my Eumaeus. I didn’t have a chance to buy a razor last night before I fell asleep, which means that my neckbeard is even more impressive today. No one will care, right? I don’t care. It’s kind of itchy, though. I’m not sure I was cut out for a beard. My hands are pretty dry, too. Although my hotel seems clean, they didn’t give me one of those tiny little bottles of moisturizer. At least I have my chapstick. I came prepared, this time: Lavender Orange and Coconut Pear are the flavors of choice, and with two tubes I feel less concerned about the inevitability of losing one of them.
I let myself sleep in until eight today, to catch up on the sleep I missed while dealing with yesterday’s (once again) ridiculous journey to Florence, which means that it’s almost ten by the time I’m sorted and ready to get to the funhouse. Unfortunately, after settling on what I hope will be clothing conducive to high-powered air conditioning as well as the Florentine summer, I realize I’m a lovely, uniform green. Whatever. Pitti can deal. Anyway, with my bag finally together, I stride off in a very purposeful and professional manner towards, I think, the Fortezza da Basso, but it turns out it's really the wrong direction. This is it. Let the bullshit begin. The gauntlet is even more ridiculous than last time. I don’t really know what to make of the people standing around in suits, running their hands through their long hair, and waiting to be blogged. What happens if or when they do get a picture taken of them? Maybe they just disappear into thin air. I like to try to take surreptitious photos of people, shooting from the hip, like a gangster might shoot a tommy gun. It is equally inaccurate, but kind of entertaining.
Like I said, the theme of this summer’s farce is “Ping Pong,” which means that, instead of flower-speakers making crazed baby-noises, we get a Kermit the Frog voice saying, I think: “Pitti. Pitti Ping. Pitti Pitti Pong.” I guess I sort of look like Kermit the frog, in a green sweater and green shorts. The helper guy (he does the “showcasing,” he tells me, and to please ask him if I have any questions about the “showcasing,” because he does that) at the Westage booth thinks so too. “Kind of like a green bean,” he tells me. “St. Patrick’s Day,” he says. Ha ha. Very funny. God dammit. I want to explain to him that I only own a single pair of shorts and what do you want me to do stop judging me who cares anyway, but I just sort of laugh and stutter, which is ineffectual and lame. I'm here to work, you F***ers. I knew I should have found a second pair of shorts.
Today is recon day, and I must recon. I make numerous trips to Press Office in an effort to increase the amount of hard-hitting news coverage I provide, but really I just look at anime gifs on Tumblr and chuckle to myself. I see the same woman cleaning the bathroom on a few occasions, and I wonder what she makes of Pitti Uomo. I wonder if she thinks I look like a green bean; if she's been here for years, watching the idiots come and go. I wonder what her name is, if she has a family, if she's happy. I'm too much of a coward to ask. So instead I wander around the outside. Maybe I'll just start taking pictures of these fools, I think, passing a guy in a Tyvek jumpsuit. I'm pretty sure that's for, like, hazmat work or something, not Pitti. Although maybe they're the same thing. A girl is wearing a SnapBack that says "sorry I'm fresh and you're not." I don't even know what that means. There is an ominous banging coming from a hole in the bathroom ceiling.
“Dear human beings," says a recording outside the massive G-Star Raw Pavilion. “Recycling plastic,” says the G-Star, “leads to happy oceans.” Okay, great. Is Aitor here? No? **** off. I pass some guy in a Comme des **** Down shirt. Comme des **** on, dude, that **** was birthed in the air above the shark. I'm trying to find some "urban panorama" place so I can look at Lost & Found, but it's hard when the stream of bloggers and selfie-taking shitheads with pocket squares is constantly threatening to steamroll me. I am reminded of locomotives, and consider the possibility of attaching a "cow catcher" to my front.
Finally, I see a kindred spirit in cargo shorts and a polo. He looks confused. Good on you, dude. I feel that. Christ, are those babies? You people are bringing babies here? This is no place for children. I forgot my Advil today, but I just sort of feel like I have to vomit. Is it time for wine yet? The number of bearded people in white pants is overwhelming. I never want to wear a blazer again. I should tell David, but I think he's beyond saving.
Somehow, the relative heat makes everything surreal. In January, we could all hide behind the darkness, you know? It made more sense to wear a jacket. Now, it’s like the light of day is shining on a place it shouldn’t, like I’m looking behind Oz’s mirror and all I can see are a bunch of clowns in plaid suits with their double monks undone. Stop. Everyone. This has to stop. You, with the double-breasted jacket, pocket square, and shorts. With the sunglasses. Inside. I want to scream, but I can’t. I walk by a brand called Rumjungle, which sounds like a place I’d want to be. It's not real, though. None of this is real. It's like being in the Matrix. The same person walks by, over and over and over again. I run for the exit, past Mr. Shorts-and-Coat, past the throng, through the smoke of a thousand cigarettes, aiming for lunch, for salvation, for liquor. There is no escape. Hell is other people.
At the very least, there is lunch. It does not let me down. There is lasagna (I think), pasta with mussels, roast beef with cabbage, cheese, charcuterie, and most importantly, wine. I like wine. I like everything, though, and eating the pasta reminds me that the pasta I think of as pasta is really just garbage cut into the shape of pasta. Over lunch, David and I discuss professional things, like the idea of writing articles about **** we hate. Maybe that's too mean. Then again, maybe not. I take a picture of his upper half to post on Instagram because I'm kind of a dick. He looks nice, though, and not really like a Pitti blowhard. How do we define that, anyway? I suggest an article in which he, Greg and I drink wine and record ourselves discussing that very subject. For the people, by the people. I refill our wine glasses. I leave an inch in the bottle, though. Normally I'd just finish it, but perhaps that's inappropriate. Then again, it is a method of survival. David has two glasses. I have more. Then I have gelato, which I eat on the way back to the press office. Yeah, that's right. I'm eating gelato as I walk. Stay the **** out of my way or I'll get nocciola on your fashion, you dicks.
Here's the key to getting blogged: be old, Italian, with white hair, and then wear ****. It doesn't matter what. As long your pants are cropped or cuffed, you're golden. I see a man wearing a shirt that says "*******." That’s sort of how I feel. A lot of things are in the same place as last time, and a lot aren’t. The result is confusion, and another first day comprised mostly of wandering around, trying to figure out where I am. And so I take a picture of some people taking pictures. This, I have been assured, is very meta. There was an advertisement outside the train station when I got in, that showed this little boy wearing a tie and just sort of staring at it in confusion. “What is this?” he seemed to be thinking, “How did this get on me?” It’s the way I feel about the whole spectacle. What am I doing here; this is lunacy.
Jun Hashimoto is in the same place, so at least that’s easy. We talk about clothes again. He uses camo at Pitti the way I might use salmon eggs when trout fishing: as bait. Bait that you don't really want to touch. He's a very self-aware dude.
On the way outside, I hear a croaking sound, think for a moment it's the Pitti Pong lunacy, and then realize it's a woman who has probably smoked too many cigarettes. And then, abruptly, the relative sanity of Harris wharf is destroyed when I walk past The Wall. Pitti Ping, say the speakers, while men in sunglasses lounge against the concave concrete, gelato-pops in hand. People take pictures furiously, of the wall, of the people on it, of each other, of the crowds, of themselves. Pitti Pong, says Kermit. One thing I’ve noticed is that - and this was true in January as well - there are a lot of people who don't want to get out of my way. I don't know what to make of them - perhaps I don’t look important enough to be afforded the room to walk. At this point in the day, I dislike them all thoroughly. I need more coffee if I'm going to make it to the end. I’ve had two cappuccino today, and three espresso. I feel slightly light-headed. Water would be in order, but it’s much harder to find.
Everyone just blatantly checks everyone else out, here. What kind of shoes? What kind of coat? Are your ankles showing? Mine are. There are no laces in my vans, but I look like the Jolly Green Giant, and so once again I have no chance at internet fame. Some lady is wearing a perfume I swear I know but I can't place it. A few hours later I smell it again and recognize the syrupy richness of Tom Ford's black orchid. I like that stuff, but it seems a little warm out. But if you want to be smelled in this sea of overbearing fragrances, Black orchid is a decent bet. Every other gentleman is wearing Muscs Khublai Khan, which gives me a headache. The outdoors is no escape, because it’s like standing in an ashtray. Okay, where is Lost & Found? This is getting ridiculous. Well, it already was. It's getting worse. I think I've had too much coffee. My head feels funny.
I take back what I said earlier, back in January. I have no idea why I'm here. I should have had more wine. Last time I declared that this menswear **** was more affected than goth ninja. Now, I’m not so sure. None of it makes sense. Is there any way to be interested in clothing without being a choice collection of swear words? People must buy boatloads of garbage just to come to Pitti. I just buy garbage because I have terrible taste, but I'm not sure there's a difference. Where the **** is Lost & Found? The building doesn't exist. Oh, there it is, sharing a space with...Crocs. I probably see enough of those in Boulder, but if you guys want, I can go back tomorrow and take some pictures of them. Oh, **** me. It's not Lost & Found by Ria Dunn, it’s like a bullshit toy collection or something, with figurines of the Queen and the Pope that wave at you as you walk by. The booth is massive, and completely empty. Are you kidding me?
There was no explanation for this
This is tragic, and so I take a moment to sit on a bench and reconsider. But the bench is made to look like a ping pong table, and is perched atop a number of volleyballs. It does not feel sturdy, so I leave, wandering around and looking for “The Latest Fashion Buzz,” which is in a basement with glasses of prosecco that are not offered to me. By now it’s five thirty, and I think I’ve been here long enough for the day. I return to the hotel for the comforts of air conditioning, water, and internet that is too slow to upload my photos. I’m going to meet David at seven, and try to get into a cocktail event without an invitation. Belgium is playing Algeria though, and I’d much prefer to be watching that than a bunch of self-congratulatory donkeys playing dress-up. I guess I sound bitter. I guess I am bitter. Someone asked me last week if I can take this whole “fashion" thing seriously. No, is the answer, I don't think I can.
Please follow along here for all of Styleforum's Pitti Uomo 86 coverage
But if you only knew, down deep, what pains
are fated to fill your cup before you reach that shore,
you’d stay right here, preside in our house with me
and be immortal.
There are no princesses here. There is no fragrant bath of oil that awaits me, there are no wise goddesses disguised as heralds to watch over me and guide me to victory. There is only Pitti. There is only the ###. I am no king, triumphant. I could, however, pass as a beggar - which perhaps makes David my Eumaeus. I didn’t have a chance to buy a razor last night before I fell asleep, which means that my neckbeard is even more impressive today. No one will care, right? I don’t care. It’s kind of itchy, though. I’m not sure I was cut out for a beard. My hands are pretty dry, too. Although my hotel seems clean, they didn’t give me one of those tiny little bottles of moisturizer. At least I have my chapstick. I came prepared, this time: Lavender Orange and Coconut Pear are the flavors of choice, and with two tubes I feel less concerned about the inevitability of losing one of them.
I let myself sleep in until eight today, to catch up on the sleep I missed while dealing with yesterday’s (once again) ridiculous journey to Florence, which means that it’s almost ten by the time I’m sorted and ready to get to the funhouse. Unfortunately, after settling on what I hope will be clothing conducive to high-powered air conditioning as well as the Florentine summer, I realize I’m a lovely, uniform green. Whatever. Pitti can deal. Anyway, with my bag finally together, I stride off in a very purposeful and professional manner towards, I think, the Fortezza da Basso, but it turns out it's really the wrong direction. This is it. Let the bullshit begin. The gauntlet is even more ridiculous than last time. I don’t really know what to make of the people standing around in suits, running their hands through their long hair, and waiting to be blogged. What happens if or when they do get a picture taken of them? Maybe they just disappear into thin air. I like to try to take surreptitious photos of people, shooting from the hip, like a gangster might shoot a tommy gun. It is equally inaccurate, but kind of entertaining.
Like I said, the theme of this summer’s farce is “Ping Pong,” which means that, instead of flower-speakers making crazed baby-noises, we get a Kermit the Frog voice saying, I think: “Pitti. Pitti Ping. Pitti Pitti Pong.” I guess I sort of look like Kermit the frog, in a green sweater and green shorts. The helper guy (he does the “showcasing,” he tells me, and to please ask him if I have any questions about the “showcasing,” because he does that) at the Westage booth thinks so too. “Kind of like a green bean,” he tells me. “St. Patrick’s Day,” he says. Ha ha. Very funny. God dammit. I want to explain to him that I only own a single pair of shorts and what do you want me to do stop judging me who cares anyway, but I just sort of laugh and stutter, which is ineffectual and lame. I'm here to work, you F***ers. I knew I should have found a second pair of shorts.
Today is recon day, and I must recon. I make numerous trips to Press Office in an effort to increase the amount of hard-hitting news coverage I provide, but really I just look at anime gifs on Tumblr and chuckle to myself. I see the same woman cleaning the bathroom on a few occasions, and I wonder what she makes of Pitti Uomo. I wonder if she thinks I look like a green bean; if she's been here for years, watching the idiots come and go. I wonder what her name is, if she has a family, if she's happy. I'm too much of a coward to ask. So instead I wander around the outside. Maybe I'll just start taking pictures of these fools, I think, passing a guy in a Tyvek jumpsuit. I'm pretty sure that's for, like, hazmat work or something, not Pitti. Although maybe they're the same thing. A girl is wearing a SnapBack that says "sorry I'm fresh and you're not." I don't even know what that means. There is an ominous banging coming from a hole in the bathroom ceiling.
“Dear human beings," says a recording outside the massive G-Star Raw Pavilion. “Recycling plastic,” says the G-Star, “leads to happy oceans.” Okay, great. Is Aitor here? No? **** off. I pass some guy in a Comme des **** Down shirt. Comme des **** on, dude, that **** was birthed in the air above the shark. I'm trying to find some "urban panorama" place so I can look at Lost & Found, but it's hard when the stream of bloggers and selfie-taking shitheads with pocket squares is constantly threatening to steamroll me. I am reminded of locomotives, and consider the possibility of attaching a "cow catcher" to my front.
Finally, I see a kindred spirit in cargo shorts and a polo. He looks confused. Good on you, dude. I feel that. Christ, are those babies? You people are bringing babies here? This is no place for children. I forgot my Advil today, but I just sort of feel like I have to vomit. Is it time for wine yet? The number of bearded people in white pants is overwhelming. I never want to wear a blazer again. I should tell David, but I think he's beyond saving.
Somehow, the relative heat makes everything surreal. In January, we could all hide behind the darkness, you know? It made more sense to wear a jacket. Now, it’s like the light of day is shining on a place it shouldn’t, like I’m looking behind Oz’s mirror and all I can see are a bunch of clowns in plaid suits with their double monks undone. Stop. Everyone. This has to stop. You, with the double-breasted jacket, pocket square, and shorts. With the sunglasses. Inside. I want to scream, but I can’t. I walk by a brand called Rumjungle, which sounds like a place I’d want to be. It's not real, though. None of this is real. It's like being in the Matrix. The same person walks by, over and over and over again. I run for the exit, past Mr. Shorts-and-Coat, past the throng, through the smoke of a thousand cigarettes, aiming for lunch, for salvation, for liquor. There is no escape. Hell is other people.
At the very least, there is lunch. It does not let me down. There is lasagna (I think), pasta with mussels, roast beef with cabbage, cheese, charcuterie, and most importantly, wine. I like wine. I like everything, though, and eating the pasta reminds me that the pasta I think of as pasta is really just garbage cut into the shape of pasta. Over lunch, David and I discuss professional things, like the idea of writing articles about **** we hate. Maybe that's too mean. Then again, maybe not. I take a picture of his upper half to post on Instagram because I'm kind of a dick. He looks nice, though, and not really like a Pitti blowhard. How do we define that, anyway? I suggest an article in which he, Greg and I drink wine and record ourselves discussing that very subject. For the people, by the people. I refill our wine glasses. I leave an inch in the bottle, though. Normally I'd just finish it, but perhaps that's inappropriate. Then again, it is a method of survival. David has two glasses. I have more. Then I have gelato, which I eat on the way back to the press office. Yeah, that's right. I'm eating gelato as I walk. Stay the **** out of my way or I'll get nocciola on your fashion, you dicks.
Here's the key to getting blogged: be old, Italian, with white hair, and then wear ****. It doesn't matter what. As long your pants are cropped or cuffed, you're golden. I see a man wearing a shirt that says "*******." That’s sort of how I feel. A lot of things are in the same place as last time, and a lot aren’t. The result is confusion, and another first day comprised mostly of wandering around, trying to figure out where I am. And so I take a picture of some people taking pictures. This, I have been assured, is very meta. There was an advertisement outside the train station when I got in, that showed this little boy wearing a tie and just sort of staring at it in confusion. “What is this?” he seemed to be thinking, “How did this get on me?” It’s the way I feel about the whole spectacle. What am I doing here; this is lunacy.
Jun Hashimoto is in the same place, so at least that’s easy. We talk about clothes again. He uses camo at Pitti the way I might use salmon eggs when trout fishing: as bait. Bait that you don't really want to touch. He's a very self-aware dude.
On the way outside, I hear a croaking sound, think for a moment it's the Pitti Pong lunacy, and then realize it's a woman who has probably smoked too many cigarettes. And then, abruptly, the relative sanity of Harris wharf is destroyed when I walk past The Wall. Pitti Ping, say the speakers, while men in sunglasses lounge against the concave concrete, gelato-pops in hand. People take pictures furiously, of the wall, of the people on it, of each other, of the crowds, of themselves. Pitti Pong, says Kermit. One thing I’ve noticed is that - and this was true in January as well - there are a lot of people who don't want to get out of my way. I don't know what to make of them - perhaps I don’t look important enough to be afforded the room to walk. At this point in the day, I dislike them all thoroughly. I need more coffee if I'm going to make it to the end. I’ve had two cappuccino today, and three espresso. I feel slightly light-headed. Water would be in order, but it’s much harder to find.
Everyone just blatantly checks everyone else out, here. What kind of shoes? What kind of coat? Are your ankles showing? Mine are. There are no laces in my vans, but I look like the Jolly Green Giant, and so once again I have no chance at internet fame. Some lady is wearing a perfume I swear I know but I can't place it. A few hours later I smell it again and recognize the syrupy richness of Tom Ford's black orchid. I like that stuff, but it seems a little warm out. But if you want to be smelled in this sea of overbearing fragrances, Black orchid is a decent bet. Every other gentleman is wearing Muscs Khublai Khan, which gives me a headache. The outdoors is no escape, because it’s like standing in an ashtray. Okay, where is Lost & Found? This is getting ridiculous. Well, it already was. It's getting worse. I think I've had too much coffee. My head feels funny.
I take back what I said earlier, back in January. I have no idea why I'm here. I should have had more wine. Last time I declared that this menswear **** was more affected than goth ninja. Now, I’m not so sure. None of it makes sense. Is there any way to be interested in clothing without being a choice collection of swear words? People must buy boatloads of garbage just to come to Pitti. I just buy garbage because I have terrible taste, but I'm not sure there's a difference. Where the **** is Lost & Found? The building doesn't exist. Oh, there it is, sharing a space with...Crocs. I probably see enough of those in Boulder, but if you guys want, I can go back tomorrow and take some pictures of them. Oh, **** me. It's not Lost & Found by Ria Dunn, it’s like a bullshit toy collection or something, with figurines of the Queen and the Pope that wave at you as you walk by. The booth is massive, and completely empty. Are you kidding me?
There was no explanation for this
This is tragic, and so I take a moment to sit on a bench and reconsider. But the bench is made to look like a ping pong table, and is perched atop a number of volleyballs. It does not feel sturdy, so I leave, wandering around and looking for “The Latest Fashion Buzz,” which is in a basement with glasses of prosecco that are not offered to me. By now it’s five thirty, and I think I’ve been here long enough for the day. I return to the hotel for the comforts of air conditioning, water, and internet that is too slow to upload my photos. I’m going to meet David at seven, and try to get into a cocktail event without an invitation. Belgium is playing Algeria though, and I’d much prefer to be watching that than a bunch of self-congratulatory donkeys playing dress-up. I guess I sound bitter. I guess I am bitter. Someone asked me last week if I can take this whole “fashion" thing seriously. No, is the answer, I don't think I can.
Please follow along here for all of Styleforum's Pitti Uomo 86 coverage
Last edited:
Colleagues around probably wondered why I chuckled.
