- Joined
- Feb 10, 2009
- Messages
- 8,543
- Reaction score
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Mr. Moo
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: “Asps…very dangerous. You go first.”
“Let me tell you about my laundry pile,” says your landlord as he walks you through his house. He’s a large man, imposing, in spectacles and a heavy leather jacket. He’s also a sweetheart, and over the course of your tenancy, he and his wife have often treated you to bizarre Russian pastries and loud, ebullient parties.
“Why?” you ask. “I don’t need to see your laundry pile. I just came to get my deposit.”
“It’s very well-organized,” he says, sounding hurt. His deep voice makes the indignant tone amusing. “You say ‘deposit,’ then you stay for dinner, and you won’t look at my laundry pile? Now you move out? Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“Dude, I do not care,” you say, fighting your way above the guilt. “Seriously. Could I please just have my check?”
Your landlord is a cool guy, and his wife is a great cook, but…come on. He has the weirdest esoteric interests, pretends to be Mr. Suburban, but always tries to talk to you about designer clothing. The extent of your interest is in collecting band tees. Your own laundry pile is less a “laundry pile” and more of a “slightly worn” pile.
“I keep it separated based on color and fabric content,” he says, ignoring you and ushering you towards a bookshelf. His tone, as always, is both nonchalant and full of combative belligerence. It must be a family thing, brought over from the old world.
“That’s wonderful, but I…” He stops in front of the shelf, pulls a book away from him, and the entire wall swings open. Silently, he ushers you down a flight of dark stairs, and after a longer descent than you expected, you emerge in a massive cave.
Massive, monolithic white cubes hulk in the shadows of the cavern, running into the distance in loose rows. They rumble ominously, agelessly; round, transparent portholes on the front offer glimpses of tumbling colors and the rush of frothing water lit by some sort of phosphorescence. Some are covered in ancient lichens, and you can see others in the distance that have crumbled and fallen.
Your landlord adjusts the collar of his leather jacket and turns to survey the field of giant, ancient machines. Silhouetted in the eldritch glow of the cave, he plants one heavily-booted foot on the stony ground and raises an arm to the giants in front of him.
“Behold,” he says, “the greatest secret of my people.”
The Goods:
Bomber: Schott x Barneys goat leather bomber
Shirt: Self Edge x Al's Attire x Cone Mills
Jeans: Levi's 511
Boots: Guidi 796Z - backzip, double heel, double sole, in full grain horse.
You’re wearing an interesting mix brands here – by which I mean that we might not normally see Guidi rubbing shoulders with Schott leather and denim. One poster referred to your outfit as “superdad,” another as “#dadcore in the best way.” What informs your purchases?
Contrary to my almost 14,000 posts on a forum catering to men's style, I don't particularly involve myself in the clothing world. I don't go to fashion shows or visit many iconic landmark shops. I don't attend StyleForum meetups. Clothing, for me, is something that I don't take seriously, so I free myself from rules in order to try new combinations, new brands, new ideas. I sell clothing that I can't return and that doesn't work for me. If I haven't worn it in 6 months, it's gone. There is just too much cool **** out there to try to stick to one brand, one style, one look. I'm in a suit and tie most weekdays, so on weekends I'm wearing all kinds of stuff, from boat shoes and polos (hi jet), to what you see in my last WAYWT post: a leather, nice boots, jeans. It's fun for me to try new things as often as possible, and sometimes items that don't usually "work" together end up in great harmony. And then I harvest the thumbs of my cohorts.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gettoasty
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: "The king is the land!"
The guide motions to the nub of a stick that pokes out above the peat of the fen. “This,” he says, “was placed here long ago. Supposedly, this log measures the depth of the lake. No one has ever been able to pull it out, and we believe it has been here as long as the bog itself. The acidity of kettle bogs has preservative properties, and many things have been pulled out of them.” You think it sounds a bit silly, but the small tour group Oohs and Ahhs with appropriate reverence.
One man in particular is hanging on the guide’s every word. He’s been walking next to you for the duration of the tour, and sticks out because he doesn’t look like an eco-tourist. He has short-cropped hair, and holds himself very erect, his hands at his sides in a manner that seems almost tense – or anticipatory. Either that or he has to pee. Neither the drizzle nor the insects seem to bother him, while you, after leaving yet another bloodied insect corpse on your neck, feel ready to escape the creeping wetness that’s worming its way into the seams of your poncho.
The hell with bogs.
“I’ll do it,” says the man next to you. It is the first time he has spoken. The guide looks up at him sharply, eyeing him carefully. Finally, coming to some sort of decision, he nods and moves aside.
The man steps forward, eyes hard, his movements confident and purposeful. The tour group is silent, watchful. Bending slowly, he grasps the muddy stick with both hands. He breathes deeply, and then strains against the wood. At first, nothing happens. You realize that you are holding your breath. Then, slowly, the log begins to move, sliding against the ooze of the bog with a slurp. Moss clings to it as it rises, and he keeps pulling, hand-over-hand. The rain has stopped. The stick is moving faster now, more and more of the ancient wood exposed to the air after an eternity spent buried in the murk. The man in the leather jacket isn’t straining anymore – no, it’s as if the wood is rising from the depths at his command, endlessly, endlessly; until, triumphantly, a full thirty feet of it comes free, finally free, and as sunlight bursts through the clouds, he raises it above his head with both hands.
The Goods:
Jacket: Rick Owens
Shirt: Cool Try
Pants: Hope
Boots: Guidi
Your sizing adventures, as well as your wild vacillation between MC casual and SW+D – styled outfits, have made you something of a cult figure on SF. Do you intentionally draw links or find overlap between your work and casual clothes? Why do you buy what you buy?
I have these really cool trousers by Miharayasuhiro (Hey, B!CD) that are in a silky fabric that initially reminded me of polyester but are 100% virgin wool that will look cool once alterations are done. CM regulars can appreciate the hand; virgin wool signifies “quality rating,” and construction is done well. SW&D contributors can be thankful for the comfortable drawstring waistband, and amazing weight that allow the trouser to drape in an airy way reminiscent of Yohji's aesthetic. Learning how a garment fits, communicating that to a tailor and seeing the fitting is a wonderful process everyone with interest in clothing should at least experience once. You realize and appreciate how much CM and SW&D have in common, whether it is balancing the way clothes fit on your body, or be fascinated by the details prevalent in clothing no matter which side you adhere to more—colors, textures, and fit.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chiggah
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: “If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”
The car rental office in Toulouse is packed. You dutifully step in line behind a young man reading the paper, accidentally bumping his arm.
“Sorry,” you say, and he looks over at you. He’s wearing all black, and his mode of dress, particularly the loose blazer he has thrown over his shirt, looks as if it were taken from Edwardian times.
“No problem,” he says, in English. “Where are you headed?”
“Carcassonne,” you say, smiling.
“I just came from there, actually,” he says, “vacation?”
“For work, actually. I’m writing a book on the Cathars.”
The man says nothing, and you look over.
“You OK?”
The man smiles at you again. “Just tired,” he says, and then continues slowly, looking away. “You know, the Cathars were wiped out eventually. The northerners called it a crusade. Said they were heretics. We get a lot of tourists down there, looking for blood.”
“Yeah. I guess that includes me. I’m writing about medieval mystics. There was this weird belief that the Cathars had some sort of power over nature; that they could use crystals to heal the body and even extend human life. Some people say they knew the secret of immortality.”
The man raises his head quickly, staring at you.
“Kind of crazy, huh?” you say.
“They killed so many,” says the man. His face is ashen.
“They did,” you say, thinking he sounds interested. “Languedoc-Roussillon was a major seat of literature and learning, enjoying the wisdom that had been preserved in the Moorish kingdoms. I think that part of that wisdom was something special. Something powerful. Something the church wanted, and wanted badly enough that they were willing to destroy an entire people to get it.”
“They murdered Raymond,” the man mutters. “They killed our women and children.” Reaching down to grab his briefcase, he starts to walk away.
“Wait,” you say, grabbing his arm. “What do you mean, ‘our?’”
The man stares at you, his eyes intense, almost crazy. “Listen to me,” he says, “you have no idea what you’re getting into. Stay away from Carcassonne. And whatever you do, stay the hell away from Béziers.”
You look at him in confusion.
“War is coming,” he says, his eyes distant. “This time, we cannot lose.”
The Goods:
Blazer: Paul Harnden
Shirt: Rick Owens
Pants: Boris Bidjan Saberi
Boots: Carol Christian Poell
You occupy the darker, gothier side of the SF spectrum. Where does this inclination come from?
My style philosophy is to keep my pieces minimal and focus on a silhouette that suits my build; nothing with unnecessary pockets, buttons or straps. I have experimented with both types of aesthetic, but my inspiration tends to lean towards these darker shades because it blends well with lighter shades and does not stand out too much, whilst still clearly displaying the details such as textures, weave patterns and natural creases. At the same time, it does not scream “depressing pitch black.” You can't go wrong with black shoes, pants and jacket, and then pair the under layers with a lighter colour.
Living in New Zealand, we don't get much chance to examine these garments in real life. Hence, reading articles over the forums gives me special interest & extra awareness towards these artisanal labels. When I’ve actually handled one, I really appreciate the construction and artistry on these garments.
With regards to my own personal style, I have reached a point where I have stopped experimenting with what is suitable for me and know what I actually need. I am currently working towards minimal layering and accessorizing.
I shall end my thoughts with buying & selling; I prefer to spend extra for the pieces I really admire, than to settle for less, and sell at a marginal loss if I valued another piece higher. Be patient, don’t make impulse purchases and ask for various opinions on the fabric and construction.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Diniro
Original WATWT post here
What this looks like: "1984? Yeah right, man. That's a typo. Orwell is here now. He's livin' large. We have no names, man. No names. We are nameless!"
Airport lounge. Munich. No sleep on the leg from Boston. Mercifully, a Discovery Channel nature program is playing on the television in front of you, rather than the usual stock market news.
A young man takes a seat next to you, sighing with relief. He looks over at you, and you scowl back, reaching for your headphones.
The TV is showing a tropical tree frog of some sort, and you pause for a moment to stare at its beautiful coloring. The businessmen next to you are talking about profits. You’ll get the first million within the week, one is saying into a Bluetooth headset.
The young man looks at you again, obviously trying to make conversation. “Ahh, I loathe the airport,” he says.
“Yeah,” you say, “impossible to get any personal space.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, lifting his feet and putting his weird sneakers on the armchair across from you.
The image on the TV has switched to some sort of arboreal snake, beautiful and dangerous.
Right, we can get another million from the investors. Yeah, yeah. They won’t give it a second thought.
“Now, for someone like me,” says the young man, refusing to take a hint, “Although I hate airports, I find them to be an excellent place to get work done. He reaches down and hefts a huge knapsack onto his legs, patting it fondly. “You know what I mean?”
The tree snake is now sharing the screen with the tree frog. The camera work is ominous. You have a fuzzy feeling in your head, like your body already has no idea what time zone it’s in.
Don’t worry; your second million will come the week after, as soon as we move some funds around. No, they’ll cover it. No, it won’t be noticed.
“It’s because so many people congregate here,” continues the young man, “and there’s no personal space, as you say, so people tend to let their guard down. Don’t pay attention to who’s listening.” He pulls out a laptop.
The tree snake lunges, a blur of green and yellow. The frog disappears, head first, down its gullet.
Over the PA, your flight is announced.
“That’s me,” you say, trying not to sound relieved.
“Later,” says the other man, “nice to meet you.”
Three days later, back in the lounge, waiting to return to Logan Airport, the television is back to stock market news.
“Authorities are unable to determine why half of the missing funds remain unaccounted for, but thanks to an anonymous tip, Gross and Platz, who were considered rising stars in the banking world, have been charged with 6 counts of fraud and 4 of grand theft larceny.”
The Goods:
Shirt: Ute Ploier
Pants: Isaora
Sneakers: Y3
Backpack: Temple of Jawnz
Can you do my job for me, and describe your style in three words? I like the emphasis on movement and comfort, here. Is that something that you aim for, generally, or did we just catch you on a good day?
I gave up or sold off most of my slim fitting things and tight raw denim, so yes, being comfortable is a priority. I think I started getting better feedback when I stopped trying to dress like an ectomorph when I'm more mesomorph. I don't have any philosophy or description for my style cause I'm still relatively new and in the experimental stages; scouring webstores/auctions/consignments/boutiques for clothes/designers I find interesting. I just try to put together a competent outfit.
Interesting. What has led you to the pieces you're wearing in that picture? What drew you to them, rather than the 2008 uniform of raw denim, chucks and a JCrew shirt?
Mostly just curiosity about the brand/designers. The shirt, for example, looks simple but is made of 5 different cotton fabrics for the sleeves, shoulders, and body panels. You can tell there are some thoughts and effort behind the garment. The shoes I just have an affinity for thick soled shoes and I like how the design is kind of out there, plus they're as comfortable as they look.
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: “Asps…very dangerous. You go first.”
“Let me tell you about my laundry pile,” says your landlord as he walks you through his house. He’s a large man, imposing, in spectacles and a heavy leather jacket. He’s also a sweetheart, and over the course of your tenancy, he and his wife have often treated you to bizarre Russian pastries and loud, ebullient parties.
“Why?” you ask. “I don’t need to see your laundry pile. I just came to get my deposit.”
“It’s very well-organized,” he says, sounding hurt. His deep voice makes the indignant tone amusing. “You say ‘deposit,’ then you stay for dinner, and you won’t look at my laundry pile? Now you move out? Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“Dude, I do not care,” you say, fighting your way above the guilt. “Seriously. Could I please just have my check?”
Your landlord is a cool guy, and his wife is a great cook, but…come on. He has the weirdest esoteric interests, pretends to be Mr. Suburban, but always tries to talk to you about designer clothing. The extent of your interest is in collecting band tees. Your own laundry pile is less a “laundry pile” and more of a “slightly worn” pile.
“I keep it separated based on color and fabric content,” he says, ignoring you and ushering you towards a bookshelf. His tone, as always, is both nonchalant and full of combative belligerence. It must be a family thing, brought over from the old world.
“That’s wonderful, but I…” He stops in front of the shelf, pulls a book away from him, and the entire wall swings open. Silently, he ushers you down a flight of dark stairs, and after a longer descent than you expected, you emerge in a massive cave.
Massive, monolithic white cubes hulk in the shadows of the cavern, running into the distance in loose rows. They rumble ominously, agelessly; round, transparent portholes on the front offer glimpses of tumbling colors and the rush of frothing water lit by some sort of phosphorescence. Some are covered in ancient lichens, and you can see others in the distance that have crumbled and fallen.
Your landlord adjusts the collar of his leather jacket and turns to survey the field of giant, ancient machines. Silhouetted in the eldritch glow of the cave, he plants one heavily-booted foot on the stony ground and raises an arm to the giants in front of him.
“Behold,” he says, “the greatest secret of my people.”
The Goods:
Bomber: Schott x Barneys goat leather bomber
Shirt: Self Edge x Al's Attire x Cone Mills
Jeans: Levi's 511
Boots: Guidi 796Z - backzip, double heel, double sole, in full grain horse.
You’re wearing an interesting mix brands here – by which I mean that we might not normally see Guidi rubbing shoulders with Schott leather and denim. One poster referred to your outfit as “superdad,” another as “#dadcore in the best way.” What informs your purchases?
Contrary to my almost 14,000 posts on a forum catering to men's style, I don't particularly involve myself in the clothing world. I don't go to fashion shows or visit many iconic landmark shops. I don't attend StyleForum meetups. Clothing, for me, is something that I don't take seriously, so I free myself from rules in order to try new combinations, new brands, new ideas. I sell clothing that I can't return and that doesn't work for me. If I haven't worn it in 6 months, it's gone. There is just too much cool **** out there to try to stick to one brand, one style, one look. I'm in a suit and tie most weekdays, so on weekends I'm wearing all kinds of stuff, from boat shoes and polos (hi jet), to what you see in my last WAYWT post: a leather, nice boots, jeans. It's fun for me to try new things as often as possible, and sometimes items that don't usually "work" together end up in great harmony. And then I harvest the thumbs of my cohorts.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gettoasty
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: "The king is the land!"
The guide motions to the nub of a stick that pokes out above the peat of the fen. “This,” he says, “was placed here long ago. Supposedly, this log measures the depth of the lake. No one has ever been able to pull it out, and we believe it has been here as long as the bog itself. The acidity of kettle bogs has preservative properties, and many things have been pulled out of them.” You think it sounds a bit silly, but the small tour group Oohs and Ahhs with appropriate reverence.
One man in particular is hanging on the guide’s every word. He’s been walking next to you for the duration of the tour, and sticks out because he doesn’t look like an eco-tourist. He has short-cropped hair, and holds himself very erect, his hands at his sides in a manner that seems almost tense – or anticipatory. Either that or he has to pee. Neither the drizzle nor the insects seem to bother him, while you, after leaving yet another bloodied insect corpse on your neck, feel ready to escape the creeping wetness that’s worming its way into the seams of your poncho.
The hell with bogs.
“I’ll do it,” says the man next to you. It is the first time he has spoken. The guide looks up at him sharply, eyeing him carefully. Finally, coming to some sort of decision, he nods and moves aside.
The man steps forward, eyes hard, his movements confident and purposeful. The tour group is silent, watchful. Bending slowly, he grasps the muddy stick with both hands. He breathes deeply, and then strains against the wood. At first, nothing happens. You realize that you are holding your breath. Then, slowly, the log begins to move, sliding against the ooze of the bog with a slurp. Moss clings to it as it rises, and he keeps pulling, hand-over-hand. The rain has stopped. The stick is moving faster now, more and more of the ancient wood exposed to the air after an eternity spent buried in the murk. The man in the leather jacket isn’t straining anymore – no, it’s as if the wood is rising from the depths at his command, endlessly, endlessly; until, triumphantly, a full thirty feet of it comes free, finally free, and as sunlight bursts through the clouds, he raises it above his head with both hands.
The Goods:
Jacket: Rick Owens
Shirt: Cool Try
Pants: Hope
Boots: Guidi
Your sizing adventures, as well as your wild vacillation between MC casual and SW+D – styled outfits, have made you something of a cult figure on SF. Do you intentionally draw links or find overlap between your work and casual clothes? Why do you buy what you buy?
I have these really cool trousers by Miharayasuhiro (Hey, B!CD) that are in a silky fabric that initially reminded me of polyester but are 100% virgin wool that will look cool once alterations are done. CM regulars can appreciate the hand; virgin wool signifies “quality rating,” and construction is done well. SW&D contributors can be thankful for the comfortable drawstring waistband, and amazing weight that allow the trouser to drape in an airy way reminiscent of Yohji's aesthetic. Learning how a garment fits, communicating that to a tailor and seeing the fitting is a wonderful process everyone with interest in clothing should at least experience once. You realize and appreciate how much CM and SW&D have in common, whether it is balancing the way clothes fit on your body, or be fascinated by the details prevalent in clothing no matter which side you adhere to more—colors, textures, and fit.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chiggah
Original WAYWT post here
What this looks like: “If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”
The car rental office in Toulouse is packed. You dutifully step in line behind a young man reading the paper, accidentally bumping his arm.
“Sorry,” you say, and he looks over at you. He’s wearing all black, and his mode of dress, particularly the loose blazer he has thrown over his shirt, looks as if it were taken from Edwardian times.
“No problem,” he says, in English. “Where are you headed?”
“Carcassonne,” you say, smiling.
“I just came from there, actually,” he says, “vacation?”
“For work, actually. I’m writing a book on the Cathars.”
The man says nothing, and you look over.
“You OK?”
The man smiles at you again. “Just tired,” he says, and then continues slowly, looking away. “You know, the Cathars were wiped out eventually. The northerners called it a crusade. Said they were heretics. We get a lot of tourists down there, looking for blood.”
“Yeah. I guess that includes me. I’m writing about medieval mystics. There was this weird belief that the Cathars had some sort of power over nature; that they could use crystals to heal the body and even extend human life. Some people say they knew the secret of immortality.”
The man raises his head quickly, staring at you.
“Kind of crazy, huh?” you say.
“They killed so many,” says the man. His face is ashen.
“They did,” you say, thinking he sounds interested. “Languedoc-Roussillon was a major seat of literature and learning, enjoying the wisdom that had been preserved in the Moorish kingdoms. I think that part of that wisdom was something special. Something powerful. Something the church wanted, and wanted badly enough that they were willing to destroy an entire people to get it.”
“They murdered Raymond,” the man mutters. “They killed our women and children.” Reaching down to grab his briefcase, he starts to walk away.
“Wait,” you say, grabbing his arm. “What do you mean, ‘our?’”
The man stares at you, his eyes intense, almost crazy. “Listen to me,” he says, “you have no idea what you’re getting into. Stay away from Carcassonne. And whatever you do, stay the hell away from Béziers.”
You look at him in confusion.
“War is coming,” he says, his eyes distant. “This time, we cannot lose.”
The Goods:
Blazer: Paul Harnden
Shirt: Rick Owens
Pants: Boris Bidjan Saberi
Boots: Carol Christian Poell
You occupy the darker, gothier side of the SF spectrum. Where does this inclination come from?
My style philosophy is to keep my pieces minimal and focus on a silhouette that suits my build; nothing with unnecessary pockets, buttons or straps. I have experimented with both types of aesthetic, but my inspiration tends to lean towards these darker shades because it blends well with lighter shades and does not stand out too much, whilst still clearly displaying the details such as textures, weave patterns and natural creases. At the same time, it does not scream “depressing pitch black.” You can't go wrong with black shoes, pants and jacket, and then pair the under layers with a lighter colour.
Living in New Zealand, we don't get much chance to examine these garments in real life. Hence, reading articles over the forums gives me special interest & extra awareness towards these artisanal labels. When I’ve actually handled one, I really appreciate the construction and artistry on these garments.
With regards to my own personal style, I have reached a point where I have stopped experimenting with what is suitable for me and know what I actually need. I am currently working towards minimal layering and accessorizing.
I shall end my thoughts with buying & selling; I prefer to spend extra for the pieces I really admire, than to settle for less, and sell at a marginal loss if I valued another piece higher. Be patient, don’t make impulse purchases and ask for various opinions on the fabric and construction.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Diniro
Original WATWT post here
What this looks like: "1984? Yeah right, man. That's a typo. Orwell is here now. He's livin' large. We have no names, man. No names. We are nameless!"
Airport lounge. Munich. No sleep on the leg from Boston. Mercifully, a Discovery Channel nature program is playing on the television in front of you, rather than the usual stock market news.
A young man takes a seat next to you, sighing with relief. He looks over at you, and you scowl back, reaching for your headphones.
The TV is showing a tropical tree frog of some sort, and you pause for a moment to stare at its beautiful coloring. The businessmen next to you are talking about profits. You’ll get the first million within the week, one is saying into a Bluetooth headset.
The young man looks at you again, obviously trying to make conversation. “Ahh, I loathe the airport,” he says.
“Yeah,” you say, “impossible to get any personal space.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, lifting his feet and putting his weird sneakers on the armchair across from you.
The image on the TV has switched to some sort of arboreal snake, beautiful and dangerous.
Right, we can get another million from the investors. Yeah, yeah. They won’t give it a second thought.
“Now, for someone like me,” says the young man, refusing to take a hint, “Although I hate airports, I find them to be an excellent place to get work done. He reaches down and hefts a huge knapsack onto his legs, patting it fondly. “You know what I mean?”
The tree snake is now sharing the screen with the tree frog. The camera work is ominous. You have a fuzzy feeling in your head, like your body already has no idea what time zone it’s in.
Don’t worry; your second million will come the week after, as soon as we move some funds around. No, they’ll cover it. No, it won’t be noticed.
“It’s because so many people congregate here,” continues the young man, “and there’s no personal space, as you say, so people tend to let their guard down. Don’t pay attention to who’s listening.” He pulls out a laptop.
The tree snake lunges, a blur of green and yellow. The frog disappears, head first, down its gullet.
Over the PA, your flight is announced.
“That’s me,” you say, trying not to sound relieved.
“Later,” says the other man, “nice to meet you.”
Three days later, back in the lounge, waiting to return to Logan Airport, the television is back to stock market news.
“Authorities are unable to determine why half of the missing funds remain unaccounted for, but thanks to an anonymous tip, Gross and Platz, who were considered rising stars in the banking world, have been charged with 6 counts of fraud and 4 of grand theft larceny.”
The Goods:
Shirt: Ute Ploier
Pants: Isaora
Sneakers: Y3
Backpack: Temple of Jawnz
Can you do my job for me, and describe your style in three words? I like the emphasis on movement and comfort, here. Is that something that you aim for, generally, or did we just catch you on a good day?
I gave up or sold off most of my slim fitting things and tight raw denim, so yes, being comfortable is a priority. I think I started getting better feedback when I stopped trying to dress like an ectomorph when I'm more mesomorph. I don't have any philosophy or description for my style cause I'm still relatively new and in the experimental stages; scouring webstores/auctions/consignments/boutiques for clothes/designers I find interesting. I just try to put together a competent outfit.
Interesting. What has led you to the pieces you're wearing in that picture? What drew you to them, rather than the 2008 uniform of raw denim, chucks and a JCrew shirt?
Mostly just curiosity about the brand/designers. The shirt, for example, looks simple but is made of 5 different cotton fabrics for the sleeves, shoulders, and body panels. You can tell there are some thoughts and effort behind the garment. The shoes I just have an affinity for thick soled shoes and I like how the design is kind of out there, plus they're as comfortable as they look.
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