The Cut-Off Short

So, the cat's out of the bag. The esteemed editors at Esquire magazine have selected me to be among the 5 finalists in their Best Dressed Real Man competition for 2010. I'm really honored to be thought of in the same light as the other four finalists who each out their own unique spin on how to do things sartorially. But for those of you who know me well, keeping it real is always something I set out to do, with whatever it is in my life, be it food, drink, clothing, or anything else.

Today, I'd like to talk about keeping it real, casual. Many men in the know have lost touch with reality. No, I'm not talking about Thom Browne and his skirt suits for men, and I'm not talking about any other modern designer either. I'm talking about many of the "old school" philosophers on men's dress, and how it should be done. These are the guys who abide by the "rules" to the point where they become someone else entirely. While I feel its important to know the rules, I also feel that rules were made to be bent, if not broken entirely. And what's a more perfect time to bend or break rules, than the summer time.

Some of these stuffy folk will tell you that a gentleman NEVER shows his legs in public, and therefore should never wear shorts unless at the gym, or while participating in some other form of physical activity. Well, to hell with them. A real man doesn't live by some Victorian dress standard, and nor should he dress according to one. When its hot outside, and the situation calls for it, wear shorts damn it. But how do you wear shorts?

2009 Esquire BDRM Dan Trepanier has got it right with his assertion that the baggy cargo shorts should be kept in the halls of your local high school and suburban college campus. (http://www.thestyleblogger.com/www._TheStyleBlogger._com/Blog/Entries/2010/8/5_Keeping_Cool__Tailored_Shorts.html)

In my mind, though, he missed the mark with how an urban young man, in fairly decent shape, should wear them. To me, the perfect way to say your relaxed with your clothing, is with a cut off pair of shorts. Those simple frayed edges make a bold statement, and let people know that you'd sooner knock back a couple of beers at the bocce court, than knock off anything on your home office to do list.

I am a runner, and I hit the gym at least four times a week. I am an athlete and have been all my life and I've been blessed with a pair of decent looking, and performing, legs. I'm also a teacher, which gives me the opportunity to relax with my beautiful family during the scorching months of July and August. So damn you Dan, if you tell me to leave my short shorts at the beach. And damn you fogeys who say to leave the shorts on the shelf in the shop altogether. I work damn hard, and because of that, earned the right to wear my shorts a little shorter than Dan would want me to. As an athlete, Dan should know this, and take advantage of the walking sticks God gave him. Now, it takes a certain air of confidence to pull off shorter shorts as well as some decent looking legs. Its no wonder Johnny Drama focused so much on his calves in Season 4 of Entourage. Here's a look from a recent block party in Bay Ridge, where the people were as plentiful as the Peronis, and no one batted an eye at my short, salmon colored cut offs.

My work wardrobe takes up a considerably high percentage of my discretionary funds (which as a civil servant, aren't that much to begin with), so buying new shorts for the summer is not a priority. This doesn't mean that I can't obtain another few pair each l'ete, and another reason why cut-offs are cool AND practical. I found a few pair of regular trousers I already owned that didn't quite make the cut when I was setting up my spring/summer closet and I put them aside until I was ready to make my move. I tried the pants on, took a pair of scissors and cut a small hole a few inches above my knee on both sides. I then removed the pants, and cut straight across the front until I was open to both side seams. Then, at the back, I cut at a slightly downward trajectory until I reached the mid point between the seams, and then cut back up until the pant leg was completely removed. I repeated the process on three other pair of pants that I was not using any longer, two of which were almost 10 years old from a shopping spree at H&M when I first started teaching (Yet another good reason why you should never throw things away). The two pair from H&M were a nice lightweight blended material (wool and poly) and had pinstripes. The "dressed up" look of the pinstripes combined with the frayed edges of the cut-offs makes for a perfect combination. To me it says, "Eff this, I'm not working! I'm playing!"

Here are a simple pair of khaki cut offs that were once capri shorts (Banana Republic circa 2001) from my GTLing "Jersey Shore" days (yes folks, I've grown up quite a bit in 10 years, but moving off of Staten Island can do that to you). Paired with a madras plaid JCrew shirt with the sleeves rolled up, this kept me fashionable and cool on my trip to the Prospect Park Zoo with the kids in tow.

The key with this look ironically, is to know the rules. Yes, I just spent the first portion of this post criticizing "those guys" for always sticking to the rules, but sticking to them and knowing them are two different things. To know that shorts are a casual is important, because it should ease the fears about wearing a pair with such an extreme casual element, the cut-off fray.

Now, not everyone has the legs of a runner. Some have chicken legs and some have plumper legs. That doesn't mean you can't rock this uber casual style of short. I suggest taking the cutting point and dropping it closer to the knee, as Dan suggested in his blog. Here are a few examples of longer cut-offs I wore this summer, but by no means are long shorts. The first are cut slightly longer than the salmon shorts and paired with a cutoff-sleeve madras shirt. Perfect for the Bronx Zoo (my daughter likes animals, what can I say?)

Here we see a similar pair with the same shirt, pre-sleeve surgery:

And the same pair with two other shirts, a luxurious Roberto Collina pima polo, and an Old Crow Medicine Show concert tee (Roll Tide):

I hope today's post has helped convince some of you two things: 1) If you've got the shape, don't be afraid to show it off and 2) A simple pair of scissors can turn a pair of pants (because I may be the only one to ADMIT to owning capris), into a great casual staple for your summer wardrobe. And if the cut-off long just isn't for you, any decent dry cleaner can chop your old pants into shorts and finish the bottom for you to keep a cleaner look for about $10-$20.

Unless of course you're too busy covering the legs on all of your furniture. If thats the case, you'll need more than my blog to help you.

Esquire BDRM Style - V-Day Edition

I'm honored to let everyone know that the editors of Esquire magazine have for the second straight year selected me as one of the top 25 entries in their annual best dressed "real man" competition. I know last years finalists and winners were all men of immaculate style, and I'm honored to be mentioned in the same breath by the editors of such a prestigious men's style magazine. But I'm even more honored to be considered a "real man".

To give you an idea of what constitutes being a "real man" to me, I'd like to share with you the story of someone very close to me.

It began humbly in a small cold water flat in a Greenpoint, Brooklyn apartment building in 1917. There, Anthony, a "real boy", shared an apartment with his immigrant parents and six brothers and sisters. He grew up in the boom times of the 1920's, when Hollywood began to take control of the American style barometer. Stars of the silver screen were written about as if they were the saintly heroes, and young Americans, with money to spend, emulated these icons. It was quite different for Anthony, and millions of other recent Italian immigrant families, who couldn't share in the fun of the roaring 20's. They struggled and lived their meagre existence to the best of their abilities, happy in the fact that they had family, a roof over their heads, and any kind of clothing on their backs, let alone the latest fashions.

When the Great Depression hit a few years later, Anthony, and families like his didn't feel it in the same way that the American History books tell it. In fact, things were so desperate when these immigrants got here, due to heavy competition for jobs and a form of racism that still exists today within groups like the minutemen, that the Great Depression and the New Deal policies FDR enacted to counter it, actually helped advance them as a whole while the rest of America used them to struggle just to get by. While the nation was still recovering from the severe economic downturn of the 1930's, newsreels began broadcasting frightening scenes from across the Atlantic and Pacific of fascist dictators who were taking control of their nations. In the mother land of Anthony's parents, Italy, a man named Benito Mussolini was ruling with an iron fist, eliminating anyone who criticized him or his regime. He took his army across the Adriatic Sea to conquer Albania and into Africa to reclaim Ethiopia after the Italians were embarrassed there nearly half a century before. To the north in Germany, an even more terrifying ruler was gifted control of his country promising to not only restore dignity to a deflated German people, but to eliminate all those who were to blame for dragging their nation down, specifically Jews.

Then, on December 7, 1941, the newsreels were not of foreign conflict, but of conflict right here on our own American shores as the US Navy was attacked at Pearl Harbor by Japanese fighter planes. After the death of almost 2500 US servicemen, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt declared "a day that will live in infamy", and war on Japan. Through a network of alliances, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States and many Americans took up that call, and ran to defend her in the face of the naked aggression that was fascism and totalitarianism. Anthony was one of those brave men.

As a 23 year old kid, Anthony joined the Army and went to basic training, to defend the only country he knew. Throughout the basic training in Ft Benning, Georgia, many "white" Americans gave Anthony and his fellow Italian Americans shit for not being "American enough". "Dago Wap!" they'd shout at him. "Mussolini's bastard!" his commanders called him. This was the thanks he got for volunteering to defend the country he loved. He'd been used to it though, but for some reason, which he never shared, he took these bigoted insults more personally than the ones thrown his way on the streets and in the factories of Brooklyn. Perhaps it was because it was these men, whose hatred seethed through the surface, were the same men he'd be depending on to keep him safe and alive against the foreign hatred that awaited overseas.

It wasn't all bad at Benning though. He wound up forging friendships with other men that would last their entire lives, however long they'd be. Two of his best friends were also Brooklyn sons of Italian immigrants, Joey Dondiego and Sebby DiCarlo. Anthony, Joey and Sebby were inseparable, on and off base, for the entirety of their stint in Georgia and beyond. When given leave, and back in their beloved Brooklyn, they swore to each other to visit each others families to let them know how things were going, and that they were doing fine. Sebby's parents were easy, they were living in the same Beadle St. tenement house, and Anthony and Sebby were like cousins, growing up playing stickball on the streets and eating dinner at each others houses as regularly as their parents would play Pinochle or Canasta.

Joey's family was a different story, as he lived way across the borough in the summer playground known as Coney Island. Joey's father, a barber, had died when Joey was just 19, and that left a heavy black mark on him. But he had his brothers on whom he could rely. Frankie, younger by a few years was also in the service, preparing for war. Lenny was barely a teenager when his father suddenly suffered that fatal heart attack in his shop. At the time of his father's death Lenny was a student at Abraham Lincoln HS where he excelled in Math and Sciences and answered with no pretense when asked what he'd do with his life, "I'm going to be a medical doctor!" he'd exclaim proudly and confidently, without forgetting where he came from. Len never let any obstacle stand in his way, and by the time war was on, he was a young graduate of John Hopkins Medical School practicing medicine on Park Avenue, to the wealthiest New Yorkers, fulfilling the dreams of an entire family. Then there were the three angels who were the apple of their father's eyes. Rose was a young wife who lived nearby with her husband, a doctor to whom Lenny looked up to immensely. Margaret the middle daughter, was an spunky blonde bank employee whose love for the New York Yankees was bested only by the love of her country and sense of independence. Finally there was young Vivian, a beautiful vivacious woman who inherited her grandfather's red hair and fiery personality, who just happened to be there EVERYTIME handsome young Anthony came over for dinner, to fill in Joey's mom Carmela on what was new with her son. Vivian and Anthony struck up a friendship that lasted for the rest of their lives. After Anthony's final visit before being shipped off to war, Vivian had asked the strapping young soldier to write to her from the front, and write he did. Letter after letter came in the mail for young Vivian detailing for her the horrors of war, and the longing of young love. In those letters Anthony professed his love to Vivian and promised that when he returned they would marry and have their own family. But first, Anthony needed to survive.

Anthony began his campaign landing in Southern Italy, almost in the exact same location from where his parents left to immigrate to the country he was now fighting for. Fighting their way northward through Rome and Venice to the Austrian border, Anthony learned quickly how to dig ditches and cover his head from oncoming fire. He learned how to shoot without looking at what he was targeting. He learned how to keep from getting hurt, and most vitally, he learned how to stay alive.

As Anthony and his troop advanced through the mountains of northern Italy and Austria, his superiors had warned them that the Germans were getting desperate, and seeing that the war may be coming to an end, would try and inflict as many Allied casualties as possible, and that some of the ways they did this were not seen as within the rules of combat. Knowing that American troops were in usual need for some of the creature comforts of home, the Germans would set booby traps: carts, filled with American comfort foods like Hershey's chocolate bars and Coca-Cola were set up along the sides of major arterial roads from which the Nazi's retreated and their enemies in arms followed. As well as filling these carts with the delicacies that Yankee soldiers long wanted, they were rigged with explosives, so as soon as one of the goodies was removed, a massive explosion would immediately kill whoever lifted it, then sending shrapnel rocketing through the immediate vicinity taking out as many enemy combatants as it could. Anthony was smart and too determined to fall for such false temptation. His friend though, and brother in arms Sebby, wasn't as disciplined. With Anthony looking on in horror, Sebby approached what he thought was an oasis of American goodies in a European wasteland. He shouted for him to stop, to remember what they were told. Sebby either didn't hear, or didn't have the will to fight a minute longer. While his best friend, Anthony, watched, Sebby blew himself to bits reaching for the sweet taste of home that he missed so much. Anthony witnessed his best friend lose in a game of Nazi Roulette at the tender young age of 26. Anthony's eyes saw what could only be the tales of our worst nightmares and had the courage to walk farther, fight harder, and to love deeper. He lived the rest of his life with that incident emblazoned in his mind, yet his tenderness wasn't calloused a bit by this horrific, real experience. He had something more to live for.

As the war wound down, Anthony found himself in the forests outside Berlin. Marching in line with his battalion toward the burning capital, his Lieutenant spotted a corps of Nazi soldiers walking in the opposite direction, about one hundred yards across the lifeless, leafless woods. With the taste of death on his palate, and the smell of gunpowder in the air, Anthony gripped the trigger of his standard issue Army rifle, and watched as the soon to be defeated Nazi soldiers starred right back down their barrels at their American counterparts. They eventually walked their separate ways. Both sides knew that the end was near, news of Hitler's suicide had already begun spreading throughout the ranks of both armies, and with a peace just hours away, both sides carefully danced the dance of life, through the forests of death. Perhaps the Germans had their own beautiful red heads at home waiting for them. Perhaps that glimmer of hope, of a love put on hold, saved the lives of hundreds of soldiers on both sides, forever changing their places in the book of destiny. Perhaps the Nazis were out of ammunition, we'll never know. What we do know, is that this was reality. Death was a constant reality for Anthony, be it his own, or someone else's at his own hands.

Once the war did end, Anthony's work was far from done. He, along with hundreds of thousands of other American soldiers, had the responsibility to take prisoner any defeated German servicemen they could find. The Germans made no bones about it either, they were certainly looking for their former enemies turned savior, the Americans, to take them. This was because their other option wasn't an enticing one. Still stinging from the heavy losses suffered at Leningrad and throughout the Nazi advances into Soviet territory, Russian troops wanted blood. German foot soldiers were routinely executed by Soviet troops at their surrender in and around Berlin, and the Germans were running to American troops throwing themselves at their feet, begging for them to take them prisoner and accept their surender. Anthony knew what the deal was, and he saw the look in the eyes of his Soviet allies when Americans began to take Germans as prisoners. The look was one of real hate, real disgust, and ice cold vengeance. The problem was, Anthony and his American brothers were unable to accommodate all of those surrendering Germans and he regretfully turned many of them over to the Soviets, fully knowing the fate he had unwittingly sealed for them.

All of these were the real experiences of a "real man"; a Brooklynite, a truck driver, a lover, a fighter, a son, a brother, a husband, a father and MY grandfather. He was a real man, an American hero and a role model. My grandfather, Anthony Nunziata, son of two Italian immigrants, a distinguished US Army veteran, helped save the world. He wasn't a moneyed businessman. He wasn't a well connected politician. He wasn't a Hollywood celebrity. He wasn't a pampered professional athlete. He was a man, a real man, like me, and many of you. He is my flesh and blood, and my hero. He was a man, who put real life and real love on hold to do what he had to do and make this world a better place, a safer place for me, a real grandson, who he hadn't even met yet. He did it for my children, my little girl and my little boy who carries his name proudly.

In my own small way, I try to do the same thing through the young minds and young lives I help mold each and every day. I try to teach them the realities of war, of love, of life and of death, so that one day when they are the "real men" and "real women" of this world, they can make the real decisions so others won't have to put their lives on hold, or prematurely stop them to make it a better place for their children. So yes, I'm honored that Esquire magazine's editors think I'm stylish, but I'm more honored and humbled that they think I'm "real". My grandfather, even 25 years after his death, continues to teach me what being a real man is all about. A real man is about life, he is about love, and he is about family. A real man works hard and does what is right and what is needed of him not because he has to, but because he wants to. You taught me that through your life, and your legacy, and you led by example. So thanks for everything papa, but most importantly, for being real. Really.

Straight Up Red, White and Blue Canada Away With Our Tenacity Part 1

Last night was a huge step forward for American hockey. Our boys out worked, out gritted, and eventually out scored the world's "best" in their own barn for a mesmarizing 5-3 Olympic Hockey victory earning them the number one seed in the elimination round to start on Tuesday. It also earned the boys a well deserved day off before they face either a gritty Swiss team, or an overmatched Norway in the quarters. But thats the bigger picture. I want to look at three smaller pictures over the next few hours that I said were true before these games began.

Team USA was a better "team" than Team Canada. Sure, thats a point easily proven by the scoreboard at Canada Hockey Place at just before 7PM local time in Vancouver last night, but even without the help of an electronic time counter and tally keeper it was clear all over the ice for most of the 60 minutes yesterday. Americans were more than willing to sacrifice themselves for their teammates. Specifically, our boys, Ryan Callahan and Chris Drury were pivotal in their roles as penalty killers, specifically late on, and were ready at the drop of a hat to throw their bodies in front of the hundred mile-an-hour vulcanized rubber hurled at their teammate Ryan Miller (who I'll get to later). One block in particular by Callahan, after he failed in a clearing attempt in teh final minute, stood out. While going down feet first at the Canadian point man, Callahan raised his right arm and took a blistering shot off of the inside of his gloved hand. I've done this to catch flip clearances out of the zone, and for those who don't know, it doesn't always end well. The inside of a glove offers very little protection, if any, and frozen pucks traveling slowly can break bones. To Callahan though, team was more important.

It also didn't hurt us the Capt Clutch was on the scene to score America's third goal, breaking a streak of Canadian momentum that started when Dany Heatley slammed home the red shirted team's second of the game, and sending the barn into temporary delirium. Drury's goal came by rushing the net after a goalmouth scramble and comedy of errors by the Canadian backline and goaltender, and his linemates , St Louis Blue David Backes, and Callahan, incessant pressure. Drury, the man on the spot, picked up the loose puck in the slot, and fired home a wrister into a vacated goal as three Canadians didn't know who to turn and where to look until it was too late.

Another example of better team play by the Yanks was the D to D passing in the offensive zone, and in particular on the power play. This tape to tape passing between the backliners in the white jerseys was key, as the US scored 3 of its 5 goals, including the game winner, as a direct result of point play. The Canadians, although breaking out with a Sidney Crosby power play tally late, simply did not have the puck movement on the back line that the Americans did, and it led to their downfall. Countless blocked Canadian shots, errant passes down low, and shots wide were a result of the Canadians not moving the puck, and not getting themselves into better positions as the Americans did when the time came.

Lastly, I want to talk about American tenacity in this game. Hard work has always been the key ingredient to the American dream, and last night was no different. On paper, our boys were outmatched, but on the ice, it was the Canucks who were outworked. A bigger and arguably more skilled Canadian team came in with the support of 3o million people, 15,000 of whom were at Canada Hockey Place to do it vocally, but it wasn't enough to push them past this youthful, hard working American team. All over the ice, the Americans were hitting, and taking hits to make plays, while the Canadians were falling all themselves and running into each other. On very few occasions were the Red White and Blue caught out of position on a forecheck, and when they were they were not called to task on it. Why? Because they were playing for each other, and working for each other. They looked like, and were selected based on this. Guys like Dustin Brown, who are offensive sparks on their club teams, were willing to play the role of grinders, to make things work for the USA. And work they did. No time in the game was this more evident than a stunning empty net goal as the clock winded down to under a minute last night. Relentlessly pursuing his Western Conference rival Corey Perry on familiar ice, Ryan Kesler, of the Vancouver Canucks iced the game for the Americans by simply wanting it more, and working for it. Perry certainly wasn't lollygagging it with the puck, the Canadians were desperate, and they needed to get the puck down the ice for a final push. But Keslers skating and then perfectly timed dive knocked the puck off of Perry's stick in his own defensive zone circle, and sent the puck right into the lower right hand corner of an empty net, sealing the W for our proud ice warriors.

It may not be a Golden Victory yet, but it was a big step toward that goal, and it was because we played a better team game than did the NHL All Star-Studded lineup of our northern neighbors.

A Little Christmas Miracle

Christmas time is really a wonderous time of year. Ever since I was a kid, I felt that "tingle" inside of me from the first week of December up until the big night, Christmas Eve. The television commercials, Christmas music on the radio, Its A Wonderful Life, Charles Dickens, St. Nick, the colorful lights and the smell of pine, and chestnuts roasting on an open fire, or in my case an oven's broiler, all seemed to lift everyone's spirits and put everyone in a more cheerful mood.

Today, as an adult, it still gives me the chills, and I'm not embarrassed to admit that I still cry at the words, "Everytime a churchbell rings an angel gets its wings". The lights give living rooms all acorss the world a warm glow, and the smell of the heat beaming from radiators across Brooklyn bring me back to my grandmother's dining room where we would feast on an assortment of fishes...squid, octopus, shrimp and spaghetti. It just tasted better on that day, and still does, in my Aunt Rosemary's place in Ridgewood, NJ. She took over after my grandmother passed away in 2000.

This year, the family welcomes two new miracles, my son Hudson Antonio, named after the famed yet derided Dutch explorer born to an English family, and a famous Italian who I'll get to later, and my cousin Elizabeth's soon to be born son Michael Anthony, not named after my brother who will swear it so. We will also hold an empty place in our hearts for our family's matriarch, Margaret DonDiego, who passed away last January, after one last Christmas Eve with her family. Margaret was my grandmother's sister, and the last surviving Dondiego of the Greatest Generation, when she died at the ripe young age of 91. She will be missed surely, but her absence will not be total, as we know that she, and the rest of her siblings remain with us, especially at this special time of year.

So as the holiday approaches I have a tale I'd like you to focus on, and remember, when you're feeling down, when the holiday passes, and when things return "to normal". It began Thursday morning, a bitterly cold morning and my first day back at work after spending a few days home sick with a sinus infection. I picked up my wife at the day care center where she drops off our children, and we drove down the 30 blocks to where we work. Upon getting out of the car, we do our morning ritual. "Ridiculous" could be one word to describe it, but for those of you who read my blog for the fashion and style advice, well, you understand. We get out of the car and in the bitter cold I pose for my wife as she photographs me for posting on a few men's style web sites. We usually take a few shots before plopping the camera back in the bag to finish the shoot in my classroom. Well on this day, when my wife grabbed the camera out of my bag, my wallet spilled out along with it, unbeknownst to either of us.

As the day went on, a co-worker came to my classroom to ask if I would like soup from the local diner at lunch. It was Split Pea day, and it was damn cold, so the thought of the hot soup going down at lunch was exciting to me. As I reached into my bag for my wallet, my hand found nothing. Perplexed I searched my desk, and then called my wife, to ask if she had taken it for something. No luck. I guessed I left it at home. Upon returning home and not finding it, I was devastaed. I knew it must have fallen out when the camera was stripped from my bag earlier for our "stupid" photo shoot. Inside my wallet was my MetroCard, my insurance cards, my bank card, my ID, $35, and most importantly a check from work that I wanted to use for some Christmas shopping. Sure, everything but the cash could be replaced, even the check. But that would take up to 8 weeks, and waiting that long for something I had planned for months gutted me. Even with the Christmas music, and its spirit in the air, I was down in the dumps.

I brought it up to my kids in school, and offered them a reward if they found it. Some of them laughed and said, "Why would I return it? I'd keep the money and run off!" they joked. But it made me think, what would stop someone else from thinking tat, and DOING that. OK, running off may be a little extreme, but for a 13 year old kid, $35 is a lot of money...and who knows what could be taken from the bank card? I'm not religous at all, but very superstitious, and lit my St Anthony votive candle. St Anthony (San Antonio de Padua) was my confirmation saint, chosen because of my grandfather, Antonio, for whom my son is named. He is the patron saint of lost causes and lost things, and he has never let me down when I would ask him for help. EVER. But as Friday night came to an end, and I ripped the house apart to no avail, and the wallet was still gone, I blew out the candle with marked dejection.

So, Saturday morning rolled around and the weatherman was calling for snow. My wife had taken the kids and went for our weekly Italian food shopping ritual early, so she could be back in time to get us a prime spot on the left of the block (because plows always plow right) and we could hunker down. When she left, I went downstairs to check our mailbox in our apartment building. Two bills and a Union newsletter. I brought them upstairs, placed them on the kitchen counter, sat and watched Manchester City throw away a two goal lead, and then a 3-2 lead, only to finally pull out a win in Mark Hughes' curtain call. After the game, I decided I would hit the gym.

As I left I noticed that the mailman's cart was sitting outside the building. Hmm, maybe the bills were from Friday and I just forgot. Eh, I blew it off, went to work out and returned 2 hours later to watch the Rangers whoop Philly. As I entered the building it dawned on me that sometimes packages get delivered at a different time and maybe one of my many eBay purchases (this is how a deal with my "habit" now, buying less, searching longer and paying well below market rate for men's clothing) had been shipped here instead of my work address as I usually indicate. I opened the box, and there was a brown parcel...what I thought were pocket squares from Kent Wang that I recently ordered. I got in the elevator, pressed the "4", tore open the parcel, and then I saw it. MY WALLET!! With a Christmas card...my wallet had everything in it that it had when I dropped it...the cash, the check, my ID, my bank card, EVERYTHING. I was moved, again, to tears. Not only did someone pick it up, but they took the time to mail it and stand in line at the Post Office (which in case you didn't know is RIDICULOUS at this time of year) fill out a card, and send it to me; all without letting me know who they were. No return address, no signature on the card, even a burry postmark...

So as the Holidays approach, and you gather around with your families, I hope you think of this good deed, this genuine act of kindness that some stranger, who did not reveal him or herself, did for me. Try and keep that thought as the winter turns from a warm gathering of friends and family to a cold January, and an even colder February. Keep it in your minds as the flowers bloom, the sun shines longer, and the temperature rises. Remember this as the leaves fall once again, and the snow returns. Remember that we are all capable of doing good, and that this holiday gift, this Present, can be something we can do all the time, to make this sometimes cruel cold world, a better place.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year! Thank you king stranger, thank you Aunt Margaret, Gramma, Papa and God Bless Us, EVERYONE!



This is what good deeds do to people...

Second Hand Man

In these trying economic times, people are trying to stretch the value of their dollar as far as they can. Eating out less and cooking at home more; renting instead of buying; walking instead of driving. Many men, who love clothing like I do, and don't earn 6 figure incomes...guilty again...are doing whatever it is they can to keep their hobbies alive as the nation tries to recover from the economic crisis. Hell, I've even forsaken ice-hockey, a three hundred dollar per season commitment, for roller hockey. Seventy bucks gets me ice time every week for 15 weeks at least, even if the ice is the asphalt on the corner of 54th Street and Ft Hamilton Parkway.

What many people, for reasons unbeknownst to me, still have a hard time accepting, is buying clothing second hand. Pre-owned. USED. Sure, if I use the "u" word it sounds a hell of a lot less appealing, but thats why companies like Lexus, BMW, and Mercedez-Benz paid their advertising teams millions to figure out a way to capitalize on an market they haven't tapped until the early 2000's. Those marketing whiz kids figured out, that if you make buying something second hand sound more appealing, people will do it. And do it in droves. The used car salesman became the nice man selling pre-owned luxury to Americans who couldn't afford new luxury. His hair became a little less slick, his mustache turned into a clean shave, and he exchanged that plaid sport jacket with the ugly lapels, for a nice slim silhouetted navy suit with a red tie and crisp white square. But how did he do that OVERNIGHT? He's still only a used car salesman for goodness sakes, and he's still working on crappy commission rates! He did it by scouring for the very same deals his customers were looking for, but not at some car dealership, but at thrift stores and online fashion forums.

I know what you're thinking, "why would I want someone else's crap that they don't want?" Have you ever bought a used car? Have you ever borrowed your older brother, or father's jacket? Chances are you have, and chances are it didn't bother you then, and shouldn't bother you now. Some of my favorite item's of clothing I purchased second hand, either from eBay, one of the many online marketplaces like StyleForum's B&S (Buying and Selling for those abbreviatedly challenged) Forum, AskAndyAboutClothes' Trad Thrift Exchange, or my local Salvation Army.

Now chances are that you won't find that diamond in the rough, a fully Canvassed Oxxford solid navy suit in a 40R new with tags, for $3.99, but you may certainly find it for 80% off the retail price of nearly $2,000 on one of the internet forums mentioned above. Thats the great thing about the internet. Its basically enabled EVERY thrift store, from every corner of the world, to sell their goods in one giant online thrift marketplace. I was able to purchase, two years ago, a brown bird's eye fabric Oxxford suit with double vents and flat front pants, used on eBay (Linda's Stuff) for $250 shipped to my door. The suit arrived at my door in pristine condition...maybe it was worn once, but it had obviously been cleaned, pressed and was ready to go. Naturally, when buying second hand clothing, you take precautions, and I did, and as soon as I got it, had it cleaned again, just to make sure. I got two good years out of this suit and it became a favorite of mine, until one day a few months ago, I decided that I needed to slim down my wardrobe, and put more money toward household expenses. I did a quick eBay search to see how much Oxxford suits were selling for, posted it on the B&S on StyleForum, and sold it within a day for $400. I even made a bloody profit! Why? Beacause someone else, like me, valued an Oxxford suit, and took advantage of a seller selling it at a price that wouldn't even be close to fathomable had it been new.

Here's another steal I found on eBay...a beautiful Turnbull & Asser Tweed Suit. This suit orginally must have cost the owner thousands of dollars. Its clearly very old, as the lapels are very wide, an indicator that the suit was originally made in the 1960's or 1970's but its shape flattered my body, even if the tie didn't (d'oh!). My cost? $200 on eBay. Now, after a year of working out at Dolphin Fitness up the block from me, I no longer fit into it, and I'm trying to sell it to another gentleman who loves him some English Tweed. Any 38S out there interested? I have it priced at $275. Still a value as fine clothing, that is well made, like this, will last forever with the proper care.

Now Ranger, you can't possibly want someone else's shoes? Sorry, I do, especially if the price is right, and the condition is good. In fact, I just bought a pair of Alden shell cordovan (for those of you who haven't experienced this type of leather on your feet, please do so immediately!) cap toe boots in No 8 Shell, a burgundy color. These boots new, retail for well over $600. My price for them, $230, shipped to my door, with polish and three Alden shoe trees! They have become my favorite pair of shoes, and fit me like a glove. With buying shoes second hand, it usually takes a wear or two to get them to mold to your feet, as they tend to stay in the shape of the foot of the original owner for a bit. Had these shoes been excessively worn, I may not have jumped, but based on the pictures and the owner's description of wearing them at most 6 times, I bit...and it tasted GREAT!

Gross you say? Well think about what could happen in a shoe, and then think about what could happen on the cloth seats of that 2005 Camry you're mom just got for $6,000. Now it doesn't seem so disgusting anymore does it? Sure, we tend to get "skeeved" because clothing is as intimate a possession as anything else we own. Its attached to us, a part of us; a part of who we are. But in order to be able to buy someone else's clothing that will work for us, we have to get past that. The clothing is not a part of us, no more than your mom's used Camry is a part of her, or a "pre-owned" Lexus is a part of its owner.

So, bottom line is that its all about the bottom line. Wise purchases enable to me to spend more on things that I can't get discounted. Things like the custom shirts from Ercoles that I love so much, or the custom jackets that fit me like a glove. Things like those custom trousers I'm wearing in the boot pictures, that have a few extra dollars in their pack pockets thanks to some wise purchases of "pre-owned" luxury items.

I'll leave you with a few other vintage purchases, some that I've passed on to others as I've grown at the gym, and others that still sit in my closet reminding me that all that glitters isn't always new, wasn't always mine, and never will be me.

Tweed jacket, wool tie, DB overcoat, cashmere sport jacket, longwing shoes, and tweed sport jacket:

And no, I don't buy used underwear...thats where even I draw the line. Thanks for reading!

Gentlemanly Service - Ercole's Creative Fashion

In this day in age, when the apex of customer service is a live voice from India reading from a script, and the norm is a computer responding to keyed telephone entries, real service has disappeared, or so I thought.

Today I made my way to see my local tailor, Frank, at Ercoles in Brooklyn. I had a few things to do, order two pairs of trousers, check out some grey fabric for a sport jacket, and discuss some future plans to get his business online. I called at 11:30 AM and got Frank's father, Ercole, who told me that his son Frank would be in soon. I said OK, and made my way around the neighborhood to run some errands and pick up some groceries (fresh chicken cutlets, imported prosciutto, and home made mozzarella-one smoked and one regular...as well as some Italian cookies) and then headed over.

I got there, and said hello to Ercole and told him I'd wait for his son Frank, no problem. Talking with Ercole is a wonderful experience, as his English is doused with a beautiful operatic Italian accent. The minutes passed and still no Frank. In the meantime, a local developer with about $15,000 worth of sportcoats showed up, and was waiting, as was a local judge, and another young man who obviously had a lot of work for Frank and his crew. Now Ercole was getting steamed, and yelled at Frank on the phone for running late. Some choice Italian phrases (words even I understood) were thrown around and finally when Frank turned up at 1:00, Ercole was ready for lunch. He grabbed his cap, a black flat cap, and threw on a beautiful plaid sport jacket over his blue check shirt and deep blue trousers. I told Ercole to have a good lunch, and I said I'd wait for Frank to take care of the other customers, as I needed time to talk to him regarding the website I'm working on for him. Ercole invited me to join him. I took it as a polite gesture, and declined, until he insisted with a genuine and warm wave .

We made our way across the street to a little Italian place and shared a dish of antipasto, some sparkling water and some fresh Italian bread. We both got the fresh baccala (codfish) in a puttanesca sauce, one of the specials. The cod just arrived from Boston a few hours earlier. The fish was so fresh it didn't even need to be chewed. Ercole even gave some of his entree to an older patron who said she hadn't had baccala in ages, since her mother made it when she was a youth. We shared a nice glass of white wine, and an even nicer conversation. He told me about the town he came from, what it was like, .5 km from the sea in Calabria. he told me of his parents, how his father was hurt in the Second World War, and about being a father. I told him of how my great grandfather came here from Southern Italy and distanced himself from his heritage to fit into American society, and how I always regretted never being able to speak Italian, as he had to the beautiful waitress and the chef/owner, Butchie.

When it came time for the check, I asked him how much I owed, as I assumed we'd be splitting. He told me to give him $5 for the tip, and that was all that was needed. I insisted, knowing the meal was well above $50 without tip, but again, he turned my money away. I thanked him profusely. We then walked a few doors down for a cup of espresso, again, he picked up the tab. We then walked back to the shop and Frank was just finishing up with he last of the gentlemen that I left inside as we went to eat an hour earlier.

This is real customer service. This is what I imagine my great grandfather experienced when he went to get his clothing made in the mountain village of San Fele, Basilicata, 130 years ago, by their local craftsman. This is what's missing from today's mass produced, make a quick buck, men's clothing industry. I knew, before today, that I would be a customer at Ercoles for as long as I live, and Ercole knew that as well, and it didn't matter. This is the mark of a true gentleman, and to me that means more to me than any amount of money a sale can keep in my pocket. This is what keeps a customer loyal. It also doesn't hurt that I get a top quality product made for me, by a skilled artisan. But this artisan is also gentleman, and to me there is no value that can be placed on that.

I hope one day, when my son Hudson is old enough, to take him to Ercoles, and have clothing made for him. And when I do, I'll be sure to tell him of what happened to me today, and how being a man is more than just what our mass media tells us it is, and being a gentleman is all about how you treat people. I hope that one day he can pass it on to his son, as Ercole has passed it on to Frank, and on to me.

Summer Style Retrospective - Part 3 - Swim Trunks

Do you hear that sound? That tapping on your window? There it is again, tap, tap, tap. Ah yes, now you remember it. Its Fall, gently rapping at your door. Today, for the first time this year, Fall's cool chill has graced the air of Brooklyn with her presence. As I sit here by my keyboard, I eagerly anticipate the first sip of coffee that I hear dripping in the kitchen. Drip, drip, drip. But don't let these thoughts occupy too much space in your mind, as we both know, that not only will Summer come back for a visit one last time before the Autumn gets here for good, but that it may come back with avengence and provide us with the motivation for one last dip in the pool or the ocean. As we Splash, splash, splash in the water that last time before next year, lets think about what we'll be splashing around in. Swim trunks, the bathing suit, those special shorts used for more leisurely activities, and general lounging at the beach, pool, lake, or river. So what should we wear while lounging our lasts?

Its far too easy today to take a trip to the mall, or the outlets, and for $20 buy a bathing suit that fits more like a tent. This is the mistake that most American men make. Similarly to those baggy cargo shorts, men tend to wear their bathing suits far too long, and far too baggy. There's no need to wear, what one of my buddies calls them, "manpris" when sitting in the sun at the beach. Swim trunks should NOT, EVER, venture below the knee of the wearer. But what about for guys who are not skinny freaks that make Thom Browne models look overweight? Well, we'll start here:



Taken on Hilton Head Island, SC, here I'm wearing an Etro suit and my daughter is wearing a "What the hell is this?" face.(It was her first dip into the Atlantic, or any ocean for that matter) The suit is very light and 100% cotton, and it dries suprisingly fast for the material. It has two side seam pockets and a rear patch pocket, but I strongly suggest keeping your valuables out of them when anywhere near the wet stuff. The suit is lined to keep everything where it should be, and really is my most comfortable pair of trunks. These stop right at my knees and are my longest pair also. Etro, a Milan based fashion house, sells these upwards of $150 retail, but who pays full retail for anything? They were at the Etro Outlet store in Woodbury Commons for $80, and at the time of my visit two years ago, were having their Labor Day Sale. The 50% off all summer goods there brought the price down to $40, a great bargain. For around that price you can get your typical "manpri" suit at Nautica or Tommy Hilfiger, right?



A man should never own only one bathing suit, especially one who usually hits the beaches religiously each summer. So below we'll look at a few other pair, of the shorter variety. First, a pair of "board short" type trunks that I picked up at a shop on King Street in Charleston this summer. The brand, Nantucket Brand, I have never come across before. When reading up on the company, I realized why. The brand is sold only in their two company shops, one in Charleston the other in Nantucket. There they sell mostly preppy wear for the Nantucket set. As I meandered my way through the shop, checking out OCBDs, khakis, and ribbon belts I found my way to a back alcove. (Thats the word right? Alcove?) In this little nook of the store were all of their sale items. Polo shirts, shorts, belts, and swim trunks. All summer items that needed to be cleared out and all were $20 each. So for that price I couldn't pass up this navy and red pair of board shorts (an unlined bathing suit):



Pictured here with a JCrew tailored fit polo and my Ben Silver Ball Cap, these come about half way down my thigh. They are 100% polyester and have two side seam pockets and two back flap/velcro pockets. When examining the suit further, the "Made in China" tag becomes apparent as the fairly shoddy interior stitching. There are quite a few loose threads inside the suit, and I've had to take my shears to them on a few occations after some washes, but for the $20 I paid for them, I'm satisfied. Had they been full price, they most certainly would have gone back; but they were just right for lounging on a SC beach waiting for the sun to set...always with the upcoming hockey season on my mind!



The last suit I'll be showing you is by far the shortest, but also a favorite of mine. While out of our apartment last summer due to a fire in our building, a dry cleaning company took all of our clothing to clear all the smoke from them, leaving us with literally just the shirts on our backs. So, we headed out to Paramus, NJ, and to the massive Century 21 department store there, to pick up a few things to get us through. These trunks, and a similar pair in white and orange, were two of them. The brand is Acquarossa, another Italian outfit, and they were $19.99 each. Normally these suits would retail around $80. These are 100% polyester, which helps them dry miraculously fast, with a 100% cotton lining. Only coming down about 1/3 of the way on my thigh, I needed to be careful with the sun, and made sure I sprayed my thighs with SPF30 each time they were worn. Here you can see why:



Now I'm sure a lot of guys wouldn't feel comfortable in a suit this short, and they probably would look so good if I had even a little more of a belly, but if your decently fit, and not shy about showing some leg, these come highly recommended. These provide a shorter alternative without being the "full monty". As for that, unless you are an Olympic swimmer, competing in an Olympic event, please don't wear a speedo.

Now we'll turn our attention to shirts. A disturbing trend caught my eye as I spent two glorious weeks at two of America's finest East Coast beaches this year. Grown men wearing "surfer style" shirts while on the beach or at the pool. Big men, small men, skinny men, and fat men. Listen, if your 12 years old, and have one of these, its ok. In fact, then, its quite appropriate. Little kids forget to come back to mommy and daddy for the reapplication of vital sun screen and wind up getting burned. That sucks. But for those of you old enough to know better, c'mon now. No man should be caught dead wearing these things unless he's a professional surfer, competing in an event. The same as the speedo rule. "But Rob, what if you just get burned too easily?" Then wear a tee shirt, a sweat shirt, or anything else BUT the surf shirt. Even if your modest about exposing yourself to the ladies on the beach, just throw a tee shirt on and you'll will be fine. Leave the Underarmor shirts in your gym locker and your surfer shirts on your kids. Its just not acceptable.

One of these three styles of swim trunks should suit just about every man who ventures their way into the water this last weekend of summer or next year. But before the last sun of Summer sets beneath the waves of Fall, try and get out one more time to enjoy it. Enjoy the warmth of the sun. Enjoy the refreshment of a cool ocean breeze on a hot and humid day, but please, do it without your surfer shirt and "manpris".

Summer Style Retrospective - Part 2 - Color in Tailored Clothing

So I posted an entry about how I like to wear casual clothing in the summertime, but what about when the occation calls for something a bit more dressy? Well, if you are afraid of color, then your options are substantially limited. Wool isn't the best choice (unless its a very fine weave) for the warmer months, so cotton is king. Khakis and a light shirt are the easy go to option during these summer swelts, but if you need to dress often, you may look like your wardrobe has the handicap of being very constricted.

If you want to stay in the cotton range, and mix it up, I suggest going to colorful options which aren't generally a feature of American clothing. Just because these items are imported from Europe, doesn't mean they have to be expensive. I have NEVER paid anywhere near full price on any of my trousers, and can find especially good deals on summer trousers in places like Daffy's, Century 21, and the B&S Forum over at styleforum.net. All of the pants you will see below have been obtained from one of those three fora. I didn't pay more than $50 for any one pair, and most were bought closer to $20 each. Many of these pants retail for well over $200, so I'm living proof that buying luxury doesn't always have to be cost prohibitive.

Here is a pair of very light wool Incotex pants with a yellow gingham shirt. After work the BrooksBrothers blazer and BB Pink tie was removed.







This look shows a light navy cotton pant (Adam and Eve) with a madras long sleeve shirt and seersucker vest. To me, seersucker is the ideal summer fabric, refined enough to be considered dressy, cool enough for hot days, and textured enough to give your look a little "edge".





Below are some red chino-lino pants, a colorful tie and belt with a subdued pink stripe dress shirt.





Perhaps the belt was an unneccesary addition, but you live and learn.

Here is a look I wasn't terrifically pleased with, but felt is was just "alright". A seersucker jacket (part of a three piece suit) and navy cotton trousers and a light blue shirt witha navy striped tie. Did like the shoes and trousers together though...shoes are Alden for JCrew longwings. Love the look, but for the price would have rather just purchased a pair of shell cordovan longwings direct from the Alden store. they now sell them in whiskey shell.







We here have lighter blue trousers with whiskey cap toes and a fitted navy blazer. To compliment the trousers (Incotex) I went with a sky blue tie.



This look probably elicited the most comments (good and bad) from the fora where I post. The pants are Tangerine Mabitex and the jacket is a bold blue 3 roll 2 to which I had white MOP buttons added. A Paul Smith Tie and Square were added but the most "controversy" came through my choice of shoes and head gear. In retrospect, I probably would have gone with one of my summer driving caps and the JCrew Longwings instead. But with color, you have to try different things...







Regular khakis feature here, with the color coming from the salmon tie. Remember how nice June was in NY this year?



Green Incotex and a Navy hopsack blazer. For a more subdued look, lose the white shoes, and go with a darker brown.



Almost as summer as seersucker, the linen suit. It doesn't have the greatest fit, and the pants have been altered as they are entirely too long here. But, for the price (well under $100 on sale) it suited me just fine. The madras tie, light blue gingham shirt, and blue faced and banded watch provide just enough color where the suit lacks it.



The green pants and blue sportcoat for a July engagement party. This time with white bucks and my yellow gingham shirt with a skinny Theory light blue cotton tie.



Here's a really ambitious get up of seersucker (jacket), gingham (square), plaid (shirt) and stripe (tie) with denim.





For more casual wear, a bit of an inverted dress down colorway. The first look, Cobalt Blue Incotex chino-linos (cotton/linen blend) with a light yellow gingham shirt. The second is a light yellow Incotex chino-lino with a blue gingham shirt. These are two ways color can be incorporated into a more casual look.





I'll leave you with a project for next summer. I picked up this great seersucker plaid jacket at a thrift store on my travels in Richmond, Va this July. I'd like to have the pocket flaps and lapels slimmed down a bit as well as having the waist nipped for wear the first 80 plus day of 2010.



Stay tuned for the last summer installment...bathing suits.