Thursday, February 25, 2010
For some odd reason I decided I needed a black tie rig. I actually do not need anything in the clothing department, but that's why they call them "obsessions."
I also decided I wanted a shawl lapel tux. Unusual these days, and maybe a little less starchy.
And then there was the always pesky budgetary question.
Patience pays — I found the suit, a Brooks Brothers model, from a guy on one of the clothing forums.
Another forumite traded me the right sort of shirt and a set of BB braces for some Wigwam socks. (New ones, I hasten to add.)
And yet another fellow sufferer donated the tie, which is a real bitch to knot.
eBay yielded a cheap set of faux-onyx studs and links, and the thrift shop had a polyester cummerbund.
I have decided to pass on the dainty little opera shoes, and though the photo here shows me in LL Bean duck boots I will wear black Park Avenues, shined to a fault.
Now all I need is a debutante to invite me to a ball.
Total cost — a little over $100 bucks.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I picked up this ancient Brooks Brothers tweed suit on eBay a few years ago and it remains one of my favorites.
And as I have noted before, you could quite literally go skiing in this thing.
Shirt from Press, Andover Shop wool tie, Allen Edmonds McLains with Topys for the snow.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I finally got around to seeing the weird sci-fi epic District 9.
I appreciate the fact that it's a film in which the special effects are secondary to the story, but the story didn't cut it.
This whacking great ship appears over Johannesburg and when the South Africans get up there they wind up rescuing a bunch of creatures who look like giant prawns.
And these things aren't all that bright, it turns out, so the South Africans herd them into District 9, a massive shanty town a la the bad old days of apartheid.
And this doofus Wikus, working for an evil multinational corporation, is in charge of evicting the prawns and resettling them elsewhere.
Wikus has the worst luck of anyone, however, so he just happens to stumble on to the one smart prawn, who has been distilling some fuel to lift his secret spaceship up to the mother craft. And Wikus manages to squirt the stuff on himself, and thus starts turning into a prawn himself.
And then the story just breaks down and turns into a hybrid chase-wronged man-buddy scenario that just isn't all that interesting, even with all the giant critters clicking away.
Lots of explosions. Evil corporate henchmen. Evil Nigerians. Some sort of deep meaning that remains obscure. No nudity, unless you count the prawns. Ultimately tedious.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I lived in Boston from 1984-1989. Allston and Watertown, to be precise. Worked as a messenger downtown, so walking around there is fun. It has certainly changed — especially the area around the Downtown Crossing T station, which wasn't quite so vertical 20-plus years ago.
And the Combat Zone, well into its decline when I was around, has vanished completely — another victim of the Internet.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sometimes it's good to dress against type. I tried to Yankify this mostly Anglophile presentation with a baseball bat.
Say what you want about Charles Tyrwhitt shirts — they are a very inexpensive way to get some British flair going. Not the sort of thing I'd want all the time, or even some of the time, but for occasional laughs...
(The skinny: Thrifted Burberry DB blazer, twin vents and cheesy buttons with a winged horse. CT shirt and links. Berle flannels, pleated. AE Stanford shoes, eBay. Ben Silver tie, thrifted. Lands End socks and a pocket square from who knows where. Citizen Eco-Drive watch with the ubiquitous striped strap from Central Watch.)
Off to Boston for the weekend. I won't wear anything like this to the gathering of the New England Press Association. It would go right past dandification into sheer obnoxiousness.