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Friday, June 10, 2011


Courtest of

some classy man-pri's:
Requiem for a denim head.
This is not a cry for help.
I’m in control.
I know my limits.
Sitting in health class.
16 years old.
Beasting with 3,000 posts to my name.
Teachers tried to warn me.
Fuck you.
I don’t have a problem.
You MADD, son?
Mothers Against Denim Debate.
Bought my first 14oz off some shady sufu kid.
Gave it to me dirt cheap.
The gateway denim.
It was fun at first.
Just fucking around with my friends.
Seeing how crazy we could get our wallet fades without our rents finding out.
One night my mom found my stash when she was cleaning.
Some dope proxy ish.
She flipped the fuck out and washed them before I could stop her.
Six months and $200 gone just like that.
My friends lost interest.
To them it was just about cool stacks and fades to go with their tees and box snapbacks.
But I was hooked.
It took more and more to get that same feeling.
Started getting into some heavier shit.
Getting so fucked up.
Getting so faded.
Jeans so stiff.
They were the only things keeping me on my feet.
Eyes bloodshot with selvage lines.
Shit got bad.
The night terrors.
Waking up in a cold sweat.
Sheets dyed with indigo.
One night my bros found me.
Curled up in the gutter.
Rubbing sandpaper all over myself.
Into the darkness.
They saw the honeycombs on my legs.
Tried to talk to me about addiction.
But I don’t have a problem.
Fuck an intervention.
Stop calling my brothers and sisters.
I call my dick my pussy.
My crotch got so many whiskers.

Fuck hibernation.
That shit is mad overrated.
The kid is back on his grizzy.
But don’t call it a comeback.
Been had slapping Moncler ass wearing hoes upside their dome piece.
With a godddamn mitten.
It’s been a busy fucking winter.
Ya feel me?
Snow globbin’.
Globe trottin’.
Trot swaggin’.
Swag jackin’.
F/W 1974.
Détente type shit.
Ushanka stuntin’.
Inspiration board (Cold War remix) feat. MC Ford and Lil’ Brezhnev.
Ad libs slicker than your lezzy haircut.
More twisted than your barber’s mustache.
Cleaner than your new brogue booties.
Have the ever sniffed the city’s salt?
Leather sole obsessive compulsive disorder.
Leaders steez out crisply dressed.
Skipping NYFW all together.
Richy hit up dude.
But who wants to be another booty shakin’ hoe in The Tong Song?
But who wants to kick it with 20 plus broads?
When you’ve got a cockblock parading as a press junket.
When all the good dickwear has already graced Euro catwalks.
When you’re already the heart of the city.
Robbiegella chain.
Only Built 4 Lincoln Center aint swag.
Itineraries aint swag.
#fashunz aint swag.
Nah, son.
I’ll roll my trousers.
Double down on four-in-handies.
And sip my Rozay all alone.

I get the Twitters tweetin’.
I get the Tumblrs tumblin’.
Y’all get shot at.
@Reply me, homie.
I do the shooting.
See you street skeezers at (capsule).
I do the recruiting.
Did y’all motherfuckers see that collabo with Gents Quart?
Meta steez.
On some serious next level self-referential shit.
Crispyest drop in a minute for real, real.
You probably think that real G’s move in silence.
Like J-Wil.
Well, fuck that noise.
Or lack thereof.
My speakers go hammer.
Had no idea that work had even gone live.
I was busy tearing the motherfucking roof off Magic City.
Going ham with Brick Squad.
Juaquin and me.
Making it thunderstorm.
Silk squares raining down.
While these skrippers do it with no hands.
Radric and Otis.
Suited and booted.
Ed Greens looking all tough.
Lardini with the tags still hanging off.
Slapping the weave off your baby mama.
If she thinks it’s okay to put her paws on soft shoulders.
Neapolitan trapwear.
Where they do that at?
Dope boys.
Stay doe boy fresh.
And catch a few bodies.
When flat front lames try to front.
Sizzurp match my V-Neck.
Merino match the clique I claim.
Soo woo.
See y’all motherfuckers in hell.

A dissertation.
Ruminations on menswear domination.
Collection behind us.
Future in front of us.
Lost in each other’s eyes.
Nothing can stop us.
Just two bros.
Among many.
In the frat party we call #menswear.
Where the only rule is.
#browear before #hoewear.
Shooting lookbooks.
Shotgunning brewskis, pigeons, and brogues on the reg.
Crossfaded and sipping on porkslaps.
Rolling spliffs with the finest from Cone Mills.
Indigo dyed kush.
Still don’t get it?
Me and my bros been running this shit since jump street.
Gitman Bros.
Macking on thin chicks.
Keg stands in slim fits.
Burkman Bros.
Blew off the CFDA’s to play with their Wes Andy train set.
India expansion pack.
Bray Bros.
Two Amish assassins on the Pong table.
Button up body bags for F/W 11.
Bastian Bros.
Sent Gant to dig through the archives.
Of Swedish hospitals.
Tryna get an “a” added to that birth certificate.
Parton Bros.
Board room meetings on how to continually son groms.
Still getting hive fives.
From when they popped that Filson collabo cherry.
Corsillo Bros.
Johnny Utahs of retail.
Chambray burglar masks in J Crizzy.
Slingshots in safety deposit boxes.
Ovadia Bros.
Tie steez secrets stolen from The Major.
Double breasted dragons.
Side scrolling and stomping wack fucks in the streets.
Brooks Bros.
The illest OGs.
Ripping bongs faster than you can say oxford cloth button down.
But when you grind this hard.
Sometimes you need a break.
Unlike my trou game.
Weekend getaway.
Getting cray cray in the Catskillz.
All bros in attendance.
Bus full of runway slam pieces en route.
Dead stock Lokos in the fridge.
Killing time.
Went to grab Brulé’s finest out my tote.
Instead of nine types of paper stock, my hand brushed rigid denim and soft wool.
There it was.
Hidden by my bros when I wasn’t looking.
The kit to end all kits.
D. Suzuk’s 5th.
Turned to look behind me.
All my bros standing there laughing.
Got down on one knee.
Put the whole kit on at once.
Bros crisping bros.

Can't even handle this:
T’was the night before Crispymas.
When all through the house.
Not a blogger was stirring.
Not even the scrubs who still use Typepad.
Their J. Crew camp socks were hung by the chimney with care.
In hopes that Saint Steezus soon would be there.
But on the real.
Things are gonna be a little different this year.
Because I’ve Tumbl’d my list.
I’ve checked that motherfucker twice.
And it’s safe to say.
None of you clowns are even remotely nice.
Fabo voice.
Shit, son.
You’re not even worth a lump of coal.
Or an Aeropostale giftcard.
So don’t bother staying up late.
Waiting for the sound of tassel loafs.
Scurrying across your rooftop.
Don’t leave me a plate of fresh dub monks.
And a tall glass of High Life.
Nah, fuck that noise.
I’m out.
I’m leaving my red barn jacket and 12” Beans at the Northern most pole.
And skipping town.
Hitting up Firenze.
With loved ones.
My family of linens and ginghams.
My vintage Schwinn sleigh.
And I aint making no fucking toys.
I’ll be too busy sonning herbs.
Like the corny dude with that fake Twitter handle tryna ride my coattails.
Do I look like Vinny G?
Like editors who think I ghostwrite J. Peterman bars.
Do I look like Johnny O?
They say this is the season of giving.
So I might as well toss all you suckas a bone.
Merry Crispymas.
And a steezy New Year.

I was gonna come with it.
Out of nowhere.
Hit these creamsicle lookin’ ass cats in the motherfucking mouth.
With that all black er’thang.
Clandestine level shit.
All gloves.
No sleeves.
But word got out.
My cables to Basty leaked.
Countless sketches.
Fucking Jules, bro.
The greatest player hater of them all.
These watchdogs are barking up the wrong tree.
New media herbs.
Get no amnesty from the kid.
How am I supposed to hop up out the bed?
And turn my swag on?
When haters hop up on the Tumblrs.
And turn their scopes in my direction.
How am I supposed to hop up out the bed?
And turn my swag on?
When I pop up on these dashboards.
And a generation of poseurs bite my shit.
Somebody told me.
That you had a fit.
That looked like a kit.
That I wore in February of last year.
When you’re this ahead of the curve.
Your shit is not confidential.
Why do I wear all black?
To mourn the passing of swag.
Steez reaper when I dead these treasonous mo’fuckas.
Bros in Persols.
Are you with me?
Heed my warning.
Answer my call.
Middle finger in the air.
If you part your hair.

There is an idea of me.
Some kind of abstraction.
You look.
And you see I’m crispy like some F. Scotty quote.
On pointe so hard.
My kit is a fucking ballet.
Save the last post.
But to you I simply am not there.
I am not flesh and blood.
I am a photo that you re-blog.
Giving you fucking goosebumps.
RRL Stine.
But you wouldn’t know.
You’ve never seen real steez.
Just my street shots.
Just my test shots.
Shots with Wooster.
On a Tuesday night.
You still don’t get it.
This is what Tommy Oats was all about.
We talkin’ real NYC brick and mortar shit.
We talkin’ allegories.
We building New Republics.
Socratic dialogues back and forth with The Stuntorialist.
He stoking that fire behind me.
Both us watching you geek out over my fuckin’ shadow.
Dancing across your macbook screen.
The theory of forms.
How Tin-Tin and G dress mannequins.
In their bedrooms.
So you ordered it all.
Tweed vest.
Engine turned buckle.
The cutaway.
Dub sole wingdings.
You fuckin’ made it.
Can’t wait for your twitpic.
I have a wife.
I have children.
I laugh.
I cry.
I breath the air and walk these hardened streets.
I stand naked in the shower every morning.
Hot water pouring over me.
And I continue to exist.
Without clothing.
Without servers.
Without tumblr.
Without #menswear.
But I know.
This confession has meant nothing.
At the end of the day.
You still just a blogger.
Captivated by the flickering images of your RSS feeds.
And wearing my clothes.

Woah, woah, woah.
Hold up, son.
You go to a public university?
The fuck is that?
What does that even mean?
Is that one of those places with tuition cheaper than my high school?
Is that one of those places founded after my family already made their fortune?
Is that one of those places that make you wear socks to class?
Is that one of those places that doesn’t have any pics in the Life Archives?
If it doesn’t have a school boy at JP.
It doesn’t count.
Scarves or it didn’t happen.
Is your roommate some fucking townie?
Who wears sweatpants to parties?
And carries ID on lanyard?
And rocks Adido’s slip-ons in public?
Havi’s by Basty?
What’s his nickname?
Fucking, J-Bone?
I wear cream Wallows to the weightroom.
Squash in 2-inch cuffs.
And talk to bitches about my full-ride blogarship.
But seriously.
The fuck is a public university?

Everybody up on my prep steelo these days.
Thinking they iced out.
In they sperrys and J. Urban.
Fuck ‘em.
Don’t act like you’ve ever set foot on a Squash court.
10 years old.
After midnight.
I’m Space Jammin’ in a cube with a glass wall.
Flying like an eagle.
When the game copies.
You go next level.
You can buy the polo I’m wearing.
But you can’t buy my scars.
My stylist is a fucking boxer.
Punched in the face.
The bleeding Edge of style.
Gaining so much steez.
Losing so much blood.
Get  my boy Boyle to shoot the adaptation.
Written by Wes Andy.
Staring Stevie McQ.
Two and a half hours of a dug up corpse kitted out by Mr. Ned.
But even then.
It’s not enough.
People still be right clickin’
Saving my steeze to desktop.
They dressed by the Internet.
Dying to forget.
Bout all these fuckin’ bloggers.
Tryna step to Prep Imhotep.
Heritage brand afterlife.
Embalm me with the shreds of Yizzie Co-op OCBDs.
Organs stored in I banking gym bags.
Build me a tomb.
York Street and Broadway.
Go ahead.
Try to re-blog a fucking Pyramid.

Everyday I’m carryin’.
Everyday I’m carryin’.
Everyday I’m carrying doper shit than you.
You losers can keep totin’ moleskins.
Stuffin’ diaries in your back pocket.
I hope your older brother doesn’t find it.
And tell all the neighborhood kids about your crush on Eunice.
Yeah, I stay laced.
But I also stay strapped.
I always keep the biscuit on me.
It’s the only way.
I can get a holster fade on my New Cures.
And that machete ain’t for looks, kid.
This blade has spilled the blood.
Of a thousand ill placed Rugby patches.
A seam ripper is a man’s best friend.
Along with a smart phone and a ruler.
So you can measure your inseam.
And simultaneously tweet about trouser break.
On the motherfucking go.
The finest Cubans.
Are also accounted for.
Because you never know when you’re gonna run into Drizzy.
Light one up.
And politic about Ronnie’s newest Davie Z collabo.
These crushed velvet Red Wings ain’t gonna blog about themselves.
I could discuss snappin’ shots with this vintage joint.
And what estate sale I snagged these hater blockers at.
But you use digital.
And spend your allowance at Sunglass Hut.
So you’re not worth my motherfucking time.

When your diamonds have diamonds.
And your hoes have hoes.
And your sprezzy has sprezzy.
What does that make you?
Prince Hamlet of this blog shit.
Scandinavian prep revenge.
Shitting on the yet unknowing world with each nonchalant street snap.
To not give a fuck this much.
Is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
The only tragedy I see.
Is watching you try and get on my level.
Did some seeming virtuous queen help you twist that tie?
That shit’s practically even, son.
My tail is in another fucking timezone.
Not                    a hater stirring.
When they peep the disheveled apparel.
That proclaims this G.
Get thee wack ass to the steezery.
And get your cake up.
Because the only state that’s rotten.
Is the state of your motherfucking wardrobe.
To steez?
Or not to steez?
Is not even a goddamn question.
I just pray.
That in the sleep of death.
All my swag’s remembered.

You honestly think I give a fuck about what you wore today?
For real, real?
While you were outside of a Starbucks.
Tweeting low-res pics of your hindquarters.
Showing off your crotch blowout.
I was in a fucking mine shaft.
Fading my selvedge.
And reading Glenn O’Drama’s bio.
On my iPad.
You city slickers slay me.
You really do.
But I guess if Rozay is a dealer.
And Yeezy is a martyr.
Then y’all are some rugged motherfuckers.
But on the real.
When’s the last time you heard it like this?
Henley and suspenders.
Scragglepuss beard and lived in White’s.
Clay pomade and fucking boulders.
Do they let you bring a shovel to brunch?
At Balthazar?
Didn’t think so.
Just because I look like a 49er.
Doesn’t mean my swagger isn’t on a hundred.
I’m chillin’ in the Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Kings Canyon.
Prospecting for steez.
You’re drinking a Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Flatbush.
Prospecting for chicks with septum piercings.

My fave:
You think I give a fuck about chambray?
Just make sure you bring my critters, bitch.
Tryna get WASPY.
Lilly P belts with the guns still tucked in them.
Volvo station wagons with boarding school girls still getting smashed in them.
Fuck with me real quick.
Turning out VIP with my squad.
Rugby’d out.
Wrist on bling.
Making herbs Kiel over.
Left and right.
Bow ties.
Bow ties.
Bow ties.
They can load up if they want.
Aim atcha boy.
Take shots at the throne.
But these workwear goons should know.
I never leave the cape without protection.
Patchwork Kevlar.
Unabashedly Teflon.
Got my hater blockers on too.
Warby Parkies.
Clear lenses on smash.
Always watchin’ that money.
New or old.
I don’t give a fuck.
As long as I stay stacking cheddar.
Boat shoes.
Boat shoes.
Boat shoes.
Go to hell pants hand sewn by demons.
The same beasts.
Who haunt you.
When you flip through the pages.
Of that one Free & Easy.
Your cousin got you.
Because he lives near a Japanese bookstore.
The same beasts.
Frankie exorcised in ‘08.
When he took over The Crew.
Vampire Weekend.
Vampire Weekend.
Vampire Weekend.
Me and my clique.
Leavin’ chalk outlines.
Outside of the Pop Up Flea.
Peep these rugged clowns.
They soft.
They shook.
They leaking.
They sleeping.
Forget The Bloods, son.
You got bigger problems.
We bleeding madras up in this motherfucker.

Welcome to F/W 10.
Did you just get chills?
Frostbit fingertips trembling on your trackpad?
My bad.
Me and Jacky Frost been lamping on the street.
Crystallizing windows.
Talkin’ winter essentials.
My favorite coat back in the day was a J Press Presidential.
Talkin’ cold weather tactics.
Best protect ya neck.
I only fuck with exclusive shit.
Made of the finest silk scraps.
This is my power scarf.
This is my phoenix.
This is my horcrux.
What’s that?
You think you saw this scarf on some TV clown?
You think I’m on some Gossy Girl shit?
Fuck no.
You think style like this happens on the C dubs?
I’m on some World 1-2 layering right now.
Next level.
I’m on some planetary steelo.
White hot at the core.
You can’t mess with my multilayered mantle.
Scarf brushing up against my jacket.
Tectonic shifts captured by Tommy T.
Causing steez-quakes.
9.0 Richter.
My crust is extra crispy.
J. Press for Digiorno.
Can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Might stop.
At my apartment.
Later tonight.
Got my DVR game on lock.
Get my GG on.
In my MTM jammies.
Catching up on the latest from Chuck Weejun and  B Weezy.

Nature vs. nurture?
It’s tough to say.
When you’re DNA is this fucking crispy.
And as a young’n you kicked it in Pari.
Your kid probably geeks out over trivial shit.
Like butterflies.
Or clouds.
Or glitter.
My kid gets wide eyed.
When we discuss the merits of white jeans in winter.
Monochromatic palettes.
And well worn DB’s in exclusive colorways.
We took him out of school 2 years ago.
So he could blog full time.
His diffusion line for Heelys hits Target next month.
Apparently it’s Jil inspired.
I’ve only seen the sketches.
You probably heard him at SXSW.
Moderating a panel with Lil Gevi.
And that dude who created Mad Men’s son.
Talking about the merits of social media.
And musing on what it means.
To inspire a generation of designers.
Who made names for themselves.
Before any of these Rugrats were even born.
They say rents live vicariously through their seed.
I’d have to agree.
I tweet vicariously through him.
Because he has more followers than me.
While you’re in a Town & Country.
Stuck in traffic.
Taking your worthless brat to soccer practice.
I’m speeding in a Hummer limo.
With my kin.
And Uncle Karl.
Popping bottles.
Making our way to the front row.
This really shouldn’t come as a shock.
I mean.
He was conceived.
In Brunello’s booth.
At Pitti Uomo.
My meal ticket.
My only son.
The truth.
The future.
My legacy.
Steezus Christ.
My only son.


When your hoarding is this fresh.
There is no need for a fucking intervention.
Friends and fam bumrushed the crib.
Thought a therapist and a camera crew could halt my swag.
After 5 minutes they got the hell outta there.
Realized they were underdressed.
Self destructive behavior on some seriously next level shit.
Obsessive compulsions legit as fuck.
Shoulda known my gear would eventually ruin the lives of those close to me.
My down bitch was tired.
Of sleeping on the floor.
I told her that a G like me can only open his heart so much.
“I’ve only got love for neckwear, girl.”
Kicked her ass out.
Ralph Macchio.
Back to my old ways.
Slaying these broads and wiping ‘em down.
With silk repp.
More bow ties than a goddamn Chippendales.
More four-in-hand’s than a couple of Burkman Bros grabbing their nuts.
But I gotta keep it one hundred.
Sometimes I feel like.
I can’t stop.
Sometimes I feel like.
The walls are closing in.
Sometimes I feel like.
I’m living in a steezed out bomb shelter.
But god forbid.
There is ever a zombie apocalypse.
28 sample sales later.
I’ll be Omega Man stunting.
Choking undead haters out with batwings.
Rebuilding society.
And this time around.
There’s gonna be a motherfucking dress code.

Chillen in my Trucker.
Listening to “Ether”.
Dissin’ old heads on StyFo.
Schoolin’ ‘em on honey nut Boglioli-os.
Thinking to myself.
Time to monetize my authority.
Time to make some buku bucks.
Time to help these sart cutie pies.
Get motherfucking beautified.
Thinking to myself.
The Bay is on some ‘08 shit.
Old as hell.
The streets have spoken.
Buzzin’ about that Etsy new, new.
But you gotta come rugged.
Or these dudes won’t bite.
Thinking to myself.
We got grannies selling kitten shaped pillows up in this bitch.
And that shit is not hood.
We got BK shorties slanging homemade needlecraft up in this bitch.
And that shit is not hood.
You gotta come rugged.
Or these dudes won’t bite.
Because they don’t want to type.
“No homo” on their blahgs.
Thinking to myself.
Welcome to Flannel Slumbers, son.
Digital crack.
For vintage fiends.
And steezwhores.
Dead stock.
New stock.
Old stock.
Live stock.
Jean jackets.
Holler at me.
Thinking to myself.
I’ll keep you kitted out.
Fitted down to the socks.
Looking fresh to death.
Smelling like fresh death.
Cleaner than a motherfucking whistle.
Stanky as a motherfucking corpse.

Dropped out of law school.
To follow my dreams.
My calling.
Is to be fucking major.
To write about men’s clothing.
On the internet.
It’s what I was born to do.
The freshest of prophecies.
I am baby Moses.
Draped in Hill-Side chambray.
Floating down the Nile.
In a Makr rucksack.
Fulfilling my destiny.
This aint some noob pipe dream.
I’ve been in the game for a minute.
Going on 4 months.
A true OG.
Who learned from the greats.
Who studied the GOATs.
This aint gonna be some lame ass Tumblog.
Reblogging dudes laced in LEC.
Fuck that.
Nah, I’ma have the dopest writeups.
Based on some other dude’s writeups.
The dopest product reviews.
Based on some other dude’s purchases.
Breaking the dopest news.
That I read on Valet.
I can copy and paste these fucking PR blasts with the best of ‘em.
The best Definitive Touch since Swipelife.
The best Swipelife since Selectism.
To run the game you need to be the fucking game.
Nah mean?
On some Pinnochio type shit.
I’m a real blogger.
My journey starts today.
Time to get noticed.
Busted open the piggy bank.
Blew my last stack copping some McNasty saddles at the Barney’s Warehouse Sale.
These red bricks sizzle, homie.
Aint no thing.
Catch me doing a buck 60 in my Macbook.
Swerving through comments.
Catch me in Duane Reade.
Blowing AdSense paper on Top Ramen.
Catch me at launch parties.
Telling bitches I write for a living.
Catch me on Twitter.
Snagging my 300th follower.
Called up my moms.
She’s hella proud.
I’m a real blogger.
My journey starts today.

Woke up at dawn again.
Looking out my window.
Into the fog.
I’m not the only one left.
Sending broadcasts into the void.
Praying for @replies.
Signs of Steez.
On some Kal-El shit.
The last son of Tumblr.
After it happened everything changed.
With no one on the streets, there was no street style.
No photos meant no page views.
Ads were dropped.
Labels stopped sending free shit.
Style bloggers started to get desperate.
And things got ugly,
Real fucking fast.
The Swedes were the first to go.
Cut down on their daily bike rides.
They never saw it coming.
Ran into TT on a street corner in Firenze.
Didn’t recognize him.
He was still wearing last season.
A man hunted by fear.
He took a shot of my shoes.
Disappeared screaming down a cobblestone alley.
Never saw that photo posted.
Don’t think he made it.
Found a glimmer of hope buried in a sig of an abandoned thread.
The Kiss and Gumby had holed themselves up in the Liquor Store.
Self-sustaining, they could post their own fits for days.
That was two months ago.
I know they must be running out of pieces.
If only the J. Crizzy had done more collabos.
It’s hard to keep my spirits up.
Scared to leave the house.
I’ve been careful.
Thought I was safe.
But this is it.
They found me.
Surrounding my house and setting up for a full on lookbook.
Just a thin pane of glass between me and pure chaos.
This is it.
The final stand.
The final look.
Trying to stay strong.
Look down at my wrist.
What Would Junya Do.
Oh yeah.
That’s right.
Steez fuck ‘em till they can’t take no more.
If you get this message.
Please re-tweet.
Let the world know there is still hope.
Steez can find a way.

Fuck an Olsen twin.
Ya heard?
I’ve been on that homeless tip.
Before fleece was black at The Brethren.
Before Press was in Urban.
Before BK cats were shaking down each other for cookie boots.
Before this shit was a movement.
Smell me?
So don’t be asking where my cup is at.
Tryna give dude pocket change.
So I can get some malt liquor and a bag of Funyuns uptown.
Do you see a sign?
“Will design for food”?
Blogger, please.
Scotty wasn’t the first dude to bug out on hobowear.
And he definitely won’t be the last.
You think I wake up in the morning.
Throw a new patch on my chinos.
And think to myself.
“Damn, it feels good to be an icon.”
Fuck outta here.
There is natural swag.
And then there is NATURAL SWAG.
I’ve been a walking moodboard, kid.
Inspiring generations of steezheads.Every time I take a stroll down Bleecker.
A G-wich Village nomad.
Making appearances at The Mansion.
When some fresh faced asshole from Parsons needs a second opinion on a drug rug poncho he’s cooking up for ‘Lo.
Just because I run shit.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
So when you see me, keep it moving.
No hat tips.
No pics.
No questions.
Unless of course, you want to know what it’s like to sell Lifshitz a dream.
And smoke weed in a tee pee on the double RL ranch.

Lumberjack sluts and French sailor lookin’ ass mustachios.
Junya paper dolls.
Rugged boy swag.
Defying the physics of just how long dickriding is humanly possible.
If I had a nickel for every one of yall.
I could buy us a round at The Rusty Knot.
Hold up real quick.
Let me hop in my Delorean and meet you.
Back in F/W 2009.
Timeless style has never looked so vintage, brah.
When Ben Sherm bites your steez.
It’s a tell-tale sign.
That you’re wack as fuck.
See, I’m in the future, son.
Going hard in Milano.
Me and Righi.
Eating rice crispy treats.
Shopping for washed jeans.
Comparing goatee notes.
Neapolitan wizard committee.
On some Fantasia shit.
The sorcerer’s apprentice.
Casting sart spells on you weirdos.
With bogus ass facial hair.
By the time you’re ready to billy goat with the big boys, we’ll be long gone.
On some next level soul patch shit.
Post Howie Mandel Nascar secondary sex characteristics.
Deal or No Dealin’ on hoes.
Throwin’ Euros in the air like we don’t give a fuck.
And not shaking hands with any of yall.

My sweet Rapo.
What happened to you, bro?
Like a young Humphrey in his hey.
You lit up the silver screen.
Your face time was on some major shit.
GQ Rules was on all the rad blogs.
You and Sidney Mash.
Teaching all the style cats how to twist a tie.
You and Basty.
Preaching from the cuff gospel.
You and some Italian dude.
Sherbet scarves 101.
And just like that, you were gone.
Kids stay reblogging that shit.
What happened to you, bro?
Did the ill fitting suits at Condy tell you to tone it down?
You were blowing up too quick.
Jimmy and Jimmy were the faces of the franchise.
I just hope you’re happy.
I miss you, bro.
You pop up every now and then.
A tweet about a delicious eatery.
Some scrizzle in the GQ Eye.
How to wear white jeans in winter.
How to cook a dope omelet for Sunday brunch.
Saw you’re doing a new show sponsored by Cadillac.
Pretty sick.
Cruising around town.
Crashing industry cribs.
Kinda like Selby.
But better.
Because you’re the Rap.
Tried to embed the trailer.
For all the blogheads.
Let ‘em know you’re still killing it.
Couldn’t find the link.
Comer jumped shipped.
But you stayed.
Old faithful.
And for that I am thankful.
Maybe you’re waiting in the wings.
Waiting for your chance to scale that masthead.
Take shit over.
Steez out Gent’s Quart on some ill shit we haven’t seen since ‘73.
My fingers stay crossed, bro.
Belie dat.
Post Script
WWD just blew up the spot.
You’re headed to Bon Appetit on Monday.
You did the right thing.
Eagles deserve to soar.
That’s some major label swag, bro.
So many memories my dude.
Cherish them all.
Much love.
I just canceled my subscription to GQ.

Level 5 phaeton on Illuminati Row.
Got a few Aston’s in the shop.
Biking it like a plebe today.
P Greezy. 
A man of the people.
Cutting forms by hand.
Keeping you respected by your peers.
Stitch by stitch.
Getting dressed is a serious business.
I think.
It’s a moment that’s entirely for breaking out the butcher paper.
It’s a moment that’s entirely for smashing on herbs.
Let the haters watch.
Let ‘em take notes.
Moleskin Trapper Keepers.
It’s a moment when nothing else can disturb us.
Not even a camera crew.
Not even a camera crew in a dressing room.
Not even a million eyes on Tumblr.
Used to that shit by now.
I think it’s something we need to learn to enjoy once again.
Have you forgotten?
How good it feels to to say,
“Yeah, the guy wearing the $4,000 suit is holding the elevator for the guy who doesn’t make that in four months.”
“Come on.”
Check the MBA, kid.
Corporate takeovers.
Brand rebranding.
Heritage wizard.
MTM boxer briefs.
“Come on.”
Old timey geezers put a target on my back.
Jealous rage blinded by ignorance.
If only they knew.
What the fuck was social media.
“Come on.”
Change the game and you lose some friends.
Change the game and you gain some enemies.
I’ll stay strong.
Only the bespoke survive.
As their houses crumble.
One by one.
I’ll laugh and count my cheddar.
Watch doc reruns on the BBC.
Until Abercrombie & Snitch moves in next store.
And puts me out of business.
“Come on.”

Demolish Mount Rushmore, I say.
And build a new monument.
Carve these heads in stone.
Cut a new day and age.
Form our future.
Chisel history.
For the children.
The history of my internet.
The heroes of my youth.
The visionaries of our time.
Sully Sullenberger.
Impossible was nothing.
Cool was everything.
Combing archives with dexterous fingers.
An artist and model.
He wrote the preamble.
“We the bloggers.”
God of thunder.
Hammer of justice.
In The Closet made me who I am today.
He and Pesko.
Were Lewis and Clark.
Plantationwear master.
Southern SoHo charm.
Recognized for his contributions to GQ.
And Gilt.
I once ate free BBQ in his store.
J. Diesel, behind the lens.
A genius.
A visionary.
The information superhighway’s own renaissance man.
Test Shots stacked in the Library of Congress.
He had the best haters.
Camo boatshoes changed the game.
Papa Willliams, there in spirit.
Style historian.
Menswear cartographer.
Americana anthropologist.
Documenting our people’s rise.
And subsequent fall.
In the Smithsonian.
His kodachromes still reside.
These men.
Reviled by some.
Imitated by many.
Unmatched by any.
Honored by all.
3 Details Blog Awards nominations amongst them.
These men.
Defined the canon.
Front to back.
Back to front.
I blog where blogging is due.
These men.
My imaginary friends.
I rue the day I missed their epic trip.
Shotgun and HD video in tow.
Skeeting in the wilderness without me.
No Homme-o.

Late last night I had a vision.
A world with no blogs.
No Tumblr.
No Twitter.
Not even fucking elbow patches.
It was horrible.
In a world without swag how does one stunt?
How does one stunt in a world without swag?
A cycle perpetuated by clearance racks at Kohl’s.
The finest men of my generation.
Those known for the crispyest kits.
Those known for the sickest fits.
Those known for tweeting the most ridonkulous sample sales.
Those known for taking pictures of themselves in public restrooms.
Those known for reblogging the steeziest street skeezers.
My heroes.
My brethren.
My bros.
Were suddenly different.
An entire generation lost in space.
And time.
Their go-to-hell souls vanished into thin air.
Gone forever.
They were doing volunteer work to meet bomb ass chicks.
Instead of just looking fucking awesome.
They had real jobs.
Instead of freelancing on Wordpress.
No one owned their own domain.
No one owned their own webstore.
My worst nightmare.
Worse than a T-Brizzle fashion show.
It was horrible.
I awoke in a panic.
My APC manjamas soaked in sweat.
Club collar twisted in fear.
I ran to the nearest of my walk-in closets.
Grabbed the flyest gear within reach.
Threw it on as quick as possible.
Making sure my sprezzy was still on point as fuck.
My fingers trembled as I took a seat.
At some rando granddaddy’s typewriter that I copped on Etsy, I began to flesh it out.
Doing my best to write it all down.
So I could save the world if need be.
So I could prevent the future if necessary.
So I could scan this dope ass shit to my blog later.

hi there...
I tried to do it.
I really did.
But I just can’t front.
Humble pie tastes like shit.
The only thing getting destroyed here is your self confidence.
You wouldn’t be the first hater I’ve impregnated with jealously.
Steez fucked through a computer screen.
The reblogs are bad enough.
But ya boy just got that WorldArt expansion pack.
The bastard love child of T-Bone McQ and Paulie Pollock.
Cutoff sweatshirt.
Loopwheeled with envy.
Cutoff shorts.
Painted in the tears of those who dressed before me.
Vintage strongwings.
Soles harder than the erection you’ve got right now.
Why do you even bother at this point?
While you’re frantically checking your eBay RSS feed, I’m in my parent’s garage.
Cutting sleeves.
Finger painting.

Raising hems.
Raising hell.
Welcome to D.I.Y. memewear.
Population, Me.
Take a fucking number and have a seat.
I’ll be with you shortly.
I gotta wash my hands real quick before I go inside.
Or else my mom will ground me.
(nice calf muscles)

Betwixt cobblestone alleyways and corner bistros is where you’ll find me.
Manning the fresh cave.
The fortress of steezhood.
The league of extraordinary bloggers.
Who curates the curators?
Storefront looking all nondescript and shit.
Walk in wearing dad jeans and Foot Locker New Ballys.
Walk out wearing selvedge overalls and Japanese New Ballys.
Turning lames into sart superheros like it was my fucking day job.
This is my fucking day job.
Hot in the streets like J. Crew.
But with less collaborations.
Out of your size?
My bad, yo.
We don’t stock anything.
Besides vintage stools and negative space.
You want some white paint?
Benjamin Moore for Engineered Garments.
I can sell you an aesthetic.
Redeem for $150 dollars worth of SuFu cred at a later date.
Looking epic is half the fucking battle.
What, you were expecting the Liquor Store?
Looking all TGI Friday’s with a bunch of shit on the walls?
Fuck outta here, son.
At least pretend you want to get next level.
Charging wack bloggers to snap pics of the shop.
Please check your Goog analytics at the door.
Along with that 2006 point and shoot.
That shit is old as fuck, homie.
Money on my mind.
Danner moonboots on my feet.
Inspiration aint free, bro.
This is the sound of silence.
This is the sound of a Daiki cosign.
This is the sound of my wallet on swoll.

What happens to a man when he goes too far?
What happens to a man that wakes up one morning, and out steezes himself?
Walking down a Soho street.
Filling up SD cards.
Crashing servers.
Like usual.
Caught my reflection in the lens of a DSLR.
Saw the face of God.
He said one word.
The next twenty seasons flashed before my eyes.
Needed time to think.
The world wasn’t ready for it.
Had to get away from it all.
Back to nature.
Iced out on Walden Pond.
Henry David Theezy in Red Wings.
Thornproof Wax Dressing in my stach.
Burnt orange chinos.
Taped seams.
Making Mother Nature want to start a tumblr.
Too much style for one man.
Brought my girl along just to wear my second kit.
Steez Double.
I let her do the long shots.
Coming back to civilization in two years.
The Menswear Messiah.
So many followers.
All dyed-in-the-Woolrich Wooly Mills.

Scoots Dore has been tailing me all day.
Sting operation outside my dorm.
Code red.
DEFCON 4 level swag.
I’m on some transcendent shit.
St. Jeezy knit and white jeggings.
S/S 2010.
Barbour Beau and my Beanies, baby.
F/W 1923.
Moleskin and a brown bag lunch.
NYU Class of ‘13.
I’m a goddamn trend transformer.
Tumblr’s own Optimus Prime.
Decepticons mad salty when they see me up on The Sart.
Get ‘em some Dr. Scholl’s for their beefrolls.
Medium rare.
Ya boy stays well done.
Burning up.
Charred out.
Dripping in steez sauce.
A.1. icon.
Someone tell Scotty to pop this mo’fucker in Photoshop.
I deserve to be in black and white.
When I’m stunting on co-eds.
And pretending to look interested.

Peep my boys real quick.
Left to right: Raiders of The Lost Steez, The Temple of Jawnz, The Last Reblog
Kingdom of The Crystal Topsiders got axed from the pic.
Damn right we kicked him out the frame.
Dude’s a filthy poseur.
He’s off right.
Drinking a PBR tallboy and wishing he was as rugged as his homies.
Wishing he was sipping on some Natty chrome.
Size 11.5 C rims.
Motherfuckers think I’m moonwalking when I’m standing still.
Mesmerized by my Aldie orthos.
Beards for my feet.
Every scratch and scuff shows the haters were I’ve been.
Check the agenda.
Tradeshows from Vegas to Milan.
Cutting checks.
Making deals.
Slaying bitties.
Slanging exclusive makeups like white girl.
Can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Chromexcel Records.
Cause we get down.
Cause we get down, baby.
The Japanese, they love us.

Where the fuck am I?
You can’t see me.
That’s right.
Fort made of Filsons.
I’m buried under here.
With your girl.
Told her she “might as well have the best” ™
She agreed.
While you’re out at flea markets trying on dead people’s clothes,
I’m in my fort playing make-believe.
Make believing I’m not on that next level Cookie Crisp.
Make believing I’m not breakin’ owls’ necks when I’m out all night steezing.
Make believing I’m not your favorite blogger.
Never gonna grow up.
Wearing my forest green Macky Cruiser.
No fucking pants on.
Fly as shit.
Call me Patina Peter Pan.
So fucking fly.
In my fort made of Filsons.

The sneaks and suits crew had just finished off round one at the strip club breakfast buffet.
Inspiration was flowing like a popped bottle of Dom P.
F/W was taking shape.
The shape of a husky dude in a crushed velvet tux and Weezer framers.
Fat nerd chic.
Portly dork gimp swag.
Elbaz spazzin’ on the dancefloor to some old ass Postal Service.
Geeked on some next level OshKosh shit he saw in Pari.
He taught me how to Dougie.
Ossendrizzy was in full on smash mode.
Ice water pumped through his veins.
His heart racing at 5 beats per minute.
Legally dead, he BBM’d his private photog.
“Dude, get over here ASAP.  I can’t cross my arms all night.  Shit’s about to get real.” 
“Make sure to wear some pleats and a bowtie.”
“Do work.”
It wasn’t long before sheen steez trou were tucked into dominatrix man booties.
And prosty rag scarves trailed off into post modern two tone cardis.
The house of Lanvin was alive and well.
A foundation made of strip club sausages.
A basement flooded with champagne.
A roof of androgyny.
Walls lined with stacks of hundies.
Ready to wear.
Ready to win.
Ready to get fucking sexual.
Kanye West zipped off into the sunset on a bedazzled Segway.
Never to be seen or heard from again.

Me and my bros.
Around the blogosphere in 80 days.
In the sartorial dick measuring contest we call life I’m undefeated.
As long as I’ve got this yacht the hipsters can never win.
Because they are poor and shop on eBay.
You probably think I’m going fishing with a cooler full of Heinies.
Channeling DJ Paulie Newman on some Life Magazine archive type shit.
Think again.
We’re not doing anything outside of lampin’ in espys, macking this fine ass broad and creasing our chinos.
It took me 15 minutes to get this bandanna right.
You think I’m gonna fuck that shit up by doing any manual labor disguised as a hobby?
My only hobby is looking fresh.
I repeat, my only hobby is looking fresh to death.
I repeat, my only hobby is looking fresh to death on my fucking yacht.

I took the fucking Ivy.
Standing on my hardwood floor.
Pennys with no socks (natch).
POV shot.
This shit is straight porno.
I’m a fucking cinemotagrapher.
Who the fuck are you?
I’m Trad in a toaster.
Fucking crispy.
Glad Powerhouse re-published.
I only buy Made in the fucking USA.
Got this shit fucking pre-order.
Haven’t even opened the book.
I fucking been had the scans.
In photo class at my liberal arts college.
Name dropped T. Hayashidy.
Prof had no fucking clue.
So not Ivy.
Ivy is not one of eight prestigious unversities.
Ivy is not Madison Avenue.
Ivy is not Brooks Brothers.
Ivy is not modern Jazz.
Ivy is my BA in clownin’ on bitches.
Ivy is my crotch out of focus.
Ivy is standing in my iced out apartment.
Steezying for my followers.
I took the fucking Ivy.

Anon steez assassin.
Blogs comments or IRL.
You better tighten up that Belstaff, brah.
Cause I’m comin for ya.
Swift and deadly.
Crispy and dangerous.
Hear those footsteps?
Pitter patter on Greenpoint streets.
Was it me?  Won’t know until it’s too late.
I out stunt the shadows.
And cut you down in your American Apparel oxford.
Sell your Visvim moccies on eBay.
More fringe, more tassels, more beads, more money.
Holler at the heritage hitman.
For hire.
I’m on Twitter.

MEN'S SHOES ARE SO CUTE! I want some...
What did you do this weekend?
Watch some anime porn?
Maybe reblog some Sarty pics of an Italian gramps dressed way crispyer than you…
Fucking amateurs.
I was on my roof.
Taking in some killer rays.
Drinking craft beer.
Snapping pics of my Aldies.
I stack kicks like I stack cheddar, son.
This is Jenga steez.
Have you seen my shoes?
Seriously, have you seen my fucking shoes?
I gots kicks for every occasion.
Blogger meet up? Checkmate.
Cigar shell.
Smashing on haters?  In the streets?
Blue suede.
Stealing your biotch?
Indiana Jones orthopedic boots.
No Sketchers shape ups.  It’s too easy.
The list goes on.
I’ve seen you in your Allen Edmonds.
Weakest shit on earth.
You call those shoes?
Did your mom pick them out?
Hanukkah money goes a long way.
Or maybe you got them for your super sweet sixteen.
Get some Aldies and maybe you can holler.
I’ll be on my roof.  With my new DSLR.
Teach me how to use it.
Hi-res stunting.
Snapping pictorals.
Shitting on clowns in Florsheim’s.

If style happens in the forest does anyone see it?
My shirt is half-tucked.
My Jeep is all-wheel drive.
I am fully erect.
I’m lost in the woods.
Looking off camera.
At the giant fucking wood chipper.
Glad we cut down this grove of trees for the shoot.
Gonna get so many fucking reblogs.
I am Americana 2.0.
My Manifest Destiny is to be effing crispy.
Where the fuck is my Dark and Stormy?
Oh, you thought cause I’m in the forest I’d be on some flannel and lumberjack shit?
Fuck no bitches.
I’m always one season ahead.
Two drinks over the legal limit.
Three piece suit in the back seat.
Oh man. Dancing on the souls of dead trees.
Wearing my Nanny red cut-offs.
I am the style Lorax. I speak for the steez.
Summer is a verb.
Crispy is an adjective.
Menswear is a noun.

I think he looks like a strange Bradley Cooper:
I had a dream.
I was Italian.
I was the stallion of steez.
I was the consigliere of crisyness.
I matched my Ferrari’s to my Stubbs.
I matched my speedboats to my ascots.
My women were bespoke, just like my suits.
Double breasted.
I took hard drugs on holidays.
And holidayed on hard drugs.
Seersucker in the coldest of winters.
Wool flannel in the most sweltering of summers.
In all my sartorial splendor I ravaged the world.
And broke every single rule I saw fit.
Shopping sprees with Willow Smith in Milan.
Racing dirtbikes through the Tuileries Garden with Shia LaBeouf.
I made him cry.
I was your favorite blogger’s favorite blogger’s muse.
Sat front row at fashion week, but I was on my Blackberry the entire time.
And they still invited me back.
Year after year.
Year after year.
I had a dream.
I was Italian.
I was the stallion of steez.
I was the consigliere of crisyness.
It actually might be him.................?
IDK JUST A THOUGHT. Don't judge me.

So coz.
Band of motherfucking Outsiders, baby.  Obviously the dopest dope.
I think the fit model a 13 year old boy from the Philippines.  Or maybe just The Stern-bro himself.
These should fit.  No question.
Drawstrings have been around since the 40’s. Probably.
That’s old enough to keep my heritage gassed up.
Beasting these Hypebeast herbs like it was my day job.
These knee pads get shit poppin’.  Makes you wonder what kinda shit I get into in my free time.
You wanna know? Really? Get the fuck outta here.
Follow me on Twitter.
I was looking for new pants for the winter anyway.  Something that could hang with my Topsizzles.
Check me out, Mom. No socks.
Socks are for pussies.  I don’t care if I get a cold.
Breaking out the blue blazer for this too. No doubt.
Mr. Classy pants, stealing all your bitches and fucking up your blog comments.
That’s how I do.

Someone once said, “Two’s a party, but three’s a crowd.” What an asshole.
This isn’t a crowd.  This is a full blown riot.
LA Gear for grown ass men.  I don’t need flashing lights when my gear shines this hard.
That’s right.  That’s me.  All three straps unbuckled.
Don’t stare too long, you might hurt yourself.
Whoops.  I just punched your sprezzatura in the fucking face.  Don’t blame me.  Blame the steez.
When Scotty Shu begs to snap my pic I think I’ll spit on that Soho street.  Probably snatch up Garance while I’m at it.
She’s never seen a player like this.
Never seen monks like this.
Never seen sprezzy like this.

Really want a RRL bandana.
I am a style pioneer among cattle rustlers.
Probably will use it to wipe off my hands after I re-wax my Barbour jacket while sitting by the campfire in my Bean Boots. Then I’ll take out my iPhone G4 and post a photo to twitter.
Staying up till dawn. Lying in my sleeping bag. Refreshing every five minutes to see if I got any @replies.
This is not a red piece of cloth.
This is not sold online.
This is a lifestyle.
This is #RRL.

Luhh you:
You have to get up early to be this fucking badass.
Crack of dawn steeze.
Hear my fucking call.
I am a Wooster.
The sun is rising and I’m already clownin’ fools. Don’t try this shit at home.
Only the Wooster.
Wearing my Blaze Orange Michael Bastys.
I fuck with menswear and Orange is my safety word.
I am not your Grandpa.
I am not colorblind.
I am not peacocking.
I am a Wooster.

Oh man. Fucking Wes Andy suits.
Hand tailored by Marc Jacobs. So fucking authentic. So effing crispy.
Wish my friends were tailors and I was a movie director.
Look at those flap breast pockets. So icey. Thought pocket squares were cool? Fuck no. Did you forget where you were? A fucking Wes Andy movie.
Not even in character right now. Just laughing cause we so fly.
Our characters are symbolic.
“I can’t hear cause I crashed my bike and my bandages cover my ears”
“I can’t see cause I’m wearing my dead dad’s prescription glasses”
“I can’t speak cause I have a nasty stach all over my mouth”
Hear no evil. See no evil. Futura no evil.
We are Wes Andy’s monkeys.
Typing on typewriters.
The whole (third) world is a stage.

1 comment:

  1. i just about died at that last picture ;-)

    gosh.. why dont guys dress as nice as the men in these pics?