Carson Street Clothiers has quickly become one of the city’s essential men’s stores.
CSCCS: Alliteration for the win. Stahted from a blog, now we here.
All kidding aside, many, many thanks to anyone who has ever read NTB, even if your experience left a sour taste in your mouth. Truth be told, CSC would not exist if it weren’t for Tumblr, so you all made this possible. Thank you, thank you.
I mean, seriously? Isaia, Balmain and…7 FOR ALL MANKIND…?! Scanning this sale page is like taking a bad bitch home, pretty as fuck (Isaia), taking off her top to unveil an amazing set of hooters (Balmain), only to get down below and find out she has ass pimples or some other whack shit going on down there (you get the idea).
Sorry, I just had to do it. Long live NTB and all that jazz.
If living is truly the process of dying, then it must have been entirely clear from the get-go that Nice Try, Bro would eventually die, or at the very least evolve into something else (shouts to all the Hindus out there). As many of you already know, I have been laboriously working on putting together a new business venture over the greater part of last year. That being said, if any of y’all paid attention to your third grade English teachers and mastered your context clues, it should be readily apparent that I am writing this to announce the birth of that very venture. So, without further ado, please welcome Carson Street Clothiers into your lives.
As a third party multi-brand retailer, CSC intends to plug the gap that currently exists between classic menswear tailoring and streetwear. Around 20% of CSC’s product will be its own private label which will include shirting, trousers, ties, squares and blazers. We will also be offering made-to-measure suiting and provide in-house tailoring. Yada yada yada #menswear.
Nice Try, Bro will continue to live on in some respect, but as what…that much I haven’t yet figured out. In the meantime, public apologies to the families of those caught up in my shit: it was never my intention to go hard on NTB maliciously. I hope you realized that, in many ways, the blog was self-defacating in nature, and that a good part of it was educational, too.
“It doesn’t matter: right wing or left wing. You go in and you’re a hater – radio, cable, in print, whatever – you can get paid. And there’s a people who do that. And they go in, they don’t even believe half the stuff they say. … Capitalism drives that. There are people — Americans — who want to hear hate.”—Bill O’Reilly on why NTB is a popular style blog
New York Fashion Week is just ‘round the corner—you know how I know that? Because certain people who shall remain nameless (shout out to anyone who really doesn’t have a name) just won’t shut the fuck up about it. You know, the same lames who have prepared seven different outfits weeks in advance who, once the festivities actually begin, turn around say “ughch, I HATE fashion week. I can’t wait for it to be over!” In any event, enough with the formalities, let’s get down with it.
No dickriding. Seriously. Leave the astroglide at home and stop whoring yourself around in an attempt to get an invite to some afterparty that’s probably going to be wack as balls anyways.
Act like you’ve been there before. I’m not saying to walk the line, Soup Nazi style. What I am saying is to arrive on time, give dap to the few people you know in the audience, stay out of the pit’s focus and refrain from acting like you saw one of the Beatles debarking from a private jet after the show. It’s a fashion show, not the Superbowl half-time show for crying out loud.
Avoid PR types. They are probably working and want absolutely nothing to do with you, but their preternatural desire to yack it up will render them incapable of resisting a conversation with you. And then they’ll end up blacking out or falling into some sort of socializing K-hole only to wake up three days later, naked, holding a fish fillet outside McDonalds in Chinatown. You don’t want to get someone fired, do you?
Don’t try to pick up babes at DVF. It happens every year. If you have no interest in handbags and wrap dresses, stay the fuck out of the women’s shows. Hitting on some WIWT blogger broad smushed between a bunch of 20 year-old interns from Parsons in the back of the standing room is as good an idea as using a bag of Hot Cheetos as a viable form of contraception (hint: it doesn’t work).
Leave the photographers alone. If they want to shoot you, they will shoot you. Do you really think prancing around outside, staring longingly past Milk Studios at the Hudson will give you any more of a chance at being photographed? These dudes are at work, and you should respect that. Tommy Ton doesn’t just show up to your office, sit in front of your cubicle and smoke cigarettes now, does he?
Avoid ethnic cuisine. You’re going to be networking all week—do you really think it would be a good idea to fill your bowels with huevos rancheros, garlic knots or yellow curry, knowing full well that the lid can fly off at any moment? Your esophagus cannot discern whether you are talking to Michael Bastian or Lawrence Schlossman (bonus tip: you can always let one rip in front of Lawrence), but you can take the safe route and stick to salads and relatively odor-less proteins for the week.
No live-tweeting. You have something like 547 followers on Twitter, half of whom are your friends from high school and college. What makes you think that they want to see to-the-minute updates of your baseless opinion regarding how prevalent creeper soles will still be in 2013?
Fashion’s Night Out is for cameos. Hit multiple parties with efficiency. Don’t be the guy who arrives at Stella McCartney at 7 and sticks around until 11 because you don’t want to miss Alexa Chung’s pre-recorded DJ set. (See also Commandment 2 above.)
Pack a phone charger. Shit’s as imperative as cigarettes in jail. If you’re going to be Instatweeting and Tumblrbooking your little heart out, just think of the havoc you are going to unleash on your smartphone’s battery life.
Bring an extra pack of cigarettes. Because I’m not running a charity and refuse to give away any of my own.
What advice to you have for preventing crotch blowouts on woolen flannel trousers? I had a pair bespoke tailor made for me in London, and even after giving them an initial soak in the bathtub with vinegar (while wearing them), they still blew out after 18 months of continuous wear. I don't know if it's because of I have particularly meaty thighs and sweaty balls, but if you have any advice, it would be appreciated. Thank you.
Tsk tsk tsk…You’re using the wrong type of vinegar! Even the n00biest of noobz knows that only balsamic vinegar will prevent a blow out. The trick here is that you need to dye the balsamic vinegar the exact same shade as the trouser, otherwise you suffer the same fate as Jonah Hill in Super Bad. And remember: it’s better to go commando during the soaking stage so that the fabric takes on the gentle, unique shape of your cock, truly making these trousers your own. Good luck!
Or that picture has certainly been Photoshopped because I refuse to believe anyone would walk into a barbershop and actually request such an abomination. In fact, I think Gallup recently uncovered that something like 67% of all New Yorkers would actually prefer to leave their barbershop having been the recipient of numerous razor burns and a 15 minute bukkake session (you can click that, I’m not that sick) than the recipient of a mullet with faint, asymmetrical edges shaved into their sideburns. WOOF.