If posed this question last month I would have scratched my head and continued about my business. But a fateful day in May changed everything. It all started where anything worth starting starts: Barney’s. Committed to finding my first piece of Robert Geller, I recruited my buddy @TheRealKeetron to come along for the ride. Racks on racks, I absolutely loved most-everything I saw, but I absolutely shuddered at the thought of actually trying anything on. From 3.1 to Wang and every avant garde designer there between, it just wasn’t happening. I copped a Patrik Ervell chambray club collar and a Gant Rugger ripped collar oxford and called it a day. That’s about as crazy as I’ll get.
The Rugger, a.k.a. consolation prize number two, made its first appearance the following day, accompanied by fresh APC wheat denim and “vintage” mint Vane docksides. I met up with @e_Poon for some dim sum at Nom Wah on Doyers Street. He was with @lovemargs; he stuntin’ in Y-3, she in Margiela. Soonafter, @iampoo, @atifateeq and @DJLAWRENCELEE joined us—I’m talking ALL BLACK EVERYTHING. At this point I hit second-date-to-the-prom status. Surrounded by the Derelicte look-book models and swagged-out biker dudes from Andromeda, I finally had my EUREKA moment: I’m white as fuck.
I have accepted this harsh reality, but part of me wants to cry out “REALLY?!” It took 26 years to reach this conclusion? It took shedding whatever guido residue from my Staten Island upbringing that followed me through college and three years of stunted swag at Trust Fund University School of Law to get to this point? Not to mention the fact that I am, and have been, the token white boy in my crew for the last 9 years.
It could have been worse, I guess. I mean, while my boys continue protecting Zion from the machines, I continue to rock Our Legacy, and they accept that. When DJ MSBMSBMSB pumps Roger Wolfe Kahn Orchestra’s “Crazy Rhythm” at the Jane Hotel, no one judges me. And when I explain that I had to break up with my girlfriend of 4 years because she was a cracka-lover, well, my boys understand.
I gave two old ladies at Sorelle $491 to make me look handsomeR
Joe at Dynasty, no disrespect, but these ladies held me down. I have lived in New York 23 of my 26 years on this earth, and these sisters with their 40+ years of experience are simply the best I have ever seen. And they are really pleasant conversationists.
As @thisfits mentioned, even though you can nab amazing deals off Yoox, there are some pitfalls one must avoid, such as buying a jacket with functioning cuffs off the rack. Look at the damage I sustained on getting my Cavalli jacket tailored. A big hit came from getting the sleeves shortened ($90). WOOF.
In any event, next time you have a big tailoring job, head to Sorelle Tailor Shop, it will be worth the visit.
The pictures posted above were taken from some poor soul’s Style Forum post—he “finally got a double breasted sport coat.” He probably should have waited for the menswear blogosphere to let this one die out, because now he’s stuck with that ugly old thing. But judging by his ugly-ass shoes and horribly tailored pants, it looks like he’s dressed by the internet, so it serves him right for not having individual style.
I’d venture to say that maybe 100 people in the world under the age of 50 can truly get away with wearing a double-breasted blazer. Even the most well-tailored, beautifully constructed double-breasted blazers are boxy and uncomplimentary to those who don them. And when paired with jeans and sneakers or shorts or any other piece of street style, well, let’s just say the wearer begins to look like he belongs on the pages of a toddler’s “which one doesn’t belong?” quiz. (NOTE: You know who you are…I am not looking to “Super-Ugly" you, so I won’t link you here, so let’s just say you should be careful when you blog a GPOY, brah.)
What I’m really trying to say is that I am sick of menswear bloggers jocking double-breasted blazers—it’s been going on for some time now (maybe not as long as the double monk craze, which I do actually cosign), and it’s got to stop. There is nothing in the world more uncomfortable-looking for a twenty- or thirty-something than the double-breasted blazer. Just because it’s “Neapolitan” doesn’t mean it’s dope. Plus, it’s straight poser. Picture a teenager going out to buy a motorcycle, but instead returning from the dealer with an age-appropriate Ducati, old boy comes flying down the block in a chopper—it’s just wrong. You have the rest of your life to look stodgy and old; your youth should be spent pushing sartorial limits by figuring out what compliments you best, not by trying to imagine how you can best mimic some apocryphal idol in Naples. You stopped wearing dunks and Jordans because you finally realized those weren’t age appropriate, either. So, put the double-breasted blazer down and get your shit together.
Oh, and I hope this doesn’t break anyone’s heart, but I was just traveling in Naples and the Amalfi Coast, and I saw exactly ONE double-breasted blazer. And the owner wasn’t even Italian.