"IF YOU'RE GOING TO TRY, GO ALL THE WAY. OTHERWISE, DON'T EVEN START."
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It’s the Ten NYFW Commandments…WHAT?!
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.
Yours in hate,
NTB
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Simon Spurr RTW Fall Winter 2012-13.
Classic american tailoring mix with sportwear, yes classic but not for that flat; a terrific exhibition from the favorite of the red carpets, Simon Spurr made us travel trough his clothes, my destination Rio de Janeiro because of the prints of the suits, shirts and sweater reminded me the “Cidade Maravilhosa”.
Yesterday started off with a bang and ended with a whimper. After Mr. Ervell wooed his audience with a show that was equal parts 1984 and The Matrix Revolutions, contemporary “urban commando” uniforms paired to Gucci Mane chopped and screwed over some dubstep, NYFW attendees wandered around Milk Studios, kicked it at the Gillette x Blind Barber pop-up or high-tailed it to shows off-site while waiting in great anticipation for Simon Spurr. And then Mr. Spurr not only dropped the ball, but he did so in a manner so spectacularly it seemed like Super Bowl XLVI all over again.
If given the responsibility to name the collection, I would have gone with “Loud for Loud’s Sake.” Aside from some pretty serious blue outerwear (I’m not even playing, shit was dope) and chromed-out umbrellas that would make Weezy circa 2006 proud, the collection was just one hodgepodge of patterns on patterns on patterns mixed with monochromatic suiting, gimmicky details and a deluge of contrast sleeves.
And the music sucked; my God, the music was terrible.
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I always wondered what happened to Dean Portman after Mighty Ducks 3.
(Source: fuckyeahmilesmcmillan)
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Steven Alan kicking off NYFW is similar to Iowa setting the tone for the presidential primaries: nonsensical and wack as fuck.
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Love that pop of emerald.
This is just so OD, I do not even know where to start. So, let’s keep it short and sweet: why is there some brolic-looking catheter hanging off of his leg? Never mind the awful mix of colors and textures, I’m seriously concerned about this man’s health. Could runway life be so hard as to cause this young, relatively healthy-looking man to need an angioplasty? And has he lost his mind and decided to administer it himself? I don’t know man, that shit scary.
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Bryan Boy (via The Sartorialist)
His style knows no limits
“Learn to limit yourself, to content yourself with some definite work; dare to be what you are and learn to resign with a good grace all that you are not; and to believe in your own individuality.”
- Henri Frederic Amiel
What Henri meant, Bryan Boy, is that you should slow down and stop getting ahead of yourself. The fact that your style “knows no limits” is not a testament to your individuality, rather it’s evidence that you have no fucking idea who you really are—just floating through life, day by day, one ridiculous outfit to the next. HTFH.
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Green McNairy’s.
In case you were wondering: yes, Jake Shuttlesworth over here is wearing an ankle bracelet. No, you may not call it a mankle bracelet. Why not? Because if you do you tacitly agree that it’s not all that weird to see a man in the one-year anniversary gift-of-choice that all male teenagers bought for their then-girlfriends in the ’90s.
(via nickelcobalt)
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Channeling Marty McFly at Milk Studios.
Marty McFly didn’t have tattoos, nor did he wear thick rimmed glasses, weird tribal earrings or rock a goatee. Oh wait, you are referring to his sneakers? How stupid of me—you’re right, those shit stains look exactly like the Air McFly.
Saying this dude resembles Marty McFly simply because he is wearing high-tops is like saying I resemble Brad Pitt because we are both human. #ughch.
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Loden Dager: Totally Krossed Out
The forecast for Spring 2012: inside out is still wiggida wiggida wiggida wack. Check out more close-up shots from the Loden Dager Spring 2012 men’s collection.
You know, in case you want to rob a bank in style.
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Happy Fashion’s Night Out…enjoy
I MIGHT GOT TAKE MY SHIRT OFF FOR #FNO BLAWGIN.
No doubt in my mind these try-hards dressed up as Lloyd and Harry for their senior formals in college. No doubt whatsoever.
What’s even more amazing is Lapo’s resemblance to Jeff Daniels in the hyperlink above.
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Andrew Richdale and Michael Hainey from GQ.
I hope Andrew writes the News + Politics section, because if I were Justin Doss and homeboy showed up to work like that, my #firstorderofbusiness would be to convince Jim Nelson to send him packing. That tie is so long, skinny and lifeless, it looks like it’s going to just wiggle off of his neck and into a pot of boiling water.
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Dress Rehearsal: Men’s Designers Ready for Shows
DKNY
Well, at least you aren’t dressing your models in Birkenstocks. But to show you I ain’t mad atcha I’ll party with you at the Blind Barber later tonight.
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My Marlon Gobel ticket arrived today and although I usually leave the menswear shows up to my girlfriend, this is one I will not miss. With blingy shoes and an eye for style, Marlon Gobel is a designer to watch, learn from, and if you must imitate, it’s not a bad idea.
Any time you use the word “man” as an adjective to strip the subject that it is modifying of any preconceived emasculating qualities, you openly admit that the modified subject is inherently (or over time has become) effeminate.
In this case, Mr. Gobel is admitting that “glamour” is uniquely feminine. And don’t get me wrong, it probably is. It’s just that anyone in the business of trying to make glamour more appealing to men, well, they are just out of touch with reality.
So what’s my conclusion? Aside from that the only humans on God’s green earth that would ever buy these blights include Ted DiBiase, Kanye West and…and…that’s probably it, I don’t know what my conclusion really is. Maybe it’s that most designers just talk out of their ass. Or maybe it’s that using a hyphen to separate “man” from some other noun doesn’t make the latter any more masculine.
Either way, stop tagging this shit “menswear,” because it’s not.
