The Scariest Thing I've Seen This Year

Halloween Special

Chapter 90

Cue the theremin music and fire up the fog machines! Our yearly tradition is back -- the worst, most egregious, baddest, most doubleplusungood thing I've had the dire misfortune to witness since, well, since last Halloween.

The most scary thing I've seen this year might have been the image of bloody handprints on a wall of a CIA safe house/U.S. diplomatic mission in Benghazi, Libya -- terrifying horizontal streaks left by four Americans as they were hauled out bodily by a crowd of Islamic terrorists, who murdered them in a mindless orgy of violence, and torched the grounds, on the anniversary of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.

That event has led to many scary things I've seen this year; and they look to be shaping into a complex political coverup that would be right at home in a cheap B-thriller horror movie. But our focus here is on Dressing Like A Grownup!, and Islamic terrorists dress as you would expect them, and sheriff's deputies wear their uniforms. So as grisly and stomach-churning as these events were, we have to look elsewhere for a sartorial horrorshow. 

And we have one.

On the 18th of this month, the Alfred E. Smith Memorial Foundation held its 67th annual dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. Founded by Francis Cardinal Spellman in 1946, to honor the memory of New York Governor Al Smith, the Foundation is a Catholic charity that assists the neediest children of New York. But the dinner is primarily known for two things: every four years, it hosts the two Presidential nominees, who spend the evening telling jokes. 

And it is a genuine, honest-to-goodness white tie affair. Dress suits, tailcoats, full-formal, whatever you want to call it, it is one of the few occasions that demands the dressiest of traditional clothing, with no short cuts. Most people would not notice what actually went on that evening. Everyone had fun, the candidates were both in rare form and actually blazingly funny, and the money all went to a good cause. So who cares what they looked like, really? After all, there was no red carpet, no paparazzi, no questions of "who were you wearing?" After all, it's just a tailcoat....

...right?

Wrong. Dress suits are the closest thing civilians have to military uniform. It's still party clothes, make no mistake; but there are explicit rules. These rules don't exist to make life needlessly difficult -- they are there because White Tie, done properly, is the ultimate expression of the First Great Secret of Dressing Well: it makes you look better than you really do, all the time, without exception -- if it is done correctly. These two men, vying for the position of head of the most powerful nation in the world, should know a thing or two about dress suits. Neither of them do. Governor Romney, joking about his wealth, said "It's nice to finally relax and wear what Ann and I wear around the house." A good line, but it's apparent that he's never actually worn a dress suit before. And neither has the President. 

It's painfully obvious that no one there has ever worn white tie and tails; because they are all getting it wrong. Coats are baggy, shirts are unstarched, waistcoats are too long. It's as if they were all at a high school dance...or Halloween party. No one knows what the hell they are doing. No one. And that's scary.

The President of the United States is wearing an unstarched fold-collar tuxedo shirt and pre-tied bow with his tailcoat. Which, sadly, is what the waiters would be wearing, to differentiate themselves from the guests, in decades past. Romney is also wearing a tuxedo shirt, with skimpy attached wing collar. His bow tie neckband is riding over the top of his coat collar, and is nearly jumping free of his shirtcollar. If these were fifteen-year old schoolchildren playing dress up with the clothes in their grandfather's steamer trunk it would be merely humorous. These are grown men, and it is nothing short of tragic.

But this brief image is proof that we are witnessing the next Fall of the Roman Empire. Directly behind the President is seated Chris Matthews. I don't even know how to register my complete and utter disgust. This is a full-dress event, and Matthews can't even be bothered to wear trousers? Let this image of low-rise belted pants scorch into your retinas, his shirt billowing out under his waistcoat, his cutaway fronts flapping impotently across his distended belly: this is the image of the tail end of Western civilization. 

Let us now compare this evening of atrocity to images of Presidents past, who have attended this selfsame dinner, wearing the same dress suits, but wearing them correctly. Notice President Reagan's dress suit, and how it is cut across the waist. The trouser waistband is high, the waistcoat is cut to be just shorter than the fronts of the tailcoat, and the angle of both are identical. 

Now observe President Ford's shirtcollar. It is starched, detachable, and much taller than that worn with a dinner suit: a full two and a half inches, with broad, elegant wings, and a broad, elegant bow tie to match it. His pocket square is arranged with nearly Razor Square precision.

Turning our attention to President Nixon, take a close look at the cut of his coat. This is why a dress suit must always be made bespoke. Notice that the sleeve falls without so much as a wrinkle. Notice especially the shaping through the chest and torso, the precision of line, the sculpting of the cutaway that looks molded to his body: the very definition of a body coat. Now compare this to the first picture of Romney above.

Now we'll step back farther, to President Kennedy. The thing to see here, is how the coat acts when in motion. Kennedy is reaching his arm forward, but the coat still holds to the small of his back, the tails follow the curve of his hips, and the cutaway points stay in place like they were welded there. Now look at the other fellow, who has both arms out, one in a handshake, the other on another gent's back: but his coat does not billow out, and stays snug into the waist. Notice, too, that he is starched from chin to navel -- the shirt front and waistcoat are both stiffly starched pique marcella, and neither his shirt nor his waistcoat shows as much as a wrinkle, despite his half-twist forward from the waist. One last detail: the man at the far right is not in a dress suit: he's in a double-breasted dinner suit. Is he a waiter? No, more likely a member of the media; you see, it's perfectly acceptable to wear a dinner suit to a full-dress event if you cannot afford a proper dress suit. (Memo to Chris Matthews.)

How have we descended so far, that at a White Tie dinner with the President of the United States, no one knows how to actually wear White Tie? The answer is, "down a long, gentle slope." White tie isn't difficult -- on the contrary, it is very simple. There is absolutely nothing to cause confusion. Step A, step B, follow the rules, and everything from cut to proportion to size to materials is clearly laid out for you, as simple as a Marine's uniform, and the result is guaranteed to be visual perfection.

Grown men don't know how to wear anything, anymore. Welcome to an era when even statesmen, Presidents, captains of industry, and media professionals can't follow a simple set of directions that have been set in stone for over a century. 

And if that isn't scary, well then I don't know what is.

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Proving the Rule

(Part Thirteen of the series, "Dressing the Average Guy.")

Chapter 71

You might think this week would be my traditional look at recent formal awards ceremonies in the media, for there have been a couple noticeably influential ones: The Tonys and the Cannes festival. In fact, that was my plan going into this week: but something much more interesting has come up. Besides, we've covered formal wear quite a lot this year, and there's much more to Dressing Like A Grownup than mere tuxedos.

The impetus for this week's change of venue was a typical sort of what-are-the-stars-wearing feature on the web's MSN. At first blush, just another filler article chock-full of jiggling Kardashians. "Stars who don't dress their age," or some such fluff. Nothing to see here, move along. But then, a fascinating subtext hit me across the face, and I knew it had to be this week's installment -- for this is a perfect, in-your-face, textbook example of the Second Great Secret of Dressing Well.

For those of you unfamiliar with the format, last year, I posited Great Secrets, that the average guy who was just getting started along the path to sartorial excellence needed to know. The first one would seem to be common sense, despite millions of men who ignore it: "The purpose of clothing...is to make you look better than you really do." The second one is cautionary in nature, and a warning: "Left to himself, a man will dress back to the era in which he was happiest, or imagined himself happiest."

So let's look at some fabulously wealthy famous men -- who are in the media's glare, have the public's eye, and can easily afford to wear anything, absolutely anything, they want. Given an entire planet full of fashion with hundreds of years of clothing history, what do these men choose to wear when they could wear anything at all?

Let's start with John Christopher Depp, II. Johnny is 49 years old now, born June 9, 1963. He got his start in the mid-eighties on 21 Jump Street, but didn't really hit his stride until he teamed up with Tim Burton on Edward Scissorhands in 1990, when he was 27 years old. What followed was Depp's decades-long golden era of movie after successful movie. Now observe his choice of clothing. Does this look like the suit of a 50 year old screen actor, or a 27 year old bleeding-edge hipster circa 1990? Behold the Second Great Secret in action!

Next, observe Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr., a.k.a. "Snoopy Diggetty Dogg" or something like that. He styles himself as some sort of singer. He was born on October 20, 1971. Snoop was a Crip gang member while in high school. Shortly after graduation, he was arrested for cocaine possession and spent six months in the cooler. His music career began in 1992, at age 21. "Doggystyle" catapulted him to unimaginable worldwide fame. His attire? Still that of a child: arrested, so to speak, in his late teens in the early ' 90s, despite now being 41 years old.

Similarly, Robert Matthew Van Winkle was born October 31, 1967. In 1990, as "Vanilla Ice," at age 23, "To the Extreme" became the fastest selling hip hop album of all time. (Let that sink in.) After a failed suicide attempt in 1994, he re-evaluated his life, got married, and focused on motocrossing and jet skiing for awhile. He then studied real estate and renovates and sells houses. But do you see a 45 year old realtor here? Nope, from the askew hat to the annoying soul patch to the sloppy skate duds, what you see is a hippy-hoppy teenage kid in the late 1980s -- which was Vanilla Ice's Camelot.

What is this, an age-progression of Miley Cyrus? No, it's fifty-nine year old Philip Andre Rourke, Jr., who was born September 16, 1952. Poor Mickey was perhaps too good at everything he did. From 1964 to 1972, Rourke was an amateur boxer tallying up 27 wins (17 by knockout) and only 3 defeats. He then turned his attention to acting, and by the mid-1980s, thanks to Kim Basinger and 9½ Weeks, he was a bona fide leading man. In 1991, Rourke decided that he "had to go back to boxing." Following some messy bouts in the ring and facial reconstructive surgery, in 1995 he retired from boxing and returned to acting, where plastic surgery was more "voluntary" and less "life-saving." With multiple acting awards and boxing wins under his, er, belt, this outfit is befuddling. It's certainly not the dinner attire of your average 60 year old male. Whether it's that of a brash 18-year old boxer in 1970, or just the sad result of forgetting your pants due to one too many blows to the head, is something only Mickey knows.

Adam Richard Sandler was born September 9, 1966. He was hired as a writer for Saturday Night Live in 1990, when he was 24. After making the move to the front of the camera, he rode the wave of popularity to the silver screen in the late 1990s, in such films as Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, The Waterboy, and others. He's 46 today, but his attire still dates him as a post-teenager in the mid 1990s in New York, churning out jokes for cash.

Steven Victor Tallaricco was born on March 26, 1948. This is perhaps the most tragic example of slavery to the Second Great Secret. Aerosmith's run on the airwaves was from 1970 to 1978: in many ways, Steven Tyler's music defined that decade, for better and worse. When the folks at American Idol (for those worldwide who didn't know, yes, we have one too, and we're just as sick of it as you are) rolled Steven Tyler out of cryogenic storage and defrosted him to serve as judge, apparently no one told him what decade he was in, or how old he is. This poor 64 year old AARP retiree is rattling around in the glam rock threads of a 25 year old in the 1970s, right down to the danglers and chains, the lank greasy hair, the platform heels, and the bell-bottoms made of Chrysler upholstery. It's just a constant reminder of just how old and out of touch he is, and how much he desperately wants to be that young man again.

Compare to William James Murray, born September 21, 1950.  Everyone knows Bill's Golden Years: beginning in 1976, at age 26, on Saturday Night Live, and a string of successful motion pictures through the 1980s, including Meatballs, Caddyshack, Stripes, Tootsie, Where The Buffalo Roam, and the Ghostbusters franchise. So it should surprise no one by now that Murray's "Festival of Plaid" suit at Cannes this year places him sartorially squarely in his late 20s, and in the early 1980s. But where Bill Murray differs from similarly-aged Steven Tyler is in the execution. Instead of a sad sort of historical costume, it evokes the past without being slave to it. This is not a bad suit at all. Does it show Murray as a 62 year old guy lost in the 1980s? Sure, but more as an homage: he is able to have fun with it. It follows the strictures of the Second Great Secret, but Murray makes it work for him. It's a good example of color and pattern matching, and as a breezy summer suit, it works as a whole without being ocularly jarring. In short, he uses elements of that era over which he ruled, and incorporates them in such a way that it becomes comfortable for him, while keeping the cut and style thoroughly classic. In other words, a proper method of the working-out of the Second Great Secret.


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The Kentucky Derby: or Why The British Hate Us

(Part Twelve of the series "Dressing the Average Guy.")

Chapter 66

This past week, if you were paying attention, was the 138th running of the Kentucky Derby in America. There were horses, there was gambling, there was a two-week-long party resulting in various stages of inebriation. But most importantly for us, there was a cautionary tale writ large within which we can take an important lesson about dressing, not merely well, but Like a Grownup.  

The Kentucky Derby is frequently compared to the UK's Royal Ascot, but to prove our sartorial point this week, we need to run a brief comparison betwixt the two venues first. 

The Kentucky Derby Presented by Yum! Brands is held on the first Saturday in May. It is the first leg of the US Triple Crown: followed by the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes. The attendance at the Derby in Churchill Downs, not surprisingly, surpasses the attendance of all other American stakes races. (Yum!, who sponsored the race this year, operates Taco Bell, KFC, Pizza Hut, and WingStreet. Based in Louisville, Kentucky, it is the world's largest fast food restaurant company.) 

Ascot is the foremost track in the United Kingdom. It's six miles from Windsor Castle, so it has close ties with the Royals. Up until 1945, the only event there was the four-day Royal Meeting in June; but today hosts 26 days of flat and jump racing through the year. Royal Ascot is still the big one, though, going all the way back to 1711. 

So both events are big deals in their respective countries.

Churchill Downs has many different price levels of seating, from the dizzyingly expensive Millionaires Row with all the amenities included, gradating down through Skye Terrace, the Turf Club, and the Clubhouses, to the Grandstand seats, to general-admission in the infield. The only dress code is "business casual," a catch-all which really only specifies a blazer and collared shirt, and only applies for reserved seating. 

The infield area has no dress code at all, with predictable results. We shall ignore them.

Ascot, on the other hand, has three degrees of seating for the Royal Meeting weekend: the high-security Royal Enclosure, the Grandstand, and the Silver Ring; and each has a pretty comprehensive dress code. Most people are familiar with the Royal Enclosure's requirement for black or grey morning dress. Top hats are required but may not be "customized." The Grandstand requires a suit and tie, and the only requirement for the informal Silver Ring is to wear "smart clothes," and bare chests are prohibited. Also, the Royal Weekend stipulates that "fancy dress, [what Americans call costume,] novelty and branded / promotional clothing are not allowed on site."

So both events have dress codes, are considered a dressy event for those at the top-tier tax bracket, but the requirements get lax for the proles in the cheap seats.

And, believe it or not, both events are costume parties for the spectators. Despite protestations to the contrary, Ascot attire is costume. The difference is, Ascot can get away with it, while the Derby cannot.

Why?

In brief, it's the working-out of the Great Secrets of Dressing Well.
If you remember back to the very first posts of this blog, the Dressing The Average Guy series posited two Great Secrets: The First, The purpose of clothing -- the very reason for raiment itself -- is to make you look better than you really do. The Second, Left to himself, a man will always dress back to the era when he was happiest -- or imagined himself happiest. 

The Third Great Secret is not for the novice or the faint of heart. We have seen it spelled out again and again in practice over the past year. I alluded to it in Chapter 18, but only now that the Average Guys of a year ago have graduated to grander things, do I dare set it down: A man cannot break the rules successfully, unless he knows exactly what those rules are.

In an unusual turn for us, we'll look to the gals for the most obvious example of this.


At Ascot, the women's ridiculously lavish hats blur the line between fashion and costume. Certainly, they're not suitable to wear anywhere else. It's become a sort of Royal Ascot trademark, and it is unique for that event.

At the Kentucky Derby, where there is no specific dress code, it is telling that the women's fashions include the same sort of absurd headwear, a la Ascot. That is the unbreakable link that has been forged between the two events -- the dress at the Derby apes that of Royal Ascot. Although not spelled out, the message is clear: we are pretending we are dressing up. Women are used to wearing absurd costume exactly once, pretending it is totally normal, and we are used to seeing it. Men are another matter entirely.

Morning dress, insasmuch as it is unlikely to be worn anywhere else the entire year, is also a form of costume, albeit one whose form and function have been set down in stone for decades. Even in the Grandstand and Silver Circle, many men opt for morning dress at Ascot, even though it's not required. Notice that the suits, morning wear, or what-have-you, don't overpower the gentlemen wearing them. Although odd to see swallowtail coats and top hats in use, it doesn't smack of the absurd. 

This doesn't assume the men are any more well-behaved than Americans, however -- brawls among the suited are increasingly common, although the top-hatted folk have largely managed to keep themselves in check.

Compare this to the average man's attire at the Derby. 

It cannot be more obvious that these outfits will be worn exactly once: for the men wearing them are painfully self-conscious and self-aware of their ridiculousness. 

They are children dressing up in what they think is a grand Southern style, tittering to themselves and grinning like fools. 

They are, in short, at a costume party.

This in itself isn't a bad thing; there's nothing wrong with indulging in a bit of hilarity. The ensembles themselves, at times, aren't horribly garish.

They can be bright, cheery, and a good deal of fun. Here's the rub, though: It is apparent from the images who is used to dressing well and is bending the rules to give a light and breezy appearance, and who has never worn a tie and jacket before.

Some of these man-boys don't have a clue what they are doing. 

It is possible to Dress Like A Grownup, and still have a good time with a festive suit. As with everything, it distills down to the ability to strike a simple balance. 

The difference between fashion and costume is simply this: the ability of the man to wear his clothes, without his clothes wearing him. If people see your suit first, and say 'what a festive suit,' you are in costume. If people see you first, and say 'what a festive suit,' you are in fashion.

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Note that many of the photos of average Derby racegoers are from kentucky.com. As is usual when I show non-celebrity images, I recognize that some may not want their faces shown outside of the original venue. This blog's all in good fun, but if you see yourself here and want your face redacted, just drop me a comment, and I'll remove it!

Personality, Incorporated.

(Part Nine of the series "Dressing the Average Guy.")

Chapter 18

Today, let's wrap up our look at how the psychology of personal style is shaped early in life by our likes and interests, and figure out how to effectively --but unobtrusively!-- incorporate those likes and interests into your grown-up, mature style. If you can cast your mind back to two weeks ago, in Part Seven, you remember we started by looking at the sartorial fashions that surrounded you in your youth, whenever that may have been, from the late '60s up through the '90s; and last week we looked at some examples of fictional styles as well, all of which came together to form an "other-time" that directed your subconscious in a style direction, which reflects the happiest time of your life.

For the sake of expedience, we'll use some catchall terms to divide this "other-time" up into manageable temporal chunks, and I will do this by co-opting a term that we're all familiar with: blankpunk. At its simplest, it is a literary device that invents a world built on one particular technology that is extrapolated to a highly sophisticated level, usually of a dark and gritty nature.  It all began, of course, with "Cyberpunk," coined by author Bruce Bethke in 1980. We'll set aside the literary connotations of bleak, dystopian societies populated by marginalized, mechanically-hybridized loners, and focus solely on the physical characteristics of the clothing involved in each case.

The "future" is a very ordinary
double breasted suit, with the
lapels cut off and the show
buttons removed. The intention:
streamlining the unnecessary;
the result: a bit awkward.

From a style perspective, we'll call "cyberpunk" every fashion that comes from the future. Fashion-wise, it's actually a bit of a cheat, for two reasons: one, by definition, there is no "style of the future;" because, (and this is point number two,) "future styles" are always derivative of the year in which the story was actually written (or, in our case filmed.) Look at and compare the clothing styles in, say, Metropolis, Soylent Green, Blade Runner, and Babylon 5. Ignoring the future's apparently ubiquitous jumpsuits and military uniforms, ordinary clothing was modelled on contemporary outfits and suits, with minor variations in the cut of lapels, overall length, trim, etc., to look different (read: "futuristic") to the contemporary viewer. If your escape ran to the future as a kid, get a mental basket ready to put your favorite things in. In this basket let's put things such as, say, Rick Deckard's shirts and ties, John Sheridan's lapel-less jackets, Han Solo's vest, and similar stuff.

A truly atrocious movie,
unfortunately, despite its
steampunky goodness.

The widest-known blankpunk was invented in 1987: steampunk. Its extrapolated technology was that of the Industrial Revolution, and its highly mechanical aesthetic enjoys an enthusiastic following today. The era is supposedly 1820-1910, but the fashions portrayed tend to stay right around the region of 1880 or so, and is most accurately described as "Neo-Victorian." Remember we are divorcing the connotations of the literary style from the purely sartorial Victorian matter. If your fancy ran to the 19th century as a lad, in this basket place all the toys of your youth that fit that style: the Disney frockcoats, the Sherlock Holmes tweeds, the Old West dusters, the brocaded waistcoats.



Transpose steampunk to the inter-war period of 1920-1945, and the aesthetic becomes dieselpunk: Chrome, grease, and sleek art deco lines replace steam's riveted brass, exposed pipes, and dials. Originally even darker and more grimy, a sort of post-steampunk, (think Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow,) its fashion is classic film-noir, but for my purposes will cover the entire swath of the Classic Age. Toss Rick Blaine's trench coat, Indy's leather jacket and fedora, and Arthur Hastings' suits in this basket.

Though Captain Hastings is often overlooked and in the shadow of Poirot's
fastidious threads, you could nevertheless do worse than closely studying
the sporty, casual ease of the little Belgian's Lagonda-driving sidekick.

Atompunk covers the pre-digital period of 1945-1965, including mid-century Modernism, the Atomic Age and Space Age. Throw Roger Thornhill's suits in this basket, and everything ever worn on Mad Men. This takes us right up to the mid '60s, when the fictional worlds of yesterday abut the real worlds you grew up in. This gives us a complete timeline to with which to work...almost.

Not based on any historical
styles, but Hobbit fashion
has a lot going for it: the
handcut square buttons,
rough fabrics, rich colors,
and well-shaped lapels.

Among all the retrofuturism and suppositional history, there is a blankpunk style that doesn't fit the pattern. I'll call this elfpunk. Inspired by the movies based on J.R.R.Tolkien, C.S.Lewis, and J.K.Rowling's works, they depict a world that, unlike cyberpunk, is steeped in history and myth, rather than looking forward technologically. The deep past of Middle-Earth, the hidden present of Hogwarts, or the just-around-the-corner-ness of Narnia are simpler worlds, places of yearning, just out of our grasp. Into this basket go the suede jerkins, hoods, and cloaks, the rustic colors and forged metals.

Now that we have real and alternative history chopped up into discrete stylistic periods (with rather cool names,) we can go about the process of incorporating discrete elements into your individual look. Here is where the rubber meets the road, where the structure of classic style meets the form of your personal style. It is work, and study, and a cautious alchemy of balance and control: the proper result of which is something which looks effortless and unplanned; unassuming, yet unique.

First, the baseline of Classic Style, the framework on which fashion rests, must be clearly understood. In Part Five, the Science of Style, we covered just what that baseline is. Incorporating personal style involves deviating from that baseline. Just what to deviate, and how far, is a judgement call that only you can make; but I can provide guidelines to help you along the process.

What exactly fulfills your Second Great Secret? For some men, the answer is so obvious it isn't even a question. For others, it may take days of soul-searching, note taking and pondering. When all is said and done, take a mental basket, such as we used earlier, and fill it with the trappings of that era, those elements that left you feeling best; whether that be styles, fabrics, colors, or accessories. For men, thinking in this artsy, right-brain, touchy-feely way isn't easy. You were warned, this is going to be work!

EPIC FAIL. Just...epic.

The manner of incorporating said trappings into a wardrobe requires finesse. The execution should appear to be insouciant and innocuous. If it appears at all as if you are trying for an effect, you have failed, and the boundary between clothing and costume has been breached. If the effect appears aware of itself, (or in other words, if you appear self-conscious,) you have failed, for your clothes should never call attention to themselves. If your clothes appear different, stand out in a crowd, or draw attention to themselves, you have failed. The distinction should be so subtle so as to not be immediately noticeable. Anything else is costume.

The amount of incorporation should be carefully weighted against the overall effect. Ideally, the deviation from Classic standard should be minimal in relation to the Classic proportions: the easiest and most glaring error is to go completely overboard in an effort to be different. Too little deviation can look like a sartorial mistake, or an odd detail that merely looks out of place. Too much deviation, and we are into the realm of costume again.

The balance of elements should be observed. This ties intimately into the amount of incorporation.  A small but strong accessory can balance an outfit, or the entire outfit can be balanced by a slight change in overall detail. This balancing point is the make-or-break of any suit of clothes. The balance of formal vs informal, and studied vs insouciant, have been touched upon previously. This latest, classic vs personal, is just one of the many balances you must take into account.

The cornerstone of personalization is in the details. (This falls into the category of slight and overall.) Subtle jacket deviations from standard can be explored in lapels, pockets, shoulders, and button stance, to name a few, as well as materials, color, and construction. Shirt variance is often seen in color, pattern, and materials, and of course the cut and style of collar. Trousers can vary widely in rise, width, and flare, as well as construction.

A less-integrated but more facilitative option for personalization is the use of an accessory. Hats, ties, shoes, of course; but minor bits like pocket squares, watches, boutonnieres and lapel pins can play an important role as well.

Okay, guys, got it? Nothing to it; easy as pie. I cannot go into each permutation of every detail, of course, any more than I can tell you every suit to wear. It is not an easy row to hoe, but it will yield results far in excess of the effort you put in -- if you do it correctly. It's not a move to be taken lightly, and in all honesty, I won't hold you at all in disregard if you decide the risk is not worth it, and continue to wear the Classic Style unaltered, as you have been. Jumping in too early, too eagerly, or unprepared, can result in a disastrous two-steps-back situation from which you may find it difficult to extricate.

Ultimately, it's all up to you to find the balance, but I will help you out with some examples.

To bring some steampunk into your attire, if you go with dark grey wool for your jacket, you could also go with braces on your trousers, raise the jacket's button stance, and preserve the balance. Do this with a bow tie, and the balance starts to tip. All this and a lapelled waistcoat, and the balance is tipped--it's too much.

A classic suit with just a lapelled waistcoat would balance, though.

A classic suit with a plain waistcoat and arranged pocket watch would preserve the balance. Add a stiff collar, though, and the balance is tipped.
A completely classic suit with a stiff collar preserves the balance.

Spats that are very subtle and understated with an otherwise completely standard classic suit would not tip the balance. Add anything else--it's costume.

For a little dieselpunk, chalkstripes would work with a classic suit. Doublebreasted chalkstripes are on the verge. Add wingtip shoes, and it begins to tip. Add a boutonniere and fedora -- too much.

A standard suit with a slightly broad button stance, and subtle spectator wingtips would just start to tip the balance.

An English touch that adds to many blankpunk schemes is the tightly-furled full length umbrella, used as a walking stick. Used on a bright, sunny day, it will tip the balance, however.

For a touch of the '70s, a standard suit with pagoda shoulders and roped sleeveheads would not tip the balance. Add a Windsor-knot tie, and it's right on the edge. Broaden the lapels by an inch: too far.

A standard cut suit in a maroon-and-rust weave doesn't tip the balance, but the addition of a broad-point collar, striped shirt would. Think outside the box: a vintage LED watch may work well.

For a bit o' the future, the "current view" is a trim fit with dark color and contrasting detail. Narrow lapels, dark blue cloth with bright teal buttonholes, for instance, or quite bright monocolor tie or pocket square. Too much is too much, and it will end up being too fashion-forward -- which is just as bad as too fashion-backward.

Good luck, have fun, and remember, dressing like a grown up doesn't have to be stodgy, or boring, or even ordinary; with the addition of this little bit of psychological wizardry, the first Two Great Secrets will be yours, and your wardrobe will never be the same!

Click here to go to Part Ten of Dressing the Average Guy.

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Lost in the Other Eighties.

(Part Eight of the series "Dressing the Average Guy.")

Chapter 17

Last week, I revealed the Second Great Secret of dressing well: "Left to himself, a man will always dress back to the era when he was happiest." There is, however, an important codicil to the Second Great Secret, which we will discuss today:

"...or the era when he imagined himself happiest."

Most men were happiest as children...but there are a number of men who did not have happy childhoods. They cannot look back to a period in their own pasts, to a time when they were content to the extent that it informed their current sartorial decisions, in the manner that we made note of in our last installment.

Fortunately, children have a built-in coping mechanism: vivid imaginations and fantasy lives. It takes very little stimulus to plunge an unhappy child from a broken home into a rich world of his own creation. And these worlds can be just as real to him, and can cement his future clothing preferences just as thoroughly, as a man who drew inspiration from having lived through more idyllic formative years. 

Every person is familiar with placing himself in an imaginary world: the very basis of the genre of fiction itself is the ability to suspend reality and empathise with the hero of a story, to be immersed in a tale and come through feeling a connection to the characters, situations, and settings, as if they were real. For most men, the entertainment value of fiction is a sideline interest. One can jump into it, jump out of it, and get on with life.

For some, though, the fictional connections formed in childhood become more lasting, more engaging, than real social interaction with their peers. The imaginary world becomes more of an influence than the real world. This can cause all sorts of long-term psychological and social issues. These kids may be ostracised as nerds, geeks, weirdos, or just shunned as odd reclusives -- pushing them further into the comfortable retreat of their fantasy world.

For our purposes, of course, we're solely concerned with clothes, not what goes on in your noggin. And just as what you wear is informed by what made you happy, it is also informed by what interests you. Everyone takes something away from their favorite fiction, as well as their own past -- but when your favorite fiction becomes the happiest time of your past, the two become intertwined, and the most comfortable mode of dress might just not be from your own youth at all!

The seeds of creation of these alternative-realities were usually the domain of entertainment media. Books, movies, and television gave us glimpses of different worlds; better worlds, where everyone got along, solved their problems in the span of a story-arc with a swashbuckle, a fight, a clever ruse, or perhaps a song. They depicted different times from our own: vaguely historical, but sanitized, safe, with none of the real problems associated with those eras. We were comfortable there -- we wanted to be there.

The Depression of the '30s brought a number of cheerful musicals and romantic comedies to the theaters. Seen from the distance of a half-century, the then-contemporary patter, smashing suits, and strong women is an irresistible mirror of an idealized era.

Face it, we all wanted to be Nick Charles. Still do.

Passamawho? Disney may have
been weak on plot, but with outfits
like Doc Terminus', who cared?

For decades, the Western dominated the airwaves, and countless children were influenced by images of the wide-open spaces, the wild frontier towns where men were free and rode tall in the saddle. Disney's trademark spin on British Edwardian and American Western life in both animated and live-action form made an indelible mark on young lives, from Old Yeller, Davy Crockett, and Apple Dumpling, to Doctor Doolittle and Mary Poppins. The very perception of America itself is reflected in Disney parks' seven-eighths-scale Main Streets and Frontierlands.

If I looked like that, I'd talk-sing everything too.

Just as a man will take his childhood with him, he will attempt to take his fictional world with him too. Unfortunately, the dress of the fictionalized past just doesn't fold well into modern dress.

Jeremy Brett's portrayal of Holmes was
an eyefeast of proper English dress.

Kids may try to "dress up" like their heroes, but when this moves into adulthood, we invariably encounter problems. Henry Higgins, Harold Hill, George W. Banks, Sherlock Holmes, or Indiana Jones may dress smartly within their worlds, but it becomes costume when taken into the real world.

Who wouldn't want to live in River City? Straw hats, folks bursting
into ex tempore song, and Shirley Jones in her prime? Rrrowl.

No, I was referring to 
this Indiana Jones.

 This does not preclude taking elements of the fictional worlds of the imagination, and including them in your own personal style. Just as we can take parts of a man's happiest past and stir them into your sartorial mix, we can take your fictional past and do the same thing. The method is in the manner, the amount, the balance, the details, and the accessories. And we will conclude next week with just how to do that, while not looking costumey, keeping your style current and classic, and still reflecting that which makes you, you.

(I'll look at another permutation of fictionalized history next week, as well. Stay tuned, muggles!)

Click here to go to the next essay chronologically, Part Nine of Dressing the Average Guy.

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Lost in the Eighties, For Instance.

(Part Seven of the series "Dressing the Average Guy.")

Chapter 17

Welcome back, Average Guys! It's been awhile since we left off our series about clothing basics in Part Six. I haven't forgotten about you, though! I hope the intervening weeks have been informative, and served to inform your continued sartorial growth. You've come so far in such a short time -- from nothing, mere naked mewling babes in the woods, and now, why, look at you! I hardly recognized you standing there. Well-scrubbed and groomed, and what a nice jacket you've paired with those trousers! Where'd you find that, an estate sale? Classic. Nice crisp shirt, too; that's a good color, and that collar shape really suits you. No, no, you're right: not wearing a tie was a good choice -- wearing one would have just tipped the outfit over the formal edge -- with such a nice jacket, an open collar is just casual enough to work. Good shoes, too. First pair? You're on the right track.

What's that, you say? You feel like there's something missing, like the broad strokes are right, but there's some subtle detail missing, like you're wearing someone else's clothes? I'm so glad to hear you say that -- it tells me you are now prepared for the next stage of your tutelage: the details that will make your newfound sense of Classic Style uniquely yours, and not quite so generic.

There's a nefarious habit out there, the results of which have strait-jacketed many a man into a never-ending cycle of horrible style choices. Left unchecked, this habit will guarantee you will be a social pariah and the butt of many jokes, most of which you will not be aware of. Used properly and wisely, however, this habit can be studied, crafted, pruned, and used to improve your mode of dressing and personalize your attire without being, well, quite as generic as it might otherwise be.

This habit to which I refer is so ingrained, so much a part of the Jungian collective unconscious, so inextricably tied to the hardwiring of the brains of Homo sapiens sapiens, and yet is so misunderstood and ignored, that it deserves mention as the Second Great Secret of Dressing Well.

(The First Great Secret, you may recall, started off our little literary excursions 'way back in Part One, on 13 Feb: viz., The purpose of clothing -- the very reason for the existence of raiment itself -- is to make you look better than you really do.)

The Second Secret runs thusly:

Left to himself, a man will always dress back to the era when he was happiest.

You've actually been surrounded by the collateral damage caused by this habit throughout your entire life, possibly without even realizing it consciously:



The grey hippy, grizzled and overweight, who still wears tie-dye shirts, jean jackets, long hair, round sunglasses, and sandals. He may still drive a Volkswagen microbus, but most likely has graduated to a feel-good Prius, or an old Renault diesel running on homebrewed biofuel. His heyday peaked around 1965, when he was in his early 20s, free of parents and responsibility, and is forever trying to recapture that long-lost feeling.

[We interrupt this post for a legal note: Dress Like A Grownup! has been notified on April 30, 2013, that a photograph illustrating the above paragraph (of an old man in a tye-dyed tee shirt, flashing the peace sign,) is considered to be in violation of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA.) Blogger.com was not amused, and demanded immediate removal of the offending image. It has always been the position of This Here Blog that any images I post are used pursuant to the Fair Use clause of U.S. Copyright law: Title 17, Section 107 of the United States Code. It reads, in part, "The fair use of a copyrighted work...for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching..., scholarship, or research, is not an infringement of copyright." Although I believe myself completely justified in using the image according to the Code, I also don't want to throw pebbles at lions out of spite. So away the image goes. Sorry about that. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog installment, already in progress.]

It wasn't for nothing that Mike Peters
sang of the "Spirit of '76." That's okay,
the awesomeness that was The Alarm
makes up for the clothing. And hair.

The wrinkled rocker, who sports a feathered mullet, aviator sunglasses, denim jackets, and cowboy boots, worn with a faded black concert tee. He was in his prime in high school, around 1978. Cruising in his Camaro while listening to Boston was his personal Camelot.

The breakfast clubber, who still favors a polo-shirt worn under a buttondown Oxford, tucked into a pair of Dockers with a braided-leather belt and penny loafers, a sweater tied around his neck. He's sometimes mistaken for a preppy, but his hair's a little long and he likes it that way, and his bright pastels and popped collars are the same as when he graduated high school, in 1984.

The boomtime MBA who got his first big break during the Reagan administration, and finally got the big paychecks that let him travel, see the world, and get the things he always wanted, has in his closet more than a few broad-shouldered, silk, low-buttoning Armani power suits with bagged trousers and florid ties. Wearing one of those suits makes him feel young, free, powerful, and in control again.

The aging grunger never lived in Seattle, but you'd never know it from his collection of ratty flannel shirts and knit caps. He may have an IRA and secure employment now, but he was happier when he was an angry disenfranchised alt.youth commiserating with Kurt Cobain, Alice in Chains, or Nine Inch Nails in 1995, and his clothes (and lank greasy hair) gives him away.

When were you happiest, at your prime, at peace with the world and in love with life? When were your horizons limitless, the options infinite, the future open? Chances are, it was before reality started crashing in around you and closing the options down, forcing you into an ever-narrowing corridor of endless work-until-retirement.

For a fortunate few, the happiest point in your life may be after college and in the workforce; but for the majority, your personal Camelot was when you were a youth, when the most stress in your life was a final exam, and the summers were endless. And you will always be trying to get back there, for the rest of your life. Nothing wrong with that; it's human nature. The side-effect just happens to be that you took the fashions of the era and tied them subconsciously to that happy ideal. You are most at ease and feel best about yourself when you tie yourself in a physical sense to that time with what you wear. And fear not: we can use that.

For the next couple of installments, we'll continue to look at this phenomenon; at a more historically-based permutation first, then we'll figure out how to use this to our ultimate benefit when dressing well. We can use your natural impulses and "clothing comfort zone" to build a personal style that will reflect your happiest time, and still be in keeping with the grownup, mature fashion that you have learned about and honed over these last months. Stay tuned!

Click here to go to the next essay chronologically, Part Eight of Dressing the Average Guy.

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