My apartment flooded last year. Not like, “oops, spilled my Nalgene on the bathroom floor” flooded. More like “upstairs neighbor’s bathtub somehow relocated itself into my living room at 3…
My buddy Mark showed up to our lunch last Tuesday wearing what can only be described as sartorial schizophrenia. Up top? A crisp light blue Oxford shirt and a perfectly…
Last Tuesday, I was sitting at my favorite coffee shop in Williamsburg when I watched an interesting scene unfold. Two guys, probably in their early thirties, walked in wearing almost…
I’ve got this Yankees cap that’s been through hell and back with me. Faded navy, brim perfectly curved (not bent, never creased—I’m not a monster), logo just weathered enough to…
Let’s get real for a second. Those Banana Republic models—with their perfect V-torsos, broad shoulders tapering to narrow waists, and legs that somehow look a mile long even in relaxed-fit…
I have a confession that would probably get my menswear card revoked if such a thing existed: my most expensive clothing purchase last year wasn’t a tailored suit or a…
The first pair of American-made jeans I ever owned were a complete accident. I was twenty-two, broke as hell, and had stumbled across a pair of raw selvedge Cone Mills…
The first time I really understood the value of American manufacturing was during a freezing January afternoon in Red Wing, Minnesota. I was standing in the middle of the Red…
Last month I found myself in this pretentious menswear store in SoHo—you know the type, concrete floors, exactly three shirts on display, salespeople dressed like Victorian undertakers. I was there…
The moment I truly understood the power of alterations happened in a tiny, fluorescent-lit tailor shop in Chicago’s West Loop about eight years ago. I’d dragged my buddy Mike there…