Next time you're outside, look at ankles. Observe socks. These little tubes of fabric that you ball up and toss in the laundry every night are the Rosetta Stone of style. Humans have been wearing socks since the time of antiquity, and for better or worse they've been fashion statements ever since. There's a pair in the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Shakespeare included a joke about a guy's fun socks in Twelfth Night. In other words, you can learn a lot about someone from their choice of socks. |
|
|
You might expect in a year when everything has gone to shit that comedians—being the social critics in clowns' clothing that they are—would have plenty to say about it. The mileage Bill Burr could get out of Trump and Musk's messy divorce would surely sustain a 60-minute special on its own. Yet, early in his latest release, Drop Dead Years, Burr reveals something deeply relatable: he doesn't watch the news anymore. He doesn't "pay attention to shit." His commentary on Gaza is hardly political. "How the fuck is war still legal in 2024?" he asks, exasperated as always. Life is hard. The news is insane. Trump sucks. Burr is over it. "As a comedian, I can't call a fat fuck a fat fuck anymore," he quips at the start of his set. So what's a comic supposed to do when the world becomes too absurd to even laugh at? |
|
|
Have you ever dreamed of being inside Justin Bieber's head? Me neither. I listen to the Biebs for bops like "Sorry"—not to analyze the human condition. And yet, on his latest album, SWAG, which he surprise-dropped on Friday, it's impossible not to. From advice-laden interludes to confessional lyrics about his marriage—and even direct references to his viral tirades against paparazzi—Bieber is staring at himself straight in the mirror and forcing the rest of us to join him. Is it uncomfortable? Extremely. It's also kind of great. There's plenty of lo-fi filler on the dense, 21-track album. But several songs, like "Daisies" and "All I Can Take," are built on strong, reverb-laden melodies. New contributors like guitar wunderkind Mk.Gee and alt R&B artist Dijon bring a raw, experimental edge to SWAG that suits Bieber's messy, confessional lyrics. In fact, if you were to judge SWAG solely on how messy it is, the album's practically a damn masterpiece. |
|
|
In the fall of 2003, I slipped on the ice leaving my office one night. My hip hurt for a year afterward, but mostly I ignored it. When the pain didn't go away, I saw my doctor, who ordered an MRI. I went to his office, and he told me there was a tumor on my hip. I was thirty-eight years old, pursuing a promising career in journalism, married to a woman I loved, and the first-time father of a seven-month-old daughter. At the time I was diagnosed with the type of cancer it turned out I have, a rare and incurable form of blood cancer called multiple myeloma, I was told I had eighteen months to live. That was more than twenty-one years ago. |
|
|
I travel a lot. Many hours of my life are spent traversing airport terminals on my way from one destination to another. Being a style-minded guy by both nature and trade, I devote a good chunk of those hours to checking out what other travelers are wearing—and carrying. And other than the odd wedding party lugging tailoring for the big day, one thing that seems to have all but disappeared from the luggage pantheon is a proper suit carrier. It's a testament to the continuous casualization of menswear; suits simply aren't as essential as they once were. I'm no exception to this rule. Most of the time, I'm either not bringing a suit or bringing one because I want to, not because I have to. And yet here I am, telling you that one of the smartest things you can do is reconsider the suit carrier and invest in one of the most cleverly constructed versions I've ever come across—even if you're not packing a suit at all. The carrier in question is Bennett Winch's best-selling Trifold, a sleek, simple, made-in-England workhorse that might just revolutionize the way you pack. Here's why it's worth the investment. |
|
|
I had the "Santa Fe epiphany" in my 20s, when I went for a few days to visit some friends who had decamped from New York. I was running on the local Atalaya trail, reflecting on my visit, when I looked up at the aqua-blue sky above the Sangre de Cristo mountains and stopped to take it all in. I had never seen a sky like that before. A soft breeze rustled the aspen trees around me, and the quietude of the moment gave me an emotional reaction that was hard to explain. My mind told me that I belonged there. It took me a few decades to make that idea become a reality. Now, as a part-time resident for 20 years, I've gotten into the town's fabric. But there is still so much more to discover. |
|
|
|
No comments:
Post a Comment