The Italian Job
I took the train into Manhattan Friday in search of an Italian. Suit. There was a sale on 17th Street and...and something - an avenue. Whatever. Those of you living there know, and the rest of us don't. Care.
In order to assure success in this vastly ambitious undertaking, I enlisted the aid of my brother, a style maven, and his girlfriend, a recently recurrent transplant from sunny L.A. She possesses more fashion sense in the sole of one of her well-heeled feet than I will ever have in this lifetime. Or the next.
The two of them were gracious enough to spend time trouncing one fashion faux pas after another as we shopped. I nearly dropped. Dead. Actually, the experience was far less painful than I had previously imagined. My heart did not go into a life-threatening arrythmia, and I did not stroke out. I didn't even fall much, except for the time I had to look at two blue suits and not only comprehend that they were different, but actually choose between them. That left me in a fetal position on the concrete floor until the smelling salts were brought.
Man. Ask me about ectomorphic body type or nasal tip rotation, and I'll provide a treatise. Ask about denim and die. I'll cut you. It's what I do. But back to fashion: I am <<<< fashion. Still, the suit is hella cool.
Wait. Do people even say that any more? Did they ever?
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*Above suit is only vaguely representative of the one I got. Very vaguely.