Forced Footwear

I spend most of summer sockless.  Penny loafers, driving mocks, and even occasionally a pair of brogues get my favorite foam insoles instead of socks.  Pesko is right on point.  But Shell Chukka Boots?  Really?  The leather is thick, oily, and wears warm, so wearing it in the summertime is really the dubious gesture in question here.  Suede desert boots make some sense sockless in the heat of summer, but these just look contrived to me.  A rebellion purely for its own sake.  You don’t see guys walking around in winter coats with rolled up sleeves in the middle of July, do you?

No offense meant to Mr. Wooster of course.  Although his style is nothing like my own, and I wouldn’t dress like him even if I could, I do respect him.  That jacket is great, and the level of confidence those shorts convey is something I’ll admit I’m very envious of.  Even the fun shirt is spot on.  Just loose the boots.

Clip-On Braces

Braces are great.  I’ve only recently started wearing them, but I’m sold hook, line, and sinker.  But not with low-rise trousers, and certainly not with little metal clips.  The point of braces is to “float” your trousers up around your natural waist without having to cinch them there with a belt.  When you’re wearing skin-tight denim or chinos, something I’ll avoid ranting about in and of itself for now, braces are totally useless.  Totally.  Your trousers don’t need keeping up, especially since “up” is a term I’m using generously here.

Then come the clips.  If someone asked you to start clamping binder clips onto your shirtcuffs or to staple the quarters of your favorite brogues together, you’d balk without a doubt.  Yet for some reason, otherwise well-dressed gents have no problem ripping at their carefully-constructed waistbands all day long.  Sorry guys, I just don’t get it.

Camo

There are great patterns out there, and camo is not one of them.  Butcher stripes, glen check, gun club, even tasteful polka dots are all regular features in great menswear, but I just can’t get on the camo trend.  It always rings of some false pretension at a muscular masculinity.  If you’re actually in the military, or were at any point, I’m willing to make a concession.  Or if you’re in a blind somewhere in the woods and in the company of more game than people.  Otherwise, please gentlemen, leave the camo at the cabin.

Photographs by Tommy Ton for GQ

I’m basically a creature of habit.  But then again, I love to travel.  The travel alarm clock satisfies both my reticent and adventurous sides.

This little plastic Braun alarm clock sits cozily next to my bed, whether at home, on the other side of the earth, or in this case in a hotel room in upstate New York.  It might sound foolish, but it’s one of the little comforts that makes an unfamiliar place feel a bit more like home.  You don’t get to pick the art on your walls, the size and shape of your furniture, or much else for that matter.  You can choose your clock though.

The design on this particular model is a modern classic, and you can still pick up the reissue of the AB1A for a pretty modest sum.  The German design duo Dieter Rams and Dietrich Lubs really nailed it with this one.  That said, I can’t say I’d complain about trading it in for a slightly more baroque model from Asprey, Tiffany, or Cartier.  A little leather and silver never hurt anyone, now did they?

Since I’ve spent the greater part of the last twenty four hours traveling, I thought I would just share a short anecdote on this Monday morning.

Walking down Bond Street can often be like tumbling through a kaleidoscope, what with all the fist-sized gems of every color in the shop windows.  But, while strolling along last week on my way to fetch some macarons from Laduree, a young boy seemed much more enchanted by the displays than the goods.  Just outside Mauboussin I saw a boy of no more than 5 or 6 years giggling and pointing excitedly at the cut-class chandelier-like fixture hovering above some of the more heavily-faceted diamonds I have ever seen.  His mother had stopped to look at the rings and brooches, but they were inconsequential to the lad.  He only wanted that monstrosity of glitz.  I couldn’t help chucking and thinking to myself that sometimes that’s what we’re all after anyway.

It is yet again time for me to rant about the indignities of air travel and the ways we can try, however futile it might seem, to make it a little bit easier.  Amid the modernity and sparkling facade of the Heathrow in the picture, is apparently the airport I flew into.  The glittering glass panes were always in sight, but just out of reach.

After waiting for half an hour at the gate with no word from our crew, and mutiny clearly on the horizon,  us steerage passengers were informed that there would be buses waiting outside the plane to take us to the terminal.  The next forty five minutes or so involved a crammed bus ride, terrible body odor, long walks, dozens of stairs, and a customs-hall-under-construction.  Luckily I made it out alive, in one piece, and not too much worse for wear.

Now the helpful part.  Often I travel with my full-size umbrella, carrying it on the plane.  Luckily I left it at home in favor of picking up a small travel brolly here in London.  That fortuitous decision, paired with my choice of lightweight layers and comfortable loafer made things slightly more bearable.  Schlepping big items or heavy bags around in hot, uncomfortable clothes is just madness.  Keep things simple.  A laptop bag or briefcase, a small duffel or trolly, a lightweight scarf and/or cardigan, a pair of your more full-cut trousers, and a soft, comfortable shirt will see you through.  You don’t want anything bunching, squeezing, or constricting, and you most certainly don’t want to be the guy trying to get the v-neck over his head without waking up the neighbor.

The old cliche tells us you don’t truly appreciate what you have until you don’t have it anymore, and that applies to all manners of things. While my 10 day London holiday has been amazing (I’ll bother you with more stories later), I have missed my daily ritual of getting dressed. Obviously I haven’t been strutting around Mayfair in my bespoke birthday suit, but it’s not the clothes I’m wearing that are the problem, it’s putting them on.

My morning routine usually consists of getting my lazy self out of bed, after quite a few “snoozes” of course, doing my toilette (brushing my teeth, washing my face, &c.), and then choosing the day’s ensemble before my pajamas ever leave my body. And then, if I haven’t taken too long, I get a few minutes for a calm cup of coffee before dashing off to class.

It’s probably not very nonchalant of me to be flagrantly displaying the care I evidently take in preparing myself for the day, but I think taking a few moments to care and consider is one of the greatest luxuries we have left in any matter. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t typically spend 20 minutes in front of the mirror matching ties and pouchettes, although it has happened on an occasion or two. It’s about indulgence for me, not obsession.

So without my whole wardrobe to select from, going over to the closet is far less exciting. With only five shirts and four trousers staring back at me, my most basic options are limited at best. Hmm, charcoal flannels with white and blue striped broadcloth? Or greenish grey worsteds with plain white poplin? And everything either gets finished with either a winter coat or blazer. None of these seem like bad choices….just boring after a week.

But, back to the actual act of dressing and not my poor packing choices. Some people start with their shoes, shirt, trousers, or even socks, but I find myself varying from day to day. Some mornings I wake up and the burgundy loafers call to me, while other days are POW check trouser days. And sometimes both. As I select my daily requisites, I lay them out on my bed, getting an impression of the outfit as it comes together before putting any of it on.

With the basics all chosen, my favorite rituals arrive. I stride over to my dressing box, spritz on a bit of perfume, and linger over the various links, knots, bars, and other paraphernalia nestled in the leather drawers. It’s a moment of pause. I’m mostly dressed at this point, I smell fresh and new, and I get to put the finishing touches on that day’s Stephen. Many of my little accents were gifts from those important to me, so the choice of my Grandfather’s old tie clip or my first proper set of cufflinks, given to me for high-school graduation by my ever-thoughtful Aunt, is always one of significance and memory. I leave the house feeling fresh, well put together, and wrapped in things which make me smile when I see them. And for me, that’s what it’s all about.