Manolo for the Men

Having drawn attention to the Corduory Appreciation Club once before, Izzy would like to notify his loyal readers of the society’s next get-together, which will be held in Brooklyn on 11|11 (for obvious reasons). Lord Whimsy, courageous dandy and author of The Affected Provincial’s Companion, Vol. I (which Izzy thoroughly recommends), will be the keynote speaker. Given that “adoxography” is a fancy word for elegant praise of the trivial (something which Izzy might know a thing or two about), the Club should be considered an organized exercise in adoxophilia. (Shockingly, Izzy could not find “adoxography” in the Oxford English Dictionary. He’s going to write an angry, erudite letter to Jesse Sheidlower, the immaculately dressed editor-at-large.)

In any case, only an unnatural disaster will keep Izzy from attending the event. Where else is he supposed to wear his corduroy shoes?

British TV broadcaster Sir Terry Wogan recently went on the air in mustard-colored moleskin trousers so clingy that viewers could almost identify his religious preference. Some Brits are tumescent with anger at the wardrobe malfunction, but Izzy thinks they should put a sock in it.

Behold this page from the 1975 J.C. Penny catalog, which deserves to be seen fully blown up to get the full effect.  While it’s easy to knock disco-pimp fashion, whether it’s the butch decolletage or the high-waisted polyester trousers with crotches cut too close to home, at least the clogs benefitted the shorter manimal (like the model on the right).  As bad as these outfits are, truly beyond the pale are those cuffed bell-bottoms, something Izzy had never seen even in his worst disco nightmare.  The only way this advertisement could have been any worse were if it had been scratch-and-sniff.

It’s hard to believe, but the above photo isn’t some colorized snapshot of one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, but was taken in the very unglamorous 1985. The subject is the recently deceased Gene Savoy, a flamboyant adventurer, archaeologist, and all-around throwback in the tradition of Indiana Jones.  He might never have discovered the Fountain of Youth, but he certainly knew where to find hard-wearing trousers with thick belt loops, western-front pockets, and an amazing drape.

Jeremy Hackett, the man behind Hackett—a brand that, by copying and improving upon English classics, is in many ways the British equivalent of Ralph Lauren—waxes eloquent about the time he discovered the virtues of a Barbour jacket:

When I opened my first shop in London in 1983, I sold — as one magazine kindly put it — dead men’s clothes. Today they are known as vintage, and some items can fetch exorbitant prices. Once, on one of my frequent forays to Portobello Market, I chanced upon an ancient, patched-up Barbour jacket. I bought it and put it in the window, where it sold within minutes at a price not far from what it cost new. The attraction, I realized, was precisely that it was worn. In no time at all, no self-respecting Sloane Ranger would be seen without this distinctive olive green coat. Young army officers wore them as part of their mufti, teamed with straw-colored corduroys, suede shoes and red socks. Aspiring bankers adopted the Barbour, and it also became de rigueur over black tie. It was a way of airing your country pedigree, though you may have actually lived in a two-up, two-down in Fulham.

It spoke of damp dogs sleeping on tartan coat linings in the back of battered Land Rovers, of point-to-points and Badminton Horse Trials, all things dear to an Englishman. I recently retrieved my old Beaufort Barbour — with its oily texture, brown corduroy collar and brass zipper as strong as a railway line — from the attic, where it had lain neglected for nearly 20 years. Suddenly, I was filled with nostalgia for the countryside. So, despite not owning a large pile in the shires, I shall wear my shabby Barbour the next time I go shopping on Sloane Street — but I think I’ll leave my green wellies in the Land Rover.

Far from being a traditional Scottish kilt, the Utilikilt is a proud representative of the “men’s unbifurcated garment” a/k/a the manskirt. Offered in eight styles, in materials including cotton, leather, duck cloth, and lightweight nylon, it aims to be a manly, well-ventilated alternative to the tyranny of trousers. It’s also great for anyone looking to pick a fight.  Obviously only for the brave, the garment is best attempted by big, burly men.

Pulitzer-prize-winning poet James Merrill was raised in a highly privileged setting (his father was a co-founder of Merrill Lynch), which should be kept in mind when reading his “Self-Portrait in Tyvek™ Windbreaker,” a meditation on the effects of dressing down. Here’s an excerpt, but Izzy encourages you to read the whole thing:

The windbreaker is white with a world map.
DuPont contributed the seeming-frail,
Unrippable stuff first used for Priority Mail.
Weightless as shoes reflected in deep water,
The countries are violet, orange, yellow, green;
Names of the principal towns and rivers, black.
A zipper’s hiss, and the Atlantic Ocean closes
Over my blood-red T-shirt from the Gap.

I found it in one of those vaguely imbecile
Emporia catering to the collective unconscious
Of our time and place. This one featured crystals,
Cassettes of whalesong and rain-forest whistles,
Barometers, herbal cosmetics, pillows like puffins,
Recycled notebooks, mechanized lucite coffins
For sapphire waves that creast, break, and recede,
As they presumably do in nature still.

Sweat-panted and Reeboked, I wear it to the gym.
My terry-cloth headband is green as laurel.
A yellow plastic Walkman at my hip
Sends shiny yellow tendrils to either ear.

[...]

Americans, blithe as the last straw,
Shrug off accountability by dressing
Younger than their kids—jeans, ski-pants, sneakers,
A baseball cap, a happy-face T-shirt . . .
Like first-graders we “love” our mother Earth,
Know she’s been sick, and mean to care for her
When we grown up. Seeing my windbreaker,
People hail me with nostalgic awe.

“Great jacket!” strangers on streetcorners impart.
The Albanian doorman pats it: “Where you buy?”
Over his ear-splitting drill a hunky guy
Yells, “Hey, you’ll always know where you are, right?”
“Ever the fashionable cosmopolite,”
Beams Ray. And “Voilà mon pays”—the carrot-haired
Girl in the bakery, touching with her finger
The little orange France above my heart.

Everyman, c’est moi, the whole world’s pal!
The pity is how soon such feelings sour.
As I leave the gym a smiling-as-if-I-should-know-her
Teenager—oh but I mean, she’s wearing “our”
Windbreaker, and assumes . . . Yet I return her wave
Like an accomplice. For while all humans aren’t
Countable as equals, we must behave
As if they were, or the spirit dies (Pascal).

[...]

Having deplored low-hanging pants before, Izzy was happy to see that communities are taking action to end the uncivil plague. Pushed to extreme measures, municipalities have criminalized the attire, which is all-too-appropriate given that the style originated in prison, where belts are prohibited. In attempt to get around free-expression Constitutional claims, the laws are aimed at prohibiting public indecency.

The New York Times’ story taught Izzy something new:

Not since the zoot suit has a style been greeted with such strong disapproval. The exaggerated boxy long coat and tight-cuffed pants, started in the 1930s, was the emblematic style of a subculture of young urban minorities. It was viewed as unpatriotic and flouted a fabric conservation order during World War II. The clothing was at the center of what were called Zoot Suit Riots in Los Angeles, racially motivated beatings of Hispanic youths by sailors. The youths were stripped of their garments, which were burned in the street.

Although Izzy would never encourage a riot, he would like to see a peaceful march that chants “Do not share / derriere / We can see your underwear!” And of course the placards would read “Up with pants!”

It may pale in political importance next to the tapes of President Nixon’s phone calls, but this surreal 1964 recording of LBJ ordering custom trousers from Joe Haggar still deserves a place in the history books. Be warned: the salty Texan’s choice of words—and colors—is of questionable taste.

New York magazine journalist has written about his first foray into bespoke tailoring, even though he was apparently ignorant of the subject.  Not only does at first think it’s OK to button all of jacket’s buttons, from the wrinkles on his trousers, it looks like he chose his fabric poorly.

Izzy is intrigued by the idea of trousers made of oxford cloth, the thick cotton fabric normally used for hard-wearing shirts (such as those in prep-school uniforms).  Do any of his loyal readers have any experience with the unusual pants?

While Izzy doesn’t fear formality, he recognizes that there are times when one may let it all hang out—”it” being a shirttail.  Slim-cut linen shirts are ideal for such untucking, especially when those shirts have an awning stripe, like this one draped on Mike Love, co-lead singer of the Beach Boys.  Also note his crisp white linen cargo trousers, something difficult to pull off for a sexogenarian.  Izzy tips his piña colada in Mr. Love’s direction.