Before heading out for a whiskey last night, I submitted a last-minute low bid on eBay to win a vintage Woolrich field jacket for $20, plus $10.77 for shipping. Judging by the design of the label, it might be from the ’70s or ’80s. It has a classic exterior of heavy wool in red-and-black plaid and a tan flannel interior. Pockets include hand-warmers in front and storage in the lower-back for game. Originally, hunters bought these jackets but I bought mine because I wanted cheap and casual cold-weather coverage and because I like red, wool and things that remind me of the Midwest.

No one else bid on the coat and I wondered what could be wrong with it. It’s in good shape and comes from a non-smoking household. My research online showed used Woolrich jackets going for twice what I paid, with new models retailing for $189. If I don’t like the fit or something’s amiss, well, I didn’t spend much and the homeless need winter coats.

When I arrived home tonight from work and paged through my new New York magazine, I learned that bearded Brooklyn hipsters favor a woodsman look. Nearby are articles on a man who sells axes in Tribeca and the rise in popularity of homemade beef jerky. For those interested in dressing like the men depicted, the article reveals their clothing brand names but Woolrich isn’t among them. I’m thinking: I’m on the cutting edge of an urban clothing trend or this isn’t a trend at all or I’m picking up on something already in the ether, like the guy who claimed to be wearing x before y popularized it. Mainly, I hope the coat fits and makes me look sharp.

Can someone explain why Ed Hardy T-shirts are suddenly so popular? Everyone from A-Rod to every single other person in New York City is wearing one—right now—and they look as stupid as those neon Ocean Pacific T-shirts did in the ’80s.

When I read today that Sears signed an agreement with LL Cool J to introduce a line of streetwear this fall, the first thing I thought of was a song chart for “Around the Way Girl.”

I’m on business today at the Four Seasons in Dallas and in one of the fanciest yet most unnecessary perks of staying at an upper-crust hotel, I found housekeeping had snuck into my room while I was out to pick up all the clothes I’d dropped on the floor and draped over chairs, and actually folded them neatly in piles. Like, Gap-quality folding. Good stuff and a nice touch.

Jason

[following a lengthy discussion about men’s clothing] Maybe I need to strap on a barrel.

S.

I hear the barrel look is making a comeback for Spring 2009. You’d be well ahead of the fashion curve.

Jason

I’ve heard that, too. According to Italian Vogue, there are two schools of thought on what cut of barrels we should expect: the flared hoops championed by traditional East Coast coopers or the tapered European staves favored by Diane von Fürstenberg and everyone who was at her Hamptons dinner party last weekend.

S.

Everyone who’s anyone knows that DvF favors the wrap barrel. Like, duh.

My sister Dana and I hung out in Williamsburg, Brooklyn today for sightseeing and vintage-clothing shopping. (The above photo of her and the happy hearts was taken on N. 10th Street between Bedford and Driggs.) At Buffalo Exchange she found and bought a crazy Stussy sweatshirt from the ’80s, pink with blue stars on it. She was impressed by the storied local clothing exchange store, Beacon’s Closet, and its organized-by-color convention but it was very busy and difficult to shop with a clear head.

For a late brunch, we took a long walk over to hit Diner. Despite the odd time of 3 p.m., the place was already/still packed, so we ate at the bar. I liked the typewritten menus and the snug diner-design of the place, and the guy behind the bar who was visibly confused by the extra-long-intro version of Steely Dan’s “Do it Again” played over the sound system. (He wondered aloud if it was an instrumental karaoke version.) In the mood for drinking a unfamiliar drink, I had a Van Vleet, followed quickly by a second. I’d not have guessed lemon juice, maple syrup and rum would conspire for sweet-tart tastiness. Dana got the Gruyere cheese breakfast sandwich and I had the ricotta cheese/fresh herb omelet both of which were fantastic, fresh and appreciated. I will have to return someday for dinner when the menu is more dynamic than the more standard brunch fare. Walking back under the Williamsburg Bridge on our way back to the L train, we noticed this vibrantly graffitied truck, which I photographed for the benefit of my friends named Joe.

Diner

• 85 Broadway (at Berry Street), Brooklyn
• (718) 486-3077
• Meal 55 of 52: two van Vleets ($8 each) and a omelet with roast potatoes ($10).

Jason

This is the creepiest American Apparel ad yet.

S.

Does that skeevey owner bang the senior citizens, too, or just the prepubescent-looking ones?

Jason

I think he does both. He’s an equal opportunity, vertically integrated skeeve. Although the first thing I thought of was the jolly incest cartoon from R. Crumb’s Joe Blow entitled, “The Family that LAYS Together STAYS Together!” And that’s all I’m saying about that.

S.

You are a sick, sick individual. Sick. But funny.

Over Thanksgiving I thought about growing a beard, as I often do on vacations to which my Gillette Sensor is not invited, but I wussed out and nixed it this morning. This guy I work with, who’s my age and also from Ohio, decided to go full-force and arrived today clad in a five-day scruff that caused a mild stir. For him it may have been mark of freedom; he recently joined our company after a multiyear career in politics, a profession for which facial hair hasn’t been kosher since Lincoln, and even he may have sold poisoned milk to schoolchildren. Sideburns recall malaised memories of Carter while moustaches have concealed career-warping secrets from G. Gordon Liddy through Bernie Kerik. Full beards are reserved for the lowest depths of political misery—2001-edition Al Gore, anyone?

Free from such associations and aspirations, you’d think a beard on someone who fancies himself a writer would be only appropriate, as the profession in general agrees that a facial bloom large enough to house a family of starlings is next to godliness.

With me it’s more an issue of aesthetics. Know that my facial hair is red for some reason and would therefore grow in like this guy’s, contrasting vibrantly with my thinning blonde top. I could go with the shaved-head/full-beard combo but then strangers on the street would step aside, presuming I’m on my way to clear-cut a forest or suplex a masked villain. Maintenance would be an issue; I wouldn’t be able to let a beard rage Chia Pet style, lest I become too mountain-man. Then there’s the eternal Lady Factor to consider: facial hair either inspires growls of primal passion or women would just as soon a guy tape a bunch of Brillo Pads to his face.

I don’t know; what do you think? Bearded Jason: hot or not? Christmas vacation is coming soon, another ripe opportunity to bust out that beard.

My trusty wool winter coat has seen me through every winter I’ve lived in New York (and a few in Cleveland) and has been looking rattier and rattier for it. This is true especially in the inside of the coat where the quilting has worn away and it resembles a bunch of rat pelts sewn together. Time for a new winter coat, one to withstand the brittle temperatures of Colorado and Wyoming, where I’m headed for Thanksgiving.

I took a PATH train to Jersey City after work and it’s convenient that the first stop on the Jersey side is directly across the street from the Newport Centre mall. There’s a Sears there, unlike anywhere in Manhattan, and I purchased a hooded quilted down jacket from the Lands’ End store. It’s rated to keep me warm in -5° weather with a light layer underneath and as low as -20°, pending additional layers. I like that it’s lightweight, has a rain/snow-resistant nylon shell and a set of two pockets both inside and out. Monetarily, I like the fact that, like New York City, there’s no sales tax on clothing in Jersey, plus the fact I was able to snag $10 off at the register after I convinced the salesperson to apply to my coat the $10-off-your-next-purchase coupon she gave me.

Jason

When will the hipster girls adopt those giant, 1980s-professional eyeglasses? Or have they and no one briefed me?

S.

You totally missed the boat. Those are, like, so 2004.

Jason

I’ve been out of it since I let my style consultant go. Desiree spent all her time at sample sales when she should have been attending Fashion Week, planning my winter wardrobe and answering the phone in my apartment-sized closet. Lately, I’ve been using American Apparel ads to let me know what’s cool.

S.

So how come I haven’t seen you at work donning a pair of royal blue tights and nothing else?

Jason

I was totally wearing royal gold tights last Friday. Occasionally I would cup my breasts and arch my back, alive with pleasure. Then I was sent home early.

S.

I can’t believe I missed your shenanigans. If you canned your former assistant, you need a new one, right? Can my nametag say “Fashion Consultant Extraordinaire”? Or maybe “Roving Ambassador” would be nice.

Jason

I dub thee “Roving Ambassador.” Go forth and spread thy riches of snark, fashion sense and myrrh.

I attended my first sample sale today. They’re a fact of life in this town, especially around my work neighborhood, the “fashion district.”

I’d been tipped about a Ben Sherman sale in particular, and it was located on the second floor of a nondescript building on W. 36th Street, right around the corner from where I work. I checked it out today at lunch, lucking out by not wearing my coat or taking my bag: they make you check everything at sample sales and there’s a big ol’ long line for that.

It was bustling but not maddening, crowd-wise. I didn’t buy anything. I couldn’t get excited about any of the shirts. Pants would require try-on and there were no changing rooms, as I’d been pre-warned. I considered something I actually need, a winter jacket, and they were all $55, down from $150-$250. But they’re all too stylish for me; in fact, everything for sale, even the highly popular $5 racks for sample and “slight irregular” items, were too stylish, which is code for “ugly.”

Did I mention that I’m a lousy clothes shopper? A chucklehead in the production department emailed me this hastily Photoshopped cartoon after learning of my fruitless journey.

With Halloween fast approaching, I’ve been receiving advice, solicited and otherwise, regarding the best places for costume-shopping/thrifting in New York City. Lately I’ve been favoring eBay for hard-to-find stuff and, on the other hand, for actual vintage clothing that’s reasonably priced, very well-described and doesn’t appear to have been photographed with a cellphone in someone’s garage, RustyZipper.com. But if I must shop a brick-and-mortar store, here are my favorites so far.

For costume basics, I like the three-story Goodwill on 181st and Audobon. Per its location far uptown in a scrappy corner of Manhattan, this isn’t a place to unearth buried vintage treasure, although they do have a well-organized small collection of leather and jean jackets on the second floor and a handful of things that could be considered retro-fashionable. I find it to be more of a workhorse for costume basics: for plain, solid-colored shirts, blouses, skirts or pants, this is the place to go for articles under $5, and I always feel better knowing my money will help fund the less fortunate as apposed to helping fund the re-wallpapering of a boutique owner’s Hamtons summer home.

A side note: a young lady wearing a nice turquoise vintage skirt told me recently that the best Goodwill/Salvation Army in Manhattan is the Salvation Army at E. 23rd Street and Third Avenue. Although as I’ve never been, I cannot vouch for this claim.

For vintage clothing in Manhattan, there are pockets of shops around 14th Street. I like Rags-A-Gogo (“Second Hand On The Move”) on that stretch, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, although purists would frown upon its Manhattan pricing. There’s a tight selection highlighted by leather and light-weather jackets, as well as cowboy and Hawaiian shirts, and the proprietor is a butch, tattooed lesbian or perhaps bisexual who, every time I’ve been in the shop (and I’ve been there, like, seven times), is talking with a random customer about sex. Either that or how everyone needs at least one cowboy shirt in his or her wardrobe.

The store in Brooklyn that will make a seasoned thrifter stoop to kiss the floor upon arrival is the storied warehouse-like Beacon’s Closet, on N. 11th Street between Berry and Wythe, right across the street from the Brooklyn Brewery in Williamsburg. They have a fantastic, frequently changing selection of vintage awesomeness with prices that range from penny-pinching to boutique. As is usually the case, the women win with a selection that’s easily 2.5 times larger than the men’s.

A not-as-often reported fact about Beacon’s is that it would appear to be a prime potential pick-up joint, with its clientele of trim and fetchingly tousled young ladies and gentlemen pawing through the merchandise while glancing discretely at each other’s wardrobes and expensive haircuts. “Oh, are you into terrycloth leisure slacks, too? So am I! Wanna wear ’em tonight and join me at Union Hall for billiards and a PBR?”

If you’re in the neighborhood to check out Beacon’s, you might as well check out nearby Buffalo Exchange, too, which recalls a more condensed version of Beacon’s. It’s on the corner of Driggs and N. 9th Street. (Take the L to the Bedford Street stop to visit both Beacon’s and Buffalo.)

Finally, a costume shopper should always consider the cheap-and-nasty poor-people clothing stores in the Garment District, clustered in Midtown around 34th and Eighth, especially standbys like Conway. Shirts, pants, belts, ties and caps aplenty, often for well under $5.

I don’t like to shop, especially for clothes, although I’m trying to get better at it lest I end up that guy unironically wearing his Members Only jacket. I’m still searching for that mythical store that will allow me to pick up all I need to dress nicely for work—pants, shirts and ties—in one swoop but I haven’t found one that meets my demands for competitive pricing and crisp styling.

I think I’ve solved the shirt portion of the puzzle, though. I must give credit to the folks at the Japanese¹ chain Uniqlo, which has planted its sprawling U.S. flagship store on Broadway near Prince Street, and whose shirts I’ve come to appreciate for their trim European-style tailoring and colorful yet relatively conservative styles.

Since it opened here in late 2005, Uniqlo has been compared to The Gap, and they do carry unfussy styles and just “the basics,” but their tailoring is much nicer and their quality finer than The Gap, with a price hovering somewhere between the merchandise of that chain and Banana Republic. Plus, their small fits me more or less perfectly, where the sleeves of that size anywhere else would be too short. A few weeks back I bought a few Uniqlo “fine wrinkle-free” long-sleeved button-down dress shirts to see how they’d fare under multiple wearings and washings, and I was pleased they returned from the laundromat pucker-free, unshrunken and not faded. Best, I can confirm they are indeed wrinkle-free. I’ve already been back to purchase a few more. Yay, Uniqlo!

¹ Although as with many other apparel merchants, most of their stuff is made in China. [back]

I only own, like, one pair of jeans. Levi’s 511s. Don’t worry, I wash them weekly. Okay, maybe once every two weeks, but more often in the summer when they’re likely to get sweaty. I don’t know about you, but I’ve tried buying backup pairs of jeans to these ur-jeans, but I end up not wearing them, because the ones I always wear are the comfiest. You’d think I’d just buy multiple pairs of the same jeans, but see: how do I know I like them until I’ve worn them for awhile? If I don’t like them, and I’ve bought three pairs, that’s three pairs never to be worn again. And by the time I find I like a pair, the time has passed to buy multiples, because the first pair have become my favorite pair.

And here it is: The Bourne Ultimatum is like a favorite pair of jeans. Comfortable, lived-in, a little sweaty, nothing unexpected and unlikely to be a cause for undue recognition/adoration, unless you’re writing a blog entry seemingly about jeans or you’re the nerds on IMDb.com who have, as of last check, voted the film the 66th best of all time. Ultimatum isn’t that; it’s more of the same: manic cutting of scenes of hand-to-hand contact and car chases, grim bureaucrats tracking Bourne and an even grimmer Bourne tracking the bureaucrats while trying to find his raisons d’ être and/or true identity. Popcorny summer fun!

I travel light in New York but if I’m going to be away from my apartment for a day, whether for work or a weekend activity, I combat-load my man-bag with what I consider to be the essentials. See here. (And note that I took these photos in the same scale as the photo of the bag, to emphasize the relative sizes of the objects.)

Reading & Writing. my Moleskine and pens for note-taking and note-reference. A book and magazines to read. Any smallish book will do and for magazines, I favor Time Out New York and The New Yorker and occasionally New York, which I can usually pick up free at work because the guy who owns our company publishes it. I tri-fold the Manhattan subway/bus map, a Streetwise “Mini Metro,” and stash it in the back pocket of the Moleskine; those big, free subway maps distributed by the MTA are only meant for tourists, gift wrap and shelter.

Summer Stuff. I regularly cart around a Nalgene bottle of water and sunscreen during the hot months.

Shelter. Cap and umbrella.

Pharma. Duane Reade stuff. There’s aspirin, antihistamine, sugarless gum and travel wipes which are good for sanitizing hands, refreshing a sweaty face, or, um, can be useful if you simply must take a crap during travels. Not shown, on account of tininess: nail clippers.

Electronics. iPod with headphones and cell phone, fully charged in advance at home if I know I’ll be out all day. (Not pictured for somewhat obvious reasons: camera, also fully charged. Also not shown, also on account of tininess: keychain-size flash drive, for storing documents and other files to transport back and forth from work.)

Other somewhat obvious items not pictured because they’re not in my bag but on my person or in my pants/jacket pockets include my wristwatch, keys, handkerchief, change and a bunch of scraps of paper with notes written on them. In my wallet of course are cash and credit cards, but I like to always stock two MetroCards: my monthly plus a declining balance, which I try to keep around $10. I use the latter when the monthly runs out unexpectedly, I’m in a rush and don’t want to get cockblocked by the turnstile with an INSUFFICIENT BALANCE message. It’s also ideal for riding the PATH train, the turnstiles for which don’t accept declining-balance MetroCards.

Additional item I may carry when the forecast calls for a torrential downpour include a spare pair of socks. And stuff I don’t carry that others may consider would include portable food items (snack-size bags of nuts or granola bars are nice), sunglasses, lip balm, and various lady-type items if you are a lady.

I like to think I have typical New Yorker stuff in my bag (in addition to The New Yorker, ha ha), but who knows.

I’d like to volunteer myself as the copy editor for the ironic new-vintage T-shirt division of Urban Outfitters, as I am familiar not only with pop-culture clichés but the hortatory subjunctive.

Related: Just Because You Spellchecked... Part II and Part I. Also, coincidentally and oddly, the hortatory subjunctive was in the news this week.

Keep your eyes on the street: July will be Predistressed Sneaker Month. As I noted in late May, Nike sneakers resembling grungy versions from the ’70s are hitting the mass market next month.

Then, today via Gothamist.com, arrives news that Converse Men’s Ramones All Star Hi, a beat-up version of the classic canvas kicks, will be ready to ship from Eastbay in July. Knowing they’ll soon be commercially available makes me not want them, despite my request last summer. I just like to complain.

Yesterday I wrote of pre-sullied shoes, and lo and behold, the fresh new kicks I ordered online from Adidas arrived today. They’re Gazelles, upmarket cousins of my favored three-stripes variety, Samba soccer shoes. I’ve always said my favorite color is red yet demonstrated scant evidence to back this up, so I went for the maroon fabric variety. Supremely comfortable and stylish, if I may be so bold.

Remember when I was complaining about my gleaming-white new Converse All-Stars and wondering why shoe manufacturers couldn’t pre-distress them, as they do with jeans? Nike’s taken the idea and run with it. According to a brief in the New York Times today:

Last year, for Junya Watanabe’s Spring 2007 show in Paris, Nike recreated its classic running shoes from the 1970s to look as if they actually had been made in the 1970s—with yellowed mid-soles and washed-out suede patches.

Now the box-fresh, predistressed shoes are going on sale for $220 at Comme des Garçons stores next week. A broader release of $120 styles will reach Barneys New York, Urban Outfitters and Scoop stores in July.

A young rep who’s striving to get my boss to sign a multi-ad deal on her firm’s real estate website took him and I to dinner tonight in Atlanta at a tapas restaurant. During the course of the conversation, which became progressively addled by drink, she off-handedly mentioned Spanx. My boss and I admitted we didn’t know what that was, and she described them as “sausage casing for women,” adding “I’m wearing some now!” Which was a bit too much information.

Bruce Wasserstein’s private equity and investment firm is exploring a sale of the company I work for. Announcing and explaining this, we received a letter today via email from our CEO and attended a hastily assembled staff meeting, the contents of which can be summarized thusly:

1. We love you. Also, our investors.
2. Don’t panic.
3. Stay the course.
4. We upper-management types won’t share much more information with you about this possible sale but we’re blindly confident any potential new owners will value each and every one of your pretty little heads as much as we do.
5. Get back to work.

Also today, I bought new dress shoes from a “fine menswear” store on Madison Avenue using the gift certificate my boss gave me for Christmas. The salesman, wearing a partially unbuttoned dress shirt revealing a gold necklace and a thatch of chest hair, attempted to upsell me into purchasing a second pair for half-price but I’m not budgeted for two pairs of shoes this month and was really only interested in exhausting the gift certificate before I forgot about it.

I took a Metro-North train from Harlem up to Westchester County early this afternoon because that was the nearest location of After Hours, which is not a gentlemen’s club but the formalwear chain my friend Joe has selected for his wedding party’s tuxedos, two-button Tommy Hilfiger models with long ties and “truffle vests.”

After a relaxing half-hour ride, I set out on foot from the White Plains station, spotted a large blue Sears sign, then walked over and entered the mall it was attached to. There was no tuxedo store to be found. After calling Joe, I learned I was in the wrong mall. Joe mapped my predicament online then relayed to me via cellphone that White Plains has a pair of malls approximately eight city blocks apart and I was in the more ghetto of the two, the Galleria.

After arriving at my correct destination, the Westchester Mall, I took in its modern architecture, carpeted floors, Apple Store, Sharper Image, Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus and roving packs of Asian teens. I stood in line at After Hours with a bunch of gawky high-schoolers whose older brothers were getting married, had various body parts tape-measured and tried on two in-store “test jackets,” smelling of sweat and cigarettes, to pinpoint my size (37 long, for those keeping score at home).

I took an express train back to Grand Central because I had plans to see The Lives of Others, which won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film last month. It’s reminiscent of Coppola’s Hitchcockian The Conversation, in which a snoop (Gene Hackman) thinks he’s heard a murder in a wiretapped apartment through his headphones. To a lesser degree, I thought of 3-Iron, in which a young couple lives for moments at a time in the vacant apartments of strangers.

In Lives of Others, Ulrich Mühe plays a member of East Germany’s Stasi in the Berlin Wall-divided early ‘80s. Resembling Stanley Tucci from certain angles, he’s an expert interrogator who switches to the passive end of the business when he takes on a life-consuming wiretap stakeout of a writer who’s suspected of harboring a subversive streak. The same stone-faced officer who’s patient and exacting enough to sweat the “truth” from suspects at the station has difficulty finding fault in a man whose complicated life he’s exposed to in conversations the writer has with his girlfriend and friends. The end, sappy yet satisfying, gets choppy with jumps in the timeline of multiple years at a time. But I’d recommend it.

And, yes, I still think it deserved Best Foreign Language Film over Pan’s Labyrinth. That film, while wondrous in its effects and imagination, had a predictable fairytale plot and little character development. Lives of Others is more unexpected and focuses on the nuances and complexities of human nature and expression. Katie disagrees. “I guess you don’t care about the plight of a little girl,” she snapped in disgust, as she, Andie and I briefly discussed the films afterwards. I didn’t take it further because I’m not smart enough to win an argument with her. She should consider a career in politics.

The merino V-neck sweater I’d had my eye on for the past month reached what I hope is a rock-bottom sale price, down to $29.99 from $49.50, so I bought it over the weekend before my size disappeared. It’s the same style as the gray sweater and black sweater I have in constant rotation. But it’s a fresh cyan color. I wore it today to work and, just between you and me, I had hoped someone would comment on it. But no one did. I’m not seeking your sympathy; what I think I wanted was recognition from my coworkers that I really am capable of buying new clothes every once in awhile.

The buttons on my winter coat have a name. They’re four-hole corozo buttons, named, I think, after the tropical palm that bears corozo nuts, which were once used to fashion buttons, though I suspect mine are plastic. I learned this when I bought a few of them at M & J Trimming, purveyor of beads, braids, buckles, buttons and such, and brought them home to Cleveland so my sister could sew them back onto my coat where two had fallen off.

I’d been walking around these past months with the buttonless top of the coat unfastened, which looked rakish in autumn but now allows frigid air to mug my neck. Dana sewed them on in no time. I probably should have had her teach me how to sew in case other button-related emergencies arise. After all, give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. But teach him to sew and he can repair his own damn coat.

My mom mailed me some brittle pages from the Sunday Magazine of the Toledo Blade dated August 18, 1974 that she found in a dresser drawer. Check out these Holly Hill summer fashions in Easy-Care Polyester available at Lion, a local department store chain. For only $16 apiece, you could sashay among Ohio society in the Skimmer with self-flip-tie on the left or the “Fit and Flare” princess dress on the right.

I decided to at least start thinking about chucking my old B&W Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops, which I’ve had since high school, when they were $20 and Kurt Cobain hadn’t yet made them cool again. The rubber is disintegrating and the soles are thin enough for me to get my feet wet if I wear them in the rain. Canvas worn to a buttery perfection, they’re so comfortable that I can’t bring myself to dispose of them, despite the fact they resemble a coal miner’s lungs.

Recently I bought a new pair from Zappos.com, a great site if you know your size and enjoy sidestepping sales tax and shipping fees. I can’t bring myself to break them in just yet. They have the faint odor of a tire store and the white trim and laces are as gleaming and blatant as the teeth of Tom Cruise. To wear them now in public would be to wear a pair of floppy clown shoes, inviting stares and derision, imagined or otherwise.

Burried somewhere on Converse’s website, I spotted a banner image promoting the All Star line. Instead of depicting a spotless new pair hovering on a lightboxed background or cocooning the arches of an adonis, it was a scuffed, grubby pair, worn by a guy standing on a cobblestoned European street. It’s clear Converse knows the look most guys are after who wear these things: we want ’em scruffy like the Ramones, not fruity like Punky Brewster.

I beseech Converse to sell pre-sullied All Stars. Manufacturers of jeans have been weathering and poking holes in their product for years, so why not the shoe guys? The breaking-in period on these things will be a burden. I must refrain from throwing them in a dryer with rocks and topsoil.

I’ve had the same suit for about 10 years and it’s time I started thinking of purchasing a new one, so I asked Jimi, my fashion consultant, for advice on which designers I should be pursuing. My current suit, a Jimi-recommended purchase dated to our perilous youth in Cleveland, is from Hugo Boss and I credit the brand-name quality for it lasting all these years, physically and stylistically, although I’m starting to suspect it has dated and people aren’t sure how to break the news to me. People other than Jimi, that is; “Are those shoulder pads?” he shrieked the other day. As my fashion consultant, it’s his job to make these tough calls.

Jimi’s top three recommendations for a new suit were Burberry for its slim cuts, Brooks Brothers for its classic basicness and Armani Exchange, which is Armani for the poor.

To warm myself up for suit shopping, I’ve been tackling a more pressing clothing need by updating my semi-fancy wardrobe, that which I will wear to work and parties. My trip to Rome next month is a good excuse to update this segment of my wardrobe, most of which is now bordering on five years old. My goal today was to buy at least a pair of pants, a dress shirt and shoes, but exhaustion set in quickly and I was able only to buy a lone pair of pants.

I considered some from Armani Exchange, but Giorgio’s fascination with pinstripes mystifies me. Expense wasn’t as a large a consideration as I would have expected at most of the clothing stores I stopped by at the Time Warner Center because they were in the midst of summer sales. Although nothing grabbed my fancy at A|X, Hugo Boss or J. Crew, I ended up with a nice basic pair of black cotton trousers from United Colors of Benetton, with just a touch of synthetic fiber for stretch and fewer wrinkles. I was drawn in by the 50%-off signs in the store windows, followed by confusion over the European sizing. A saleslady said I was a 48, and the first pair I tried fit in a stylishly trim way, which I decided I need to take more advantage of before my body sags out to inevitable middle-age doughiness. I wanted gray pants, too, but the salesperson said the ones I liked were only available in black. Benetton’s other gray trousers were shiny polyester, which wouldn’t have as lasting style-strength as I’d like. Back to the drawing board.

We were allowed off work at 1:30 today on account of the Easter holiday. It was gray, cold and drizzly so I went over to Norman’s Sound & Vision for used CDs to improve the mood.

I found Phil Collins’ No Jacket Required, which I purchased mainly for one of my favorite songs of his, “Don’t Lose My Number.” (I laughed when I read All Music Guide reviewer Stewart Mason’s gripe that “it’s never satisfactorily explained who Billy is and why he shouldn’t lose Phil’s number.”) Also, for $4, I picked up the soundtrack for Wonder Boys, which features some fine Dylan songs.

I decided to walk all the way down to Soho to check out the new Ben Sherman store, which opened late last month. Moseying down Bowery, I stumbled upon the restaurant supply district, where one can purchase chairs, tables and lighting for one’s bar or restaurant, or even those cartoonish statues of chefs or pigs, which are sort of like giant lawn jockeys, that you can put outside of your establishment to attract customers and vandals. One shop had several of these figures set out on the sidewalk, shrouded from the weather in translucent plastic, so that they resembled standing corpses.

Despite being the first standalone store for the brand in the U.S., the Ben Sherman store is nothing special. It’s on Spring Street between Broadway and Mercer and decked out in the area’s standard boutique format: lots of space for just a small bit of merchandise, a skew towards women’s apparel over men’s, distressed hardwood floors, cooler-than-you staff spending most of their time talking amongst themselves, etc. I shouldn’t have been surprised that they didn’t have a sale section. I’ll have to keep combing Filene’s, Macy’s and Urban Outfitters for true deals on those shirts I like.

Ben Sherman just signed a lease for a 4,650-square-foot retail store at 96 Spring Street in SoHo, according to a press release I received today at work.

I’m happy to hear this because the clothing brand is one of my favorites. It’s the fourth-largest casual-wear label in the UK, but this will be its first ever retail store in the U.S. when it opens next Spring.

Ben Sherman is known chiefly here for its sassy, wide-collared, very often striped and slim-fitting button-down shirts favored by gentlemen such as myself. Here I am wearing one and aping for one of Andie’s trademark hold-the-candle-in-the-bar photos.

The irony is that I’ve been pining for such a store in Manhattan for some time, but have since discovered that discount retail chains here, particularly Filene’s and Century 21, stock small selections of the notoriously costly brand and price them at cut rates. Hopefully the store in SoHo will have a sale rack.

I’m gradually filing my blog entries into categories that make more sense. Right now, the organization is out of hand. I have the habit of throwing entries under the “NYC” category when I can’t think of what category the entry should actually be assigned to. I guess in the back of my head, I’m thinking, “Well, what I’m writing about happened here in New York. And I’m sitting here writing it in New York. Ergo: New York category.” Which is no good. If anything, a “NYC” categorization should be default and implicit, as I have “Brooklyn,” “Ohio” and “Ireland” categories for stuff that happens there.

One category I wanted to add was “Clothing.” But was this the precise, catch-all word I sought? My first thought was that “Fashion” would be more all-inclusive for my purposes, but let’s face it, nothing about me screams “fashion” unless I’m singing that David Bowie song. Perhaps “Apparel,” I thought. But what’s the difference between “clothing” and “apparel”?

Here’s the circuit I took in the dictionary that’s built into Microsoft Word X for Mac:

clothes npl 1. garments that cover the body

O.K., garments isn’t listed, but garment is:

gar·ment n a piece of clothing

Hmm. Let’s give clothing the old college try:

cloth·ing n 1. clothes collectively

Then, bringing it all back home:

ap·par·el n 1. clothing or garments, especially outer or decorative clothing

If I take this slithery tangle literally and factor out what I already know about clothes, I still have no idea what the hell clothes are. They could be flapjacks or lichens or good intentions, for all I know.

Anyway, for the purposes of category-naming, “Clothing” it is.

The New York Times has this item they run in every Sunday Styles section called “On The Street,” which presents a collage of photographs taken surreptitiously on the sidewalks of New York to depict a common fashion trend, like how everyone this season seems to be wearing a certain style of stripes or carrying a certain designer-label bag knockoff.

It reminded me that I’ve been noticing every fifth woman in New York this summer is wearing a long, white cotton skirt like this. (I’m not complaining, mind you.) But what’s the deal? Is this a New York-only trend? If you don’t live here, is it a prevalent look in your hometown? I’m trying to gauge if certain popular fashions really do start here and radiate slowly outward, or if this is a nationwide blitz.

For reference, last summer’s trend for ladies here seemed to be those idiot brightly colored mesh shoes made out of flyswatter grade plastic and probably about as comfortable as walking with your feet swaddled in cheesecloth. Also, wearing a skirt over jeans.

By coincidence, on Monday, Andie and I separately laid down big bucks for two fashionable purchases. After years of $5 disposables from Duane Reade, Andie bought some foxy Lacoste shades. I, meanwhile, purchased the Cicero T-shirt at Urban Outfitters that I’d had my eye on for some time. Both items were embarrassingly more expensive than we’d normally pay for mere sunglasses or T-shirts, but I think you’ll agree we’re superstylin’ in these self-portraits.

I’ve worn a quarter-sized hole into the right elbow of my favorite sweater, a black, V-neck merino wool model, made in Hong Kong and merchandised by the fresh-scrubbed WASPs at J. Crew. I think the hole probably has something to do with the fact I’ve worn it to work nearly every day this winter, which, by my account, has now lasted approximately six months. Coworkers who don’t know my name probably think or speak of me as “that guy with that sweater.”

It’s a shame I didn’t notice this defect on my own; instead, one of my coworkers loudly pointed it out this afternoon, as I was gesticulating wildly to make a point, or something. She said she’s had similar unfortunate wear patterns on sweaters of her own and theorizes it’s from resting her elbows on her desk while she types. It made sense to me at the time that that’s where my sweaterhole came from, but as I write this, I realize my elbows are magically suspended in air when I type, so I can only assume my garment has fallen prey to Repetitive Wear Syndrome.

Who knows how long I’ve been walking around in my hobo-rific attire? I’ve already checked, and the particular model of sweater has been discontinued, so I will have to seek out a new one this summer, because as you may have noticed, all clothing stores have banished their winter merchandise for swimsuits and short-sleeved shirts in colors you had hoped would never again see the light of day (I refer to you, pink). Or I can apply to my existing sweater one of those iron-on patches favored by college professors and other skinflints.

Because I’ve been walking much more since living in the city, I’ve become acutely aware of my sneakers’ mortality. My favorite pair (discounting an embarrassingly beat-up pair of Nikes) are rapidly wearing through in the heels. They’re grey-and-white Adidas Sambas, shown here in a file photo from last December. (The bags are an old trick to keep your socks dry in winter weather, but it really works best when you’re 10 and wearing moon boots.)

After a bit of research and talking with people who know better, part of the wear problem may have something to do with the fact that Sambas were never meant for pounding the NYC pavement:

When introduced in 1962, the Samba was the first football training shoe developed for frozen pitches. The Samba was used to train for the ‘62 World Cup and quickly established itself as the dominant indoor football boot. The current form was introduced in the early ‘70s. Durable full-grain leather upper with suede reinforced overlays. Three zone outsole traction. Stop-turn-grip zones guarantee secure footing at all times.

In addition, another online source I read claims the “leather upper” is actually constructed from “soft kangaroo leather” and that the outsole is “gum rubber.” Yeah! Kangaroo leather!

So I’d been halfheartedly shopping around for the past week to find some Samba-like sneakers to replace my ailing pair. I even bought a pair of Palladiums on sale at Urban Outfitters because they seemed Sambalike. They were comfortable enough in the store, but now I think they’re too tight around my heels. Plus, they’re snotty and French (with crappy Euro-hipster muzak on their web site) and they attract the wrong element—as I was paying for them, one of the clerks behind the counter berated another because she pronounced Palladium incorrectly. I don’t think I need all of that baggage in a shoe. I’m a simple man with simple shoe needs and my only requirements are comfort and a fond recollection of Mr. Rogers when I change out of them daily into the dress shoes I keep in my cubicle at work.

Then I saw a girl at the Met yesterday wearing a pair of snazzy black-and-white Sambas and it dawned on me: If I like them so such, why don’t I just buy another damn pair of Sambas? I already know my size, even.

So I ordered my own black-and-white pair today from Amazon, and on sale, for $29.99. In conclusion, and as rapped by Run-D.M.C.:

Me and my Adidas do the illest things
We like to stomp out pimps with diamond rings
We slay all suckers who perpetrate
and lay down law from state to state
We travel on gravel, dirt road or street
I wear my Adidas when I rock the beat
onstage, front page, every show I go
It’s Adidas on my feet, hightop or low
My Adidas
My Adidas

It’s a happy feeling for me to pick up my laundry, as I did today after work. Soon after my move to New York, I calculated that the time, expense and ridiculous distance involved with walking to the nearest coin-laundry, at W. 91st Street and Amsterdam, was not meant to be.

Now I merely drag a grotesquely bulgy, Santa-like sack of my dirty things over a block, throw it on the scale at the no-nonsensically named 85th Laundromat, grab my receipt and skedaddle. A day later, it’s magically clean, just like Mom would have done, if Mom happened to be a skinny, somewhat haggard-looking Asian woman who is somehow able to compress clean laundry to approximately 1/8th its actual size. You could erect an igloo-like shelter with the tightly folded cubes of clothes you get back from this place. Even more importantly, they match your socks.

And it’s always the same skinny, somewhat haggard-looking Asian woman taking the laundry and handing it back. She knows everyone’s name and at no extra charge she’ll store your detergent and rethread the drawstring of your laundry bag, should it come undone. She seems to always be there, laundering and such, and I’ve surmised that late at night, she curls up in a warm dryer to sleep so she can get back to work first thing the next morning. To prove this theory, I’ve stolen furtive glances at her from time to time to see if I can catch her with a dryer sheet or a stray sock static-clung to the back of her head, but I’ve had no such luck as of yet.

I went down to the Columbus Circle J. Crew and bought five more button-down work shirts. The weather was warm and sunny, the shirts were all on sale, and my pleasantly chatty salesgirl looked like Maggie Gyllenhaal with blonde hair. In short, life was good, so this relentlessly poppy mix, which randomly played along the way on the iPod, seemed worth preserving.

It’s got a pleasant assortment of genres and styles, yet stays musically lilting. It’s bookended by the Ramones and, in a timely fashion, closes with their bitterly poppy tribute to Reagan’s ill-advised, mid-’80s visit to Germany’s Bitburg cemetery, the site of many Nazi graves.