Images via Present
I fuck heavily with this Anglo Shirt from Bruta, because something something missing the forest for the trees. I don’t know. It’s tough to explain why one fucks heavily with anything. Accounting for taste is a difficult task, which is why I prefer to go on insane tangents about irrelevant nonsense, instead of staying on topic and engaging with the items about which I’m ostensibly writing. Right now, for example, I’m itching to bring up my pitch for a Million Dollar Matchmaker / Bad Girls Club crossover, where Patti Stanger plays Cupid to a group of proudly maladjusted young women, but I’m not going to do that, because I am fully focused on this shirt. Laser fucking focused. My thoughts are consumed by this shirt. Consumed like a simile I’m not going to make, because I’m so focused. Past, present, future: shirt. SHIRT. It’s green. It looks like the woods. It’s made from a viscose cotton blend. What’s viscose, you ask? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is shirt. Shirt matters. Please note that I’m allowed to make puns, as long as they are entirely shirt-centric. The puns won’t be funny, but they will be on topic. Despite the fact that it’s tearing me apart on the inside, I’m not going to randomly bring up my newfound love of watching professional bowling. What does bowling have to do with the Anglo Shirt? Nothing. So there shall be no bowling in this post. Just shirt. There is only shirt. Look deep into your heart. What’s in there? Shirt. Shirt is there. Shirt saves. If only I could go back to college and major in shirt. I would tell you what that might look like -- maybe toss out some silly names for courses, like “History of Sleeves: 1600-1950” or “The Gendered Button: Shirt Closures and Sexual Hegemony” -- but that wouldn’t fit with the telescopic lens focus of this post, so you’ll have to live without. You know what you don’t have to live without? That’s right. Shirt -RB
Images via Need Supply
This is going to sound Brooklyn as fuck, but I’m really lusting after these Helen Levi Beach Carafes (available in white/black and blue). So Brooklyn, it’s Queens. That doesn’t make any sense, but it’s also true. These bitchin’ stone pitchers cost 150 USD a pop and they look super dope and, yes, now I’m using bitchin’ unironically, as is my right as an American *bald eagle noise*. Speaking of being American *bald eagle noise*, I became a homeowner this week, so get ready for more posts about wildly expensive housewares that I can’t even close to afford. Maybe I’ll toss in a few about fancy paints and appliances and sandpaper or whatever. I always imagine how cool it would be to have a home filled with fancy ass, elegantly crafted objets, but then I inevitably remember that life is characterized by compromise and that IKEA exists *common blackbird noise*. You know what will make that joke funnier? If I explain it: the common blackbird is the national bird of Sweden. Now you know. At IKEA, I can cop an Arkelstorp and a dozen cinnamon buns at the same time. Can fancy ass objets do that? I don’t think so. That doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it’s also true. Now I’m all fired up to go to IKEA for real. I want to go and just look around, but we all know that there’s no such thing as just looking around at IKEA. Every IKEA store is an elaborate maze, designed to coax, cajole, or otherwise convince you to fill your vehicle to bursting with end tables, drawer organizers, and a plenitude of superfluous meatballs. Looping back around, let me send a specific shout out to carafes and a broader shout out to decanting in general. I hate storing things in their original containers. I keep all my blood under my bed, in a bunch of secondhand Weck jars -RB
Quote via a very crazy man
Yesterday was my birthday. I appreciate all the sweet wishes. I'm 28 now. Yay! Okay, I just watched the Kanye rant from Ellen and I have a few thoughts in no particular order. My dude is so weird and crazy, you almost have to admire it. Almost. While I enjoy some of Ye's music, the whole global savior complex thing is a little hard to swallow. Also, I just got a red light ticket and I'm considering asking Mark Zuckerberg to pay for it. But the thing I found myself noticing most during Kanye's bewildering tirade about helping the world is his body language. It's extremely uncomfortable, like there-are-ants-crawling-in-my-blood uncomfortable, and that's something I identify with. I'm wildly uncomfortable all the time and I'm not rich, famous, or successful. Kanye has sold millions of albums. I still have copies of my college mixtape in the closet of my current apartment. And no one ever invites me on their talk shows. What the fuck, Fallon? BTW, everyone is going to use "sorry for the realness" and "BALLS, BALLS, BALLS" as their taglines, but I'm feeling the above quote much more. Thinking only gets you into trouble -RB
I'm currently recovering from a long weekend of live music, nursing a wicked sonic hangover courtesy of FYF Fest. It all kicked off on Friday with an FYF Sideshow headlined by NAILS. Then it was off to FYF, where I saw everything, fam. And by 'everything', I mean a bunch of things, most of them quite good. I saw Run The Jewels, who delivered pure, uncut enjoyment every second of their performance (and surprise appearances by Zack de la Rocha, Travis Barker, and Gangsta Boo. I saw hipster kings Andrew Jackson Jihad and sang along with Joyce Manor. I saw ass cleavage and sunburns. I saw Will Swan and Jon Mess from Dance Gavin Dance in the audience at Title Fight. I saw Kanye do an excellent Kanye imitation and was entertained as fuck. Rihanna was also there. I saw a ton of weed-smoking. I saw and was jostled by moshing. But most importantly, I saw Death Grips.
It's my third anniversary, which sucks for my wife, because she's married to the most miserable man in the world. I submitted another screenplay to The Black List and got my first of two evaluations yesterday. Although the tone was largely positive, the score was decidedly mediocre and was more than enough to send me into my current psychological tailspin.
A NY Post theater critic, Elisabeth Vincentelli, has a corner of the internet in a tizzy over her editorial "For the love of God, stop dressing like crap", in which she takes aim at our society's collective lack of sartorial decorum and pines for the days of dress codes. Now, having attended a public magnet high school with a jacket-and-tie dress code for boys, I can say with some certainty that dress codes do not and cannot stop bad dressers from dressing badly. They do, however, at least establish a standard somewhere north of jeggings. But I'm not going to wade into that fray; instead, I'd like to discuss how much the comments (and opposing editorials) miss the point entirely.
By the way, this Camoshita joint is what I'd wear to the theater, were I the kind of person who drops a rack on show tickets and another rack on a double breasted jacket to rock at said show:
My Facebook News Feed is atwitter (get it?) with engagements and weddings -- congrats, everybody! -- and that means formalwear. Now, unless you have frequent red carpet obligations, owning a tux is probably an unnecessary extravagance; not to mention that there are so many tux variations, you can't possibly buy a single silver bullet tuxedo to cover all formal events. As such, if you have to wear a tux, you're probably going to rent and that's okay. But there is one element that you should never rent: shoes. And that, my friends, is why you need to know about Jack Erwin.
Hooray, gay! Today, the Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is a right guaranteed by the Constitution. Good times, America. I won't wax poetic, as I'm sure plenty of #influencers are dropping generation-defining quotes about this landmark case on your Twitter feed right now. I will point out that Scalia's dissent is a bunch of butthurt bullshit, so exquisitely lacking in self-awareness that it must have required balls of mammoth proportions. As such, I must recommend that he pick up these Rick Owens drop-crotch trousers, in order to accommodate his elephantine testicles:
In the words of the acclaimed poet, Drake, "I'm about to say a true thing": Everyone should learn to make an Old-Fashioned and keep the requisite ingredients close at hand. Old-Fashioneds have seen a resurgence as of late and why not? The warmth of the whiskey, the depth of the bitters: these are the simple pleasures of the Old-Fashioned. As its name indicates, it is a classic cocktail -- THE classic cocktail, some would argue -- and it carries with it associations of a classier, more refined bygone era. If you want some of those associations to rub off on you, make sure this drink is in your repertoire.
I have an addiction: I love any television show in which an expert (often British) turns up at a struggling business to yell at the owners until they are emotionally exhausted and mentally malleable. I gravitate toward the Kitchen Nightmares and Bar Rescue side of the spectrum, probably because I have a soft spot for loud condescension.
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