Thursday, July 26, 2012


The factory was full of machines and production tools. The tools and production were to create and birth new garments. After the garments had been birthed they were placed on racks and wheeled over to a graying man. The man had a sensual beard, rough hands, leathery skin, and smelled of an excess of some cologne that had been popular for a few years. The garments would be wheeled over to him and each would be laid on his table to be tested. The garments would quiver with new life, waiting for his touch.

 He first would pick up the garment and feel each seam. He would run his hands up and down each seam and the seams would rise to his hands, embracing his warmth.  If the seams were of expected quality, he would smile and the garment would melt in his emotion.

Done with the first inspection, he would move on to the next inspection for the garment. He would cup the collar firmly in both hands, thumbs towards the sky. If properly made, the collar would lean back, away from his face, but at a proper angle so that the tag was parallel to the man’s face. The collar would wait for the 3rd and final test for the shirt, so it would lay still – behaving itself so that the man would begin to fulfill the shirt’s desires of being finished.

The man would move his mouth as close to the top buttonhole as possible. He would open his mouth and stick his tongue in the buttonhole, moving it up and down against the sewing. Tonguing the buttonhole, the man would begin humming. He would move his tongue faster and faster -- up, down, and sideways in the buttonhole until the buttonhole would quiver and snap back to its original form.

With the garment climaxed, the man would rise from the table, button his shirt back up, and shout, “THIS GARMENT IS YOUNG, LITHE, AND PASSES THE TEST! NEXT GARMENT!!” 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Market Weak

hi john is out this weak and i wanted to rite a poste where i ask my blog firends there thougts on trends for next summer as market weak is almost on us

i asked greg from ‘pants and a french name for pants’ and Antonio from ‘pictures taken 30 years ago but i still have a book deal’ what they thot would be cool next summer and what pants i should buy because i need pants


i dont have enugh pants

Greg: For next summer, I like the trend of linen pants. They’re classical, trendy, and give your bum plenty of air to breathe. A rap reference that only I get.

Antonio: Timeless way to wear pants.


sam: hey guys wat do you think of shoe

Greg: I think shoes are great. For summer I’d wear espradilles because I don’t have a job. A rap reference that only I get.

Antonio: Shoes are timeless. Steve is timeless. And essential.


sam: wat do you think of shirts i think shambay and gauzy cotton are great and linen too

Greg: I don’t have a rap reference but I think chambray and linen are great choices. I have a product drop post on my blog about linen shirts. You should take a look.

Antonio: Effortless cool. Linen shirts are essential. And cool.


sam: what are the brands to wath during market weak

Greg: My money is on Mark McNairy. That guy is so swag. And Danny Brown.

Antonio: I like timeless. Market weeks are trendy. But if I had to pick, I’d pick Steven Alan. His designs are aesthetically essential and have an excess of function.

sam: wow that was relly informatife thanks for helping out guys!

Sunday, July 15, 2012


Sitting in the basement of a precon gives one the feeling of living in a house with thousands of residents that you never see. Eyes pop out the corner belonging to a girl in Ohio and a man lifts weights in the corner from Alabama and an old woman enjoys jeopardy right next to you. Of course, you only feel this because the precon is not your home and because the basement smells of cinnamon potpourri. Everyone uses cinnamon potpourri because they’re too lazy to change it after they set it out for Christmas. Precons never have time to achieve any sort of individualism so the ghosts of the masses occupy their walls. Don’t worry, they’re friendlier than the ghosts of individuals.

Alex, Kim, and Gabe sat in a basement of a precon feeling that feeling. Or, at least, Alex and Kim did, as they did not live there. Well, Kim was staying in the basement for a few days, so perhaps he felt it less. One more inclined to cliches would say that they sat on the cusp of adolescence but I suppose I’m not that different than those so inclined.

Usually, the boys did not hang out at Gabe’s house. His parents were busy running the two pizza shops they owned and did not like Gabe having more than one friend over when they were not there to supervise, as were often showing some local teenager how to spread pizza sauce properly and didn’t have time to kid their son and his friends out of trouble. Even when Gabe’s parents were there, the boys did not like to hang out at his house because his parents were so radically different than their own. Gabe’s parents were blue collar. They drove trucks and had political views that ranged from dead-ahead to starboard. Gabe’s father owned a gun. They had new things but of questionable quality. Gabe’s father wore multiple paris of white New Balance sneakers that had varied levels of wear. Gabe’s mother was a tad too leathery. Gabe’s father only had a Bachelor’s degree. Gabe’s mother had no degree. They owned little, yippy, dogs. Around the new year, they would go to the Liberty Bowl in Memphis; a decidedly un-educational trip. They had no hardwood in their house; just linoleum and carpet.

But today, both parents took off and were working in the yard. Doing parent things like spreading Preen and throwing mulch around. Alex and Kim, having respective issues with their own parents, were glad to be at Gabe’s house.

Kim was staying at Gabe’s house while his father was away. Kim’s father was a world -renown cryptozoologist who worked at the local university. Kim’s full name was Kim Qui, which had to do his father’s occupation, but recently he begun acting like he didn’t know why his parents called him Kim. Kim was German-Welsh and was becoming more embarassed by his parents as he got older. He had recently thrown out his bird skeleton collection that his father had helped him assemble a few years before. 

His father was away on a research trip with his colleauges, a couple grad students, and the very best of the biology department’s undergrad students, camping in the woods. Kim’s father would do lots of hallucinagenic drugs, listen to the entire The Eagles discography, drink whiskey from his water bottle, fornicate with the grad students, and mistake tree stumps for new, never-before-seen, megafauna hiding out in the Tennessee woods (it had occured in 3 or the past 5 trips). He would later return after this week to write a paper about his observations of the stumps mistaken as megafauna and have it published in Zoology vol. 115 or vol.134. He would receive a raise. I can’t give you specifics, it’s all vague and transitory, not unlike stories Burl Ives tells.

His mother, knowing full well what was going on, would invite the middle school football coach over for the week. They would doink like rabbits and then Randy - a proper football coach name - would walk out into the living room where Kim sat, and ask the boy if he would try out for the football team next year as he started 7th grade. The family dog, an aging yellow lab with blossoming flatulence problem, would growl and fart whenever Randy got close to Kim. Randy would give it a nasty look, then go make himself a huge bowl of Kim’s Lucky Charms - Kim’s favorite cereal, which his mother would only buy when it was on sale. The old lab would then look at Kim with a satisfied face, now that Randy had left the area, and bonk her fat tail off the floor. Randy would sit down with Kim’s cereal and try to make fart noises out of Kim’s father’s didgeridoo. 

This is why Kim decided to spend a few days in Gabe’s basement. He’d take right wing politics over Randy any day. Actually, the only reason Kim avoided Gabe’s parents was because he wanted to avoid hearing his parents complain about Gabe’s parents’ politics. Kim liked linoleum and carpet. 

Alex wasn’t there because he disliked his parents. Well, they got on his nerves sometimes. His father was a white collared attorney who specialized in divorice law. He was notorious for having epileptic attacks while at the bowling alleys (why do they have lazers at bowling alleys now?) or while ravaging the breasts of his housewife clients. 

His mother was a drunk mouse who cried a lot.

Alex was there because all the boys had been playing the same MMO game and wanted to be able to talk to one another (they were yet to discover vent) while they played people from other realms. The video game that they were so enthralled with was known as Sartorrior. 

Alex gave them directions.

“Alright, this guy coming up on up on the right is a “Streetwear class - Team Japan” so you gotta just kite him with your Italian wear character until he runs out of steam and then drop him with all your SoTs.”
“Swag over Time - do you even read the game forums?”
“I mean, a little.”

The boys played in the Team America realm and were PvPing other realms. Team Japan and Team Italy were the big ones to watch out for in this current game.

“Kim, hold still, I’m trying to buff your stats.”
“Whatever man, it’s not like +5 versatility really makes that huge of difference.”
“But, like, it’s still gonna’ give us an ed-”
“Team Italy is coming in hard guys. You guys just PPS and I’ll keep your action points supplied.”
“Ok, I got this - ‘PointsPerSecond’”
“No, dummy, PosesPerSecond”
“WATCH THE LANGUAGE” Gabe’s mother yelled from upstairs.

“Well, I’m dead.”
“I’m restarting my computer”
“I don’t know if I want to play anymore,” Alex looked up from his computer, “Kelsey and Em just texted me and asked if we wanted to hang out.”
Gabe wrinkled his nose, girls were still a little foreign. 
“I mean, it’s better than this game.”
“Yea, let’s do that. Sartorrior sucks. Why are we on teams? Why can’t we just level and try and beat a final boss? Wouldn’t that be a better end game than this?”

They left the confines of the basement to the smell of Gabe’s mom cooking brownies. The girls would have to wait, but not that long.

Friday, July 13, 2012

GTBT Turns 3

A Guide to Bad Taste turns 3 years old today. I started this site when I was 18 years old. Since it’s GTBT’s bday, I thought I’d give shout outs to myself:

-       I have never run an ad.
-       I am one of the longest running menswear opinion blogs out there. Everyone else has real jobs or got bored.
-       I’m mildly consistent, meaning I post occasionally.

While I may think I’m great, I owe a ton to everyone who stops by or has me on their rss feed. You guys show up in force when I post (look at some of dem stats) and I always appreciate you reading something of mine. Even more commendable is that none of you know me. I have never met a reader of GTBT (except for some family members who found this; shout outs for keeping the jokes to a dull roar). The fact that you guys stop by despite not knowing me is awesome. You guys are the reason I post a couple times a month.

So, I have a big announcement that you may not like to hear.

I’m going to stop writing GTBT.

Just kidding. That would be lame.

I have too much fun writing this stuff. I should have a new post up next week.

See you then.

Monday, July 2, 2012



Have to give it up to Conor on this one. These look pretty dope. I, however, don't take pictures. If you do, consider this as the grail alternative to the leather strap. I don't have a hands on review (I don't do those, duh) but Conor put the straps through some Sam Franklin-esque tests (running a half mile with a camera attached).

Conor isn't some kid who read too much Marx, became an idealist, and asked some relatives to set up his new business so he could live off his handiwork. He's just a guy who is participating in the community with his spare time (he's got a family and a job, so he doesn't have much, but he certainly makes good use of it). Give him a hand.

I'm not sure about the cordies that he makes. I think it's a southern thing.