guest blogger: sam franklin

hi im sam franklin and ill be blogging for john because hes really busy with work right now and cant do this for a bit and he wanted to make sure that you guys had some stuff to read so im here to write for you

in keeping with his style I thought id write you guys a story I made up

frankie was sitting in the coffee shop drankin espressos being really cool in his based lobbs (lolololololololololloloollklloolokolol) and isaia and just being like really cool and then michael bastin walked in and everybody was like ‘who is this guys he doesnt look like anyone that I no’ but frankie was like ‘holy poop its bastin’ as he tried to contain his excitement he hoped that bastin wouldnt notice him cause he was totally not jawnzed out or anything because like he coulda done so much better and bastinninny went and got a coffee from the girl serving coffee who was a total skank and frankie hated her guts bastin should totally talk to him instead of that whore cause he had lots of interesting ideas and she just knew how to make coffee she probably didnt even know that you need yogurt to make a smoothie she just splooged the whipped cream on top when bastin got his coffee he turned around and saw frankie and he walked over and frankie was like holy shit hes walking over to me and bastin was like ‘hey you got great style you should totally work for me’ and frankie was like omg no way I have a ton of good ideas that no one nos about and bastin was like we should go to my studio to discuss them so no one else hears them we dont want urban outfitters finding out about them and copying them so they went back to the studio and frankie showed him all of his ideas one was like a blazer made out of goretex so that you could be jawnzed in the rain in stuff and there was a bunch of other cooll stuff that I cant think of right now like some shoes that are cool and it was really awesome and then I was going to write in a problem that frankie and bastin would have to solve oh wait there was a guy from uo that they killed but and then they rolled him in a carpet and drove out to the docks and threw him out but I couldnt think of a good one so I think id be better at just writing product reviews because I just know my stuff better than other people and I have a really nice point and shoot that might be as good as like dlsr but probably not but then franklin and bastin released their collection called ‘frankie and bastin’ and it was really awesome and everyone wrote product reviews about it and then bastin and frankie were like the best friends for every and they shared bracelets that said bffs so everyone knew and everyone though frankie was really cool omg bastin is hawt <3<3<3<3 harry potter

8.15

Occasionally, mostly from me, I think there tends to be a worry about market oversaturation. This is really just a post to convince myself of something. I would like to think that market oversaturation isn’t very desirable. Oversaturation tends to matriculate down to cheaper brands, which just copy off of the brands that were originally producing for that style. Enter August 15th. There’s nothing new here. Neither is the price point. How does this brand attract consumers? Beats me, I wasn’t able to turn up much besides that they’re carried by Unionmade. I would like to imagine these people to be a bunch of assholes who are looking to make a quick buck off the heritage revival by selling them the same stuff they’ve been sold for the past 3 years and some crappy flash website. That’s probably not the case. They're probably a bunch of people who love quality clothes. I tend to be a cynic, in case you haven’t noticed.









Why should we embrace new brands since we’ve already found brands that make quality clothes? Because the new brands keep the older brands honest. They encourage the quality of garments to be held to the highest standard and the price point to be more competitive. If it turns out that 8.15 makes a better $200 chambray than the next brand, then the people buying a shirt that expensive will prefer the 8.15 shirt. If another brand makes a shirt of the same quality as 8.15 for a lower price point, then people will buy that other brand’s shirt. There's nothing new here. Oversaturation is better for you and me than undersaturation. Some brands will fall under the steam roller of capitalism, but hey, workwear loves America and industry. You don't make things that people don't want and become successful here. Don’t cry over a business risk that didn’t pan out. Banks still seem to be willing to front just about anything. Maybe you should start a wooden swan business? That seems due for a revival. My grandmother gave my family one but I haven’t seen too many floating around these days.

Joints

The two police officers sat in their unmarked Crown Victoria and drank their over-sugarized coffees that they had gotten from the station 20 minutes ago. They meant business. Which is funny because meaning business is completely different from doing business. They both wore Starter jackets. The one sitting in the driver’s seat, Frank Thomson, was decked out in his Raiders jacket. The one sitting in the passenger’s seat, Bobby Thompson, was wearing a Spurs jacket. They were the type of cops who scared the crap of neighborhood kids who ran through stop signs with their bicycles. Any one who committed more serious crimes would ask, “who?” when you mentioned their names. They were staked out because Thomson had heard about someone selling ‘joints’ in the apartment complex they were parked outside of. The car smelled of BK Stackers and cigarettes. Those were just the main smells. There was some old coffee with dust mixed in there. It choked both of them and perhaps was making them more delusional than they usually were. These two were to the type to get excited about going to the shooting range and getting to go out in a squad car. Though in all fairness, car rides are a lot of fun. “Man, it has been awhile. Are you sure this guy lives here?” Thompson asks as he turns to Thomson. Thomson looks at Thompson, frowns, turns back to the complex, and replies, “Yes. The tipoff definitely said it was here. This is where he said he got his ‘joints’ from.” Thomson pauses for a second for dramatic effect and to think about the reception they’d get for cleaning up the streets. The applause would be enough for him. Both of them might get a medal. He scratched his chin and started again, “And this is where we make our name.” There was a long pause. “Are ‘joints’ weed?” asked Thompson.

He was walking back from the coffee shop where he had parked his macbook toting buttocks for the afternoon. The girl he had been talking to was a cutie. A cutie with a booty. She also happened to be an amateur philosopher. Or so he thought. That was the impression she appeared to be trying to give him. He liked her. She inflated his ego, complimented him on his clean fingernails, and she liked the same kind of smoothies as he did. She had said something to him today that he had really liked. It was something along the lines of, “y’know what’s sad? The fact that no one, not in the entire world, will have the same experiences, thoughts, feelings, and consciousness that you do. You will be completely alone in your thoughts and your mental film of your life.” After she had finished she bit her bottom lip nervously like she saw the movie stars do. He liked the idea. No one would ever be him. He was the most unique person he knew and he was glad to keep it that way. He often tried to show off his uniqueness by never mentioning family or his history to others that he met. He thought it made him seem like he had always been like he currently was; forever 25, selling dirt cheap used sportcoats for a profit. To others it would seem as though he was some minor immortal, as if he had been born of the city, and he was doing what he loved for longer than others due to that immortality that he oozed. He was still grinning as he entered his apartment to pick up the ‘joints’ that he kept in his duffle bag. He had found a bunch of Italian sportcoats at his secret thrift store and he was reselling them for a profit. He picked up the duffle bag and began to walk it out to his car.

“There he goes,” Thomson almost jumps through the roof of his car as he sees the sportcoated man exit his apartment. “Are you sure that we can do this?” asks Thompson starting to get a little scared. It was too late though. Thomson had already grabbed his bat and was stalking over. Thompson scrambled out of the car after him.

Two goofy looking guys approached him as he threw his duffle into his trunk. They looked silly, carrying bats and wearing Starter jackets. He almost laughed. Though with the first swing, he had no breath to laugh with. They knocked him down and almost put him out but he hung onto consciousness as he worried if these guys would steal his car. The taller one stood over him with a bat as the shorter rummaged through his duffle. “Thomson,” the rummager whined, “there aren’t any ‘joints’ in here! These are all just sportcoats!” The taller one turned and ripped though the contents of the bag. “No weed?! But he said his duffle was always full of joints! Fuck! We’re gonna’ have to make ourselves scarce!” The taller one wheeled about in rage. The shorter one looked as though he was about to cry, “I don’t think that this was lega-

When he came to, his forehead was bleeding. Evening had started yet no one had bothered to find out was wrong with the man. Not their problem. He pulled himself up onto the curb and held his head. His lip was dripping blood onto his Brioni and onto the pavement. He wished someone would help him. Maybe that philosophy girl would take pity on him if he showed up to her apartment. He would tell her all about what had happened, she would understand exactly what had gone down and believe him, feel his pain, and share in his confusion in why he had been brutally beaten down. He wished his mother were there. She made really good cookies.

Esquire

I got featured on Esquire.com. That doesn't happen everyday. Thanks guys.

SERIOUSLY GUYS. THEY'RE FOR GIRLS.

The style blogger skipped down the street confidently in his St. James boat neck. He was super proud of it ‘cause of the picture he had saved of James Dean wearing the same thing. The sun peeked from behind a cloud and rushed down, to slob over the blogger’s neck, intent on leaving a June hickey. The blogger embraced the sun’s warmth and picked up his step even faster. He was, to quote, ‘walking on sunshine’. A man with in French-esque garb on a silly motor scooter drove by and shouted, “Vous sale garce, me donner un baiser mouillé!” Confused, the blogger skipped on. Feeling a smoke, he pulled up on a porch outside an apartment, yanked a cigarette to his mouth. A woman opened a window on the second story, looked down, and yelled at the blogger, “Ne restez pas sur mon porche, femme pirate!” Shocked, the blogger walked off the porch and almost collided with a man riding a bicycle with a basket on the front, which happened to be full of baguettes. The man swerved to the right, as the blogger spun in a circle, similar to the Saturday morning cartoons. The cyclist had a thin mustache and wore a beret. “Hors de mon chemin, la femme de la rue!” He shouted at the blogger.
Which was odd, this was Boston. Why was everyone speaking what sounded like French? Questions swirled in the blogger’s mind, taking him away from his self-absorbed confidence. He moved along, oblivious to everything else, absorbed in his confusion. His mulling was broken when the sidewalk opened up to reveal a gaping mouth, which looked to be a hole to China, for all he knew. And the mouth moved it’s concrete lips, with a low Snuffleupagus whine, he spoke to the blogger, “Oh mon dieu, quelle fille chaude! Je pourrais vous manger pour le dîner!!”

Which the sidewalk did, as he grabbed the blogger by the foot, and swallowed him whole.

Photo hoodwinked from The Armoury.

As Pitti images flood your dash, I offer a bit of advice. It’s been awhile since I’ve openly doled out what and what not to do. I try not to be too preachy, though my Mother’s conservative Methodist roots occasionally get the best of me. You’ll be full with images to satiate you for the summer, appeasing your mouse-clicking appetite and hopefully inspire you to attempt to channel a little of the same flair that those specific men have (I’m not particularly fond of Italian dress, but I understand that everyone else is. I figure I should make an attempt to stay on topic). However, I think that there are certain ways that you should look at these images; as rapidly glancing, taking quick notes, and then moving on may have worked on field trips, but it doesn’t work as well now. As sites offer up their images for you to peruse, I suggest that you pick the few that you really like. Sure, why not reblog it? Then, save those images to your computer so you don’t lose them. Maybe you put one as your background when no one is around. You set one in a box to the side as you work on homework, or do other things on the Internet (centipede?). Allow those images to age with you, as long as you think they remain valuable to your observation. Try to pick out new things that you never noticed before. Try to be able to put into words what you like and don’t like about the photo. Whether it’s the colors, texture, pattern clashing, quality of the leather goods, or whatever else you think makes you enjoy the photo. Now that you’ve discovered what you like and don’t like about the photo, determine if you aspire to dress in said manner. If yes, then determine what you think would and wouldn’t work for you. How would one go about adding the flairs in the photo to your personal style? If you can’t answer this, there are the “experts”.

This ended up being an unorganized mess. The main point that you should take away from this is that by spending more than 30 seconds with each photo, you will be able to better execute your own personal style. You won’t be off chasing clouds thinking that by purchasing, you will be able to be “steezy”. By spending time with the photos you will have a greater understanding of your own style and how to make your style progressive. Learning the tricks of any trade takes time. You’ll be able to incorporate them into the way you dress without spending a cent. Granted you have the basics, of course. I enjoy stagnation as much as the next trad but time leaves all things behind.

Dinner

Sitting awkwardly at the dinner table, eating – coincidentally – dinner, the family of three attempted to break the thick bramble of their days that kept them apart. Junior had been on a date earlier that day. So for the moment, that was the topic of interest. Dad ate slowly with intention and did not pick at his food like Mom. Mom picked at her food because she was watching her figure. Why she did, Junior did not know. Dad could care less. Maybe it was to show off to her overweight friends that she retains some of that high school energy. Junior was the only child at that moment. Older Sister was off in some mystical place, probably dropping acid with her free love boyfriend. Or was it girlfriend? Junior did not know or care. “So, where did you take her?” Mom started.
“Well, everyone likes sandwiches, so I took her to Sicily’s and we got paninis,” replied Junior.
“Did you remember to pay?”
“Mom, I did everything you told me.”
“Well, that’s good. You’ll have to bring her home sometime so that we can meet her. I’d like to meet her, wouldn’t you dear?” Mom glanced at Dad. Dad snarfed on his food and shrugged, probably in approval. Work really took its toll on Dad. It made Junior sick that his dad would be paying for college, but he supposed that was how it worked these days. His Dad made good money, but Junior was never sure of their fiscal situation. Why was Dad working so hard, was it because their financial situation wasn’t as good as Junior previously thought? Was it because Dad didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t working? That might be it but Junior couldn’t be sure. “What was she wearing?” Mom always asked banal awkward questions.
“Uhhh, a white dress.” Junior balked. It was actually jhorts and a button down but for some reason he lied. It was something that Junior sometimes couldn't help.
“Oh, well, that’s nice, isn’t it dear?” Mom turned to Dad. Dad nodded approval while munching on some meatloaf.
“Well, then Junior, what did you wear?” Mom turned back to Junior.
“Well,” now this was something that Junior could go on for forever. He had painstakingly planned out everything. Going to the internet to ask questions, putting himself out there, making himself to seem vulnerable, to see if any one could solve his conundrum. He scoured pictures on tumblr and read the past six months of GQ. He laid everything out the night before and changed everything before he went out. Junior just couldn't get it right. He wasn't sure he could replicate the 'cool' that he saw on the Internet. “I wore a dip-dye t-shirt, Incotex trousers, and hiking boots.”
“Now why did you wear that?” Mom smiled, confused as to why those things seemed to appropriate to Junior.
“Well, there’s these guys on the Internet who answer questions, and I well… asked them what I should wear.” Junior replied. Dad snorted and mumbled something through his food and under his breath. Junior shot Dad a glare reflexively, but then remember that you really can’t glare at Dad. Dad really didn’t give a crap about getting glared at.
“I asked a bunch of different guys and they all gave me different answers, so I just mixed all of them.”
“Oh, well I guess that makes a little more sense.” Mom replied, still mostly confused and muddled. Dad looked up and shrugged his shoulders. Dad thought about stepping in and correcting Junior’s mistakes, but then thought better of it. Junior would learn in due time.
They sat in quiet and each thought to themselves. Dad thought about the Age of Empires game that he would be playing later that night and reading the full RSS feed that he hid from his wife and kid. Mom thought about the possibility of dessert. Junior thought about what he would do differently next time he saw her. Probably not mix all the advice of the style bloggers. That may have been a bad call. But he’d probably still follow their advice when they told him what to wear. They were, after all, experts.