Musings: The Whining Stranger on Men's Fashion and Seminal Sartorial Influences

Hello all, if there is indeed any kind of all left out there after my endless absence. The last time I checked statcounter.com to see if the Whining Stranger had retained any kind of readership, I was not surprised to see that this has become a virtually readerless space on the web. Up on blocks, as it were. Nevertheless, I'm back, maybe mostly for myself, to return to semi-regular musings and minutiae, now that the summer is here and my work schedule has lightened again for a while.

Today's topic: a fluff piece, I'm afraid. No philosophy or politics or literary exegesis this time around, but rather a brief meditation on men's clothing. I've been thinking about my arrival as a self-assured wearer of clothes. I have specific tastes. I am not moved so much by passing trends. (Thank Allah for that, too, as I couldn't stomach another go-around with acid wash if it ever comes back into vogue.)

So today I present for your amusement, as a subset of my ongoing Pantheon of Heroes, a list of the seminal influences on my fashion sense.

1. Spike Lee



I love Spike for daring to make it acceptable for grown men to be seen in public wearing baseball-related apparel. My Alan Trammell jersey and my 1918 model Detroit Tigers cap thank you.

2. Marcello Mastroianni

Marcello, as faithful readers know, is my model for sunglasses-shopping. The dark, chunky shades he sports throughout Otto e mezzo have influenced my purchases for over fifteen years now.

3. Bill Evans

For the spectacles, and the clean-cut timeless look. I wear horn-rimmed glasses very similar to those pictured here on days when I go bespectacled.

4. Steve Dallas

While this Bloom County character was never anything worth celebrating in terms of his personality, I was always charmed by the aloof way he held his martini glass, and the length of his ties (always extending below the belt buckle), and the way his Oxford shirts are always worn with sleeves rolled up. The first thing I do when I get to the office every morning is roll my sleeves up, the same way.

5. George Plimpton

The preppingest preppy if ever there was, dear George informed my love for corduroy and repp ties and Oxford shirts. I recall seeing a photo of George in Sports Illustrated when I was in high school, in a story about his attending both a Yankees and a Mets game on the same day. The photo showed George on his bicycle, riding to the subway station. He was wearing corduroy pants, and a wool crewneck sweater, and a tweed jacket. It was autumn in New York. I was transfixed.

And a few sartorial rules, by which I abide:

1. Men will never look good in cowboy boots.

2. Ditto tank tops.

3. Button-down collars were meant to be buttoned down.

4. The color of your belt should match that of your shoes if both are leather. (Grosgrain proves to be an exception.)

5. Loops and oversized pockets only look good on jeans if you're a carpenter and need to carry tools on the job.

6. White athletic socks were made for wearing during athletic activities.

Musings: Five Great Beards for the Ages

As I take another break, mid-afternoon, here on campus, and run my fingers through two-weeks of new beard growth, I find myself contemplating the great hirsute icons who've inspired me to put the razor away again.

So, Casey Kasem-style, in reverse order, here they are:

5. Croatian tennis great Goran Ivanisevic



Goran tried to revive the Bjorn Borg look in the 1990s, long after the Ice Man had retired from the game.

4. Soul music legend Marvin Gaye



If I had to choose which vision of Marvin to put on a stamp, I'd pick this one. "Let's Get It On"-era Marvin. Never has somebody who embodied virility so thoroughly been able to hit notes so high.

3. All-Star outfielder Johnny Damon (pre-Bronx makeover)



When Johnny Damon first arrived in Spring Training for the Boston Red Sox with full beard and long hair flying out of his cap, I thought baseball had finally again discovered a quirky superstar in the best Mark Fidrych vein. Then Johnny got famous and got interviewed and I realized he's, sadly, a lout. Then he joined the Yankees and went clean-cut. Still, look at that beard. It was a good run for a while.

2. Tintin's seafaring buddy Captain Haddock




Slubberdegullions! That's some kickass facial hair.

1. Inventer of modern fiction Ernest Hemingway



You know this was coming. Pretend to be surprised.

The Whining Stranger's Pantheon of Great Heroes and Key Influences: Part 5: Marcello Mastroianni (1924-1996)

He makes the pantheon for his performance as Guido Anselmi in Fellini's 8 1/2 alone. When Mastroianni turns to the camera, wearing chunky dark shades at the spa, in the film's opening section, I coo, I melt. My man crush speeds like a runaway train. He's suave, with his baritone voice. He's dashing with his slicked back hair. But Mastroianni also offers a moving vision of vulnerable narcissism. (Spare me the invincibility of your Steve McQueens, this cat hurts.) His character is self-obsessed but recognizes that self-obsession as a potentially loathesome quality. He loves those close to him but inevitably disappoints them for not being able to slip the bonds of his own gigantic ego.

And those sunglasses! I always buy chunky shades--always!--in tribute to him.

The Whining Stranger's Big List of Ultimate Fetish Objects and Talismans: Part 3

The Lacoste polo shirt.

The original iconic polo shirt, made famous by Rene Lacoste oh-so-long-ago. The shirt with the whimsical gator on chest. More cheeky that Ralph Lauren's ponies; almost as absurd as Munsingwear's penguin (which is a close second for my favorite kind of polo shirt). I love these. I love how they embody vintage preppydom--that is, I'll keep wearing mine even when their current vogue subsides--and country club pizazz. I grew up, of course, in a poor neighborhood, and merely passing for a Todd or a Biff. But from a distance, who can tell?

Musings: In the beginning...

[Note: These first two posts originally appeared on another free blog site, over the past week. After publishing them, though, I decided that this provider has better features, more browsers, good karma, etc. and republished them here.]



Chapter 1, Saturday, in which our hero emerges...
And so it begins. The luddite of the pen and the Blueline notebook emerges, digitized, into the landscape of the blog. It makes sense, perhaps. Living as he does in [unnamed dusty landscape college town, somewhere east of Shanghai but west of Peoria], he who walks the bad-driver-lined streets, always ready to emit a cri du coeur over glaring intolerance, anti-intellectualism, reckless disregard for the environment, bullyish religious fundamentalism, and just plain ol' bad taste--

Here is his forum.
Sign in, stranger.
Get ready to whine.

Chapter 2, in which our hero contemplates beard growth and bad drivers...

I have not shaved in, I think, eight days. [Ed. That is, yesterday, 15 May, it was eight days...] Oh, the slow life of a beard. It begins with such hopefulness, that first day or two of not shaving. Those first long sessions of follicle-gazing in the mirror. That feeling that within days I will look like, at worst, Freud, or at best, George Clooney in Syriana. But then the pace slows. You're just a guy looking in-between, all scratchy face, and uncertain grooming. But I persist for now. I'll keep you posted. Maybe I tough it out and end up looking charmingly bushy, or I change course and bust out the razor.

Today, driving in [college town, parts unknown] I was floored when a driver waved me in as I was trying to pull out of a parking lot. Sorry, generous drivers of this mid-sized burgh, but I am so used to being cut-off, or having a middle-digit waved in my face, that I was momentarily incredulous. God bless you, non-bad driver.

By the way, if any future commenters--look how blog-vain I am already--can identify where the title of this blog comes from without Googling, you have earned my limited but heartfelt esteem.

And though this blog purports to be a literate record, I will admit that I am hooked on Gray's Anatomy. Last night's [Ed. i.e. Sunday's] (melo)dramatic cliffhanger made me bounce off the couch. How could they have [non-spoiler! non-spoiler!]? He is my favorite character, after all. Bummer. Quelle bummer.

This entry is mediocre. I'll try harder to be more philosophical next time.

Books on the Nightstand:
Omeros by Derek Walcott [A reread for me. Breathtaking poetry. I met him once. He was delightfully curt.]

The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason [Oh, what earth-shattering secrets wait to be discovered in the musty confines of American university libraries!]

Currently Listening To:
Morph the Cat by Donald Fagen [Fagen is the only hope for American pop music. He rocked my world in Vegas in March. I have listened to this disc nearly every day since its release.]

The Birth Of Soul : The Complete Atlantic Rhythm & Blues Recordings, 1952-1959 [Disc 2] by Ray Charles. [I am not so dolorous when listening to Brother Ray. The way his voice cracks on "What Would I Do?" is sublime.]

Three Feet High and Rising by De La Soul [Classic hip-hop. Had this one in the car yesterday. Reminded me of when I had a clue about what was going on in popular music. "Three is the magic number," kids.]

Recently Watched:
Metropolitan (dir. Whit Stillman, 1990) [I love blue oxford shirts and grosgrain belts and pretentious conversation. I read The Official Preppy Handbook and was able to suspend my irony at times. Sue me.]

The Squid and the Whale (dir. Noah Baumbach, 2005) [This one had Whining Stranger written all over it: set in the 80s, family drama, corduroy blazers, writers, retro sneakers, and one mofo of a beard. Why did it have to end?]

The King of Comedy (dir. Martin Scorsese, 1983) [Loved revisiting this one. Rupert Pupkin, baby. "Better to be king for a night then a schmuck for a lifetime." Amen, Rupert. Amen.]