Usually we leave the hardcore fashion posts to our tum-bro GQ Fashion, but this one was just too damn important. Because if you haven’t noticed, we’re big fans of the tie bar here at GQ. And while we’ve been thrilled to see an uptick in real guys wearing them on the street, we’ve gotta say, some of you just aren’t doing it right. So we asked GQcreative director Jim Moore to break down exactly how it’s done. The most crucial part: position. Says Jim: “The rule is simple: It goes between the third and fourth buttons of your dress shirt.” Need more help? Click here.
OK, not quite all of it. But the funniest parts! And yes, it’s also really teensy in this image. Click the map (or here) to see it at a size visible to human eyeballs. And click here to read the rest of GQ’s annual comedy issue.
If you live here, you know how amazingly, eerily perfect this is. I said about 90 percent of these things on my way to work this morning. And bonus points for the faked enthusiasm for a gift of crappy Magnolia Bakery’s crappy cupcakes.
The latest subject in our “Talking With Our Mouths Full” series at GQ.com. We’ve all seen the white bearded hard-ass, dressed like a million bucks on our favorite blogs and web sites. But few know that Nick Wooster’s really just a humble, slightly shy guy from middle of nowhere Kansas, who happens to have a gift for looking good. Gilt Man’s Fashion Adviser ordered the chicken Caesar salad (e-commerce demands a strict diet) and let us in on the man behind the ‘stache. Click here for the full Q+A.
GQ: Is there a particular picture of you that you look back at and regret? Nick Wooster: Last winter in February, there was a day that I wore this black bowler hat. The bowler doesn’t fit me but it was a gift and I loved the idea of a hat. But I looked like a grandmother, like a grandmother with a beard. It was not a good look. But I will continue to make sartorial mistakes, that’s part of the job.
GQ: Stores like Uniqlo and H&M have been killing it sales-wise. But you’ve typically worked for companies that specialize in very upscale, expensive clothing. It that frustrating at all? Nick Wooster: No. To me it’s amazing. There’s so much great stuff at every price. But the problem is that so many people spend so much money unnecessarily because they’re insecure about things. They feel that if they spend thousands of dollars on something they’re somehow going to be better dressed. When the reality is, you don’t have to spend billions of dollars on things in order to be well-dressed. It has to come from inside.
GQ: What’s one non-fashion-related thing that you’re good at? Nick Wooster: Smoking.
1. “Fuck you” (sincere version). Obviously, saying it in jest is just dandy. I did it six times just now.
2. “You’re not my mother.” I’ve said this to my wife a couple of times, and her reaction has always been unfavorable.
3. “Huh?” Oh, so you weren’t listening to anything she said.
4. “I mean, we saw your parents just last month, didn’t we?” You hate her parents. You just announced it.
5. “Come here. Let me give you a hug” (when she’s pissed). Angry women hate being smothered with affection. It’s like shooting a bear with a BB gun and then trying to cuddle it. Not that your wife is a bear.
Here at GQ HQ, the fashion team runs circles around us and your bewildered Tumblrers just try to keep up. We’re taking these tips to heart, one at a time. This week, for whatever reason, we’re working on #9: Step Up Your Sock Game Too. So if you see us sporting some neon fuschia faux-pas, cut us some slack. We’re experimenting! See photo above for a done-correctly example. And click here for all ten instructions on how to do office attire right this fall.
When the street-style trend went nuclear, all the accidental “Who, me?” unselfconsciousness that once made it so fresh was tainted. The streets became the runway. Next thing you know, wannabe style icons are stalking Sartorialist-favored avenues, hoping to be photographed. And—even worse—the fashionistas loitering outside the shows in Europe transformed from insiders who live the life into try-hards working overtime to get photographed. What everyone quickly learned is that the best way to get noticed is to go over the top—to identify every trend and pile them all on at once.
Today in Florence, some of Schunman’s favorite subjects have come to him. They’ve come from America, from England and Spain and even Japan. Most of them have made multiple appearances on Schuman’s blog; most of them have never met before, but they seem to recognize one another on some tribal level. They all look amazing. Schuman stands in the street in front of the little trattoria where he’s treating them all to lunch, taking pictures as they arrive. They strike rakishly unposed-looking poses, holding their cigarettes as straight as exclamation points. They have rich Corinthian-leather tans. They have lace handkerchiefs in the pockets of their immaculately tailored jackets. They have elegant, unironic mustaches. They have spectacular beards—wizardy, fishermanly beards.
They’re heavy dudes in their respective fields—menswear retail and tailoring, mostly—but none of them are the kind of big-time designers whose names appear on people’s underwear and in rap songs. They’re not models, or movie stars. Many of them are pushing 50 or 60. And yet they’ve all become figures of cultish fascination to young style bloggers worldwide, prized as the walking embodiment of a deeply old-school, untrendy-and-thereby-deeply-trendy approach to getting dressed.
Like Lino Ieluzzi. These days Lino runs Al Bazar, a forty-year-old men’s shop in Milan. Before that, Schuman says, he did a lot of other things. He fixed watches. He was maybe a hairstylist-gigolo for a while, like Warren Beatty in
Shampoo. He’s a regular on the blog: Lino with one foot up on a concrete berm, Lino smoking with a Heineken in his hand. Today, Lino’s wearing a suit in a mathematical combination of plaids, so tailored it fits like armor. His necktie has a lucky number 7 on it. If you want to buy a suit from Lino, you have to go to Milan. Even if he’s tailored a suit for you before and has your measurements, Lino won’t FedEx you another one. You have to go there in person, kiss the ring.
And yet Lino’s an international style icon now, thanks to Schuman’s pictures of him. So are Hirofumi Kurino, co-founder of the Japanese retail chain United Arrows, and clothier Luciano Barbera, and Carlos Castillo, who owns a store called Man 1924 in Madrid, and all the rest. “I’ve never felt like such an Oscar in a room full of Felixes,” Schuman says to me. This is a ridiculous statement. Schuman looks immaculate, too. Trim black blazer, a scarf he probably test-knotted a few times in the mirror. He’s American, pugnaciously handsome, five feet four, kinda looks like a bantamweight Lance Armstrong. I watch him say the Oscar/Felix thing to Bruce Pask from T Magazine. He is saying it to everyone from a country where they had The Odd Couple.
Inside, Schuman gives a toast. He tells everyone they’re the core of what he does on The Sartorialist, that they make it possible. In Indiana, where he grew up, the closest thing to fashion was a mall that had both a Gap and a Chess King, and he does the blog, he says, for kids just like him, “imagining what a world like this would be like. Now these guys have a chance to really see that, hopefully on a daily basis, and I really have you guys to thank for that.” So, cheers, he says, and then tells everybody not to pay attention to him, because he’ll be walking around shooting.
And then a guy in a white tuxedo jacket walks in, and even after Schuman introduces him, there are definitely some people who don’t know who the guy in the white tuxedo jacket is or what he does for a living, which is funny, because the guy in the white tuxedo jacket is Kanye West.
Our annual collection of do’s, don'ts, and a buncha photos that don’t fit either category–we just couldn’t resist publishing them again. You decide which is which. Click here to see the entire recap, assembled by our diabolical style editors Andrew Richdale and Mark Byrne.
There’s a moment before graduation when it hits you: your days in worn-out jeans and hoodies are numbered. We found six college students—with big career aspirations—and decked them out in the looks they’ll need to break into the real world with total confidence. Above, we upgrade Michael Stevens, age 20, who will graduate this spring from Manhattan College and pursue a career in writing.
GQ contributor and noted “scent critic” Chandler Burr follows his nose around the world, and he used it to put together this admittedly odd list: the most aromatic cities in the world. He also picked the most offensive-smelling city, which according to his nostrils is Paris. See below for his explanation. But if you’re more keen to discover which cities smell in a nice way–his picks include London, Mombasa, Bogata, and, uh, Dallas–click here.
Let’s just start off with the breath. The oral care standards of Parisians are utterly unlike any I’ve ever known. Thanks to their pack-or-more-a-day cigarette habits, every other person smells like smoke-cured human bacon. You smell coffee, but not the fresh stuff in the cup—the smell of it in someone’s mouth four hours later. Then there’s the repulsive odor that wafts from the RER train system. If Satan farted, it would be a little like this sulfurous cocktail of burning photocopies and fried electrical wires. Sure, the gourmand perfume of fresh croissants, butter, and baked flour spills onto the street. But take a few more steps and you’re smacked in the face by the equally fresh smell of dog shit. If you close your eyes, you discover the marketing of Paris—that whole “city of light” garbage that’s eagerly swallowed by tourists—is really nothing but a lie.
Why are we posting this random map of Africa? Well, because, like most of you, we’ve been gripped by the revolution in Libya. And, like most of you, we are dumb Americans who have no sense of geography or proportion regarding the African continent. As our boss, GQ’s Michael Hainey, who passed this along, put it: “You think about rebels being in control of eastern Libya and you think, Oh, so that’s what, from here to Pennsylvania? Then you see France in that slot, it starts to hit you.”
By the end of the 1920s René Lacoste had racked up seven Grand Slam victories and earned the nickname “Le Crocodile.” We here at GQ have always been cheerleaders for their classic polo and now add these awesome kicks to our favorites list. Inspired by the clay and grass courts and a nod to 70s tennis clothing, the Suzuka is a new tennis shoe from the Tribute collection. Available in white with a tan stripe or bright green, you can rock your inner tennis pro in style. If I’m lucky enough to score U.S. Open tickets, you’ll see me there in the white pair for sure.
If you live in New York and care a whit about food, you’ve already heard plenty about M Wells, the deliciously quirky Queens diner that has the city abuzz. But GQ’s restaurant critic had an experience there that he’ll never forget–for all the wrong reasons–and we’ve never read a story about restaurant quite like this. The passage below cuts straight to the heart of the dispute, but the whole piece is a tour de force of critical writing, journalistic self-scrutiny and, finally, ethical outrage. Click here for the full piece.
Nothing else of significance happened during that dinner. What stands out is the heat and the long waits. During our meal, Obraitis came by to say that she and her husband had to leave to attend an event and were looking forward to seeing me in a few days. I felt the same, although I didn’t enjoy the food as much as I had at the first two dinners, and the service was dreadful. In order to get a check, I had to wave to our elusive waitress.
Late the next afternoon, an e-mail arrived from Obraitis. This is what it said:
“I am a bit distressed by the feedback I received after your visit last night. Either you had despicable service or you guys were in an awful mood. It seems we couldn’t make you happy, several servers heard you complain and ask for more attention. One of those servers, a female, received a hardy pat on the ass from you. Totally unacceptable in our world. I don’t know what to think or how to proceed. But I must relay my worry.”
I sat numb, experiencing the kind of paralysis a person feels when he picks up the phone and learns of a ghastly accident or a horrific illness. I was being accused of sexually harassing a member of a restaurant staff. After a few minutes, I wrote back, and this is what I said:
“Absolutely, 100 percent untrue. I just went bone-cold when I read that. In all my years going to restaurants, I have never done that and never been accused of doing that. I would not do that. Who in the world told you that? I will be happy to come to your restaurant tonight and confront that person, face-to-face. It’s a lie.
I will comment quickly on the other stuff. First, I thought one of the men in my group was totally out of line with his mouth and his comments. I just couldn’t get him to shut up. Second, we had two servers. A young kid, practically a boy, who brought the bar snacks and then forgot about us for 45 minutes, and a taller woman (blonde, wearing yellow?) who took over. Yes, I said something to her about nobody taking our order for 45 minutes, but that was the extent of my comments about service.
But it simply isn’t important compared to that accusation. I assure you it never happened, not by me.”
That indictment from Obraitis was wickedly reckless—unless, of course, she had witnessed me doing such a thing, which she had not. She did not ask for my account of what occurred after she and her husband left the restaurant. Under other circumstances, I might have dwelled on the illogicality of the first part of her message. Here was a restaurant proprietor blaming guests for being in a bad mood because they were treated hideously. But at the moment, it didn’t get my attention. The accusation was way too momentous.
Sure, Steve McQueen and Paul Newman were spiffy dudes. And no one’s saying that’s changed! They’re in the HOF forever. But enough already–you get no points for trying to follow in their footsteps, no cred for acknowledging their awesomeness. It’s time to find some fresh fellas to admire. Presenting your new, totally un-played-out style icons, starting with that Wailer up there (your ample replacement for your decade-long Mick obsession). Click here for more picks.
Um, bros, what happened to us? When did we start complaining if our white jeans got dingy in the wash? When did we start asking our girlfriends to open jars for us? Like, just the other day, we were nursing a hot water with agave nectar while waiting for Water for Elephants to start, and we were like, “We need to write a quiz to make sure our readers know how to spot all the tight bitches up in here!” And, you know, to find out if we are one of them. Because after we color-coded our underpants, we started to get a little worried. See below for a sample question. Click here to take the full exam.
They don’t have the loose Darjeeling available at the Bookbinder Café, so you: 1. Just get a bag tea; it’s cool, no biggie. (+2 points)
2. Order a Coke slushie instead, and add some crushed Bugles for texture. (-5 points)
3. Get out your own tin of loose-leaf Darjeeling and that pewter infuser you keep next to your writing quill. (+7 points)
4. Ask the barista for his full name, then insist on speaking to the manager. (+10 points)
5. Wrestle the barista to the ground and show him your tea bag. (-34 points)
Just a reminder about our post from late last week: Out on the street tonight, you’re going to see plenty of Sexy Kittens. And Sexy Nurses. And of course, Sexy Sailors. But why should the ladies get to have all the skin-flashing fun? Where is the gender equity in Halloween harlotry? We asked illustrator Erik T. Johnson to design some slinky costumes fit for a fella. Above: Sexy Mark Zuckerberg! Sexy Tim Pawlenty! Sexy Rupert Murdoch! Click here to see all of them. There’s still plenty of time to get all the supplies you need!