ojalá

“

How much better than a spanking new suit, the OML advises, to have Dad’s old sharkskin double-breasted one altered a bit, recondition the ancient Peal brogues, and turn the collars on the eternal Brooks button-downs. No nouvelle cuisine of fashion here, lad. The only proper answer to the tasteless inquiry “Where do you buy your suits?” is the lockjawed “I don’t buy suits. I have suits.” If you must buy a new jacket, fill the pockets with small stones and hang it out in the rain for a few days, just to teach it who’s boss. Best to wear it around the house for the first year or two, to take the starch out of it and have it start forming its own patina. Cheap tricks like sewing leather elbow patches on a new tweed jacket brands one as a parvenu, possibly a bookmaker.

Bruce Boyer on the Old Money Look (OML)

(Source: putthison)

(Reblogged from putthison)

May 10

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The New York Times finally acknowledges their layout is busy and lets you clean it up for them.

Now if they would only make a game that would combine the 7 “pages” into one.

Jesus, 7 pages!

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sexpigeon:

New favorite band sounds like a box of t-shirts, is actually a box of paper.

This one goes out to Evan.

(Reblogged from sexpigeon)

Apr 27

Okay, how come no one told me the video for Devo’s “Whip It” was so psychotic and mesmerizing?

Apr 17

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I don’t know what part of your soul is high heels, but I don’t like it.

Dustin Junkert

The Old Flame

My old flame, my wife!
Remember our lists of birds?
One morning last summer, I drove
by our house in Maine. It was still
on top of its hill—

Now a red ear of Indian maize
was splashed on the door.
Old Glory with thirteen stripes
hung on a pole. The clapboard
was old-red schoolhouse red.

Inside, a new landlord,
a new wife, a new broom!
Atlantic seaboard antique shop
pewter and plunder
shone in each room.

A new frontier!
No running next door
now to phone the sheriff
for his taxi to Bath
and the State Liquor Store!

No one saw your ghostly
imaginary lover
stare through the window
and tighten
the scarf at his throat.

Health to the new people,
health to their flag, to their old
restored house on the hill!
Everything had been swept bare,
furnished, garnished and aired.

Everything’s changed for the best—
how quivering and fierce we were,
there snowbound together,
simmering like wasps
in our tent of books!

Poor ghost, old love, speak
with your old voice
of flaming insight
that kept us awake all night.
In one bed and apart,

we heard the plow
groaning up hill—
a red light, then a blue,
as it tossed off the snow
to the side of the road.