Uuuuuuuuum, OK. Am I bugging or did a whole lotta dudes in New York suddenly learn how to dress? Sure, there are still square-toed Skechers and Targus laptop carriers and suede car coats and boot-cut date rapist jeans but other than those guys, I feel like people are KILLING IT sartorially and it is the biggest, fattest, suck.
I know it’s fall. And fall is always going to be a bajillion times better than summer’s clingy tees, shrimping man toes, “personality” sunglasses and so. Much. Sebum. But I swear to Christ, whatever happened when the “Urban Woodsman” alpha rolled the Metrosexual and hugged him super tight until they made a beautiful, beautiful baby is seriously doing it for me. I maybe want to make love to this baby. I CANNOT DEAL. Men dressing too well is gross, right? I want SO BADLY to think it’s gross. On one hand I think it’s hella Niles Crane and a little murderer-y to curate a “look” but on the other, I’m seeing purrrrrrrfect slender micro-patterned ties with gingham shirts, the SICKEST olive M-65 parkas, shawl collared cardigans, chambray, twill, toggles, perfect-length Henley plackets, non-dickhead bowties, epaulets, and even slight club collars (GAH) on dudes who up until turning thirty thought it was maybe OK to wear skate shoes. I can’t believe I don’t even know what this new thing is called.
I can’t figure out how old anyone is. I can’t figure out how gay anyone is. On silent subway morning commutes there are no tells. The brogues, desert boots and quickstrike high-tops not only have me manic-fantasy-banging every well-dressed dude on the F BECAUSE IT IS ALL SO GODDAMN GOOD but the fact that so many are suddenly well shod plus the prevalence of hard-bottoms straight CRIPPLES my ability to tell how rich anyone is. And that is fucking my game up major. Aaaaaaaaaand everyone’s watch is now the old timey Timex from J.Crew for $150 so yeah, 360 IDK. Plus, also, seriously, there must have been some clandestine colloquium workshop situation where all the dudes in all the land shucked to skivvies and got sized for their perfect pair of Uniqlo jeans and nobody said "no homo," not even one time, because, Hi, y’all all look fantastic FUCK YOU.
I recently became transfixed by a pair of jeans on a lean dude who was 6’4”. The break was such that the hem fell atop his shoe in beautiful, chiaroscuro’d, raw indigo stacks and the whole thing white-knuckled me into wanting to SMELL HIM so badly that I skooched over and did what I never do on mass transit — talk to a
bedbug stranger. I decided (apropos of nothing since I have ZERO idea what dude is who right now) that he was a graphic designer or maybe a tech writer (om nom) and when I discovered he was an actor it was beyond confuselment and then when the google told me that he was engaged to marry someone SUPER DUPER IMPORTANT I was pissed. Yo, when’s the last time I DIDN’T know I was macking above my station? It’s all crazytown.
Look, I know it sounds insane but they’re all obviously in cahoots. They’re all telling each other what works for them and being constructive and honest and the result is just so much more effective/destructive than any Neil Strauss edict ever. The new negging is just dressing so damn well that you make me feel crazy insecure and overwrought about my STUPIDSTUPIDTOTALLYPLAYEDGAMBIT of the little black dress (even though it’s mondo cute and Swedish). The most middling guy will never have to tell me that my haircut works for my broad shoulders ever again because he can just wear the right fish tail parka with the absolutely correct sweater and I’ll think they’re enough out of my league that I’ll spazpanicmakeout with him on GP. I just hope when he dickrolls (rickroll + dickpic) me that his penis is carrying a wee little Filson. I WOULD DIE.
Mary HK Choi is a writer and editor living in Brooklyn. She is a senior editor at Complex magazine and writes comics for Marvel. Also, she is the bomb. No dot com. Just bomb. Shut up.