As I white-knuckle A/W lookbooks and the end-of-summer chaos sets in, I spend like it is the end of days. But my appetite for destruction has bounds. These are not hunker down, sell a few things, or bring lunch from home purchases. These would blow my shit up.

1. The Row Babilor Leather Coat

Why I want it — I mean, look at the fucking thing. It’s sick. This is the leather that started my “I should own leather” arc. The Row has eluded me. There was the silk shirt that sold while it was in my cart, and I’m constantly hoping someone, somewhere will say the loafers run big enough for me to buy a 13.

It’s been on my Mr. Porter wishlist for years, always seeming to have one left in stock. I’ve never even looked at the measurements. It’s such a delusion. Just praying the XL fits.

What I’ll get instead — I’ll wear my Our Legacy Welding Jacket. I’ve talked about this thing before. You know I wanted it bad. It finally went on deep enough sale to justify it. This will get its shots up this fall. I also wouldn’t be too mad if I came across a nice little vintage leather blazer.

2. 2011 Saab 9-3 Convertible

Why I want it — This is just dumb. I have a car. I have absolutely no need for another one. The idea of car trouble would leave me sleepless. My auto repair skills would be flattered to be called dismal.

There would be something so chill about driving this old convertible around the Shore. Fare Filone vanity plate, because, you know, marketing. The baby blue would hit so hard on my ride to the office, blowing out the speakers with girly pop. Maybe smoke a cig and jump in like a Duke boy. It would be all fun and games until my hat blew off—or, even worse, my scalp got sunburned.

What I’ll get instead — Nothing. Easiest to buy, hardest to maintain. Insurance, maintenance, and the cold, long winter that would keep this thing Rapunzeled in a garage I don’t have.

3. Bottega Veneta Large Cabat — Fondant

Why I want it — I’ve recently become obsessed with getting a dad bag, because of course I am. I mean, is this not the perfect vessel for diapers, wipes and snacks? It may also get me committed.

I love the Bottega woven look, but is it low-key dead? I mean, everyone is braiding their leather now. This feels like the expensive thing you buy and then feel like the conductor of the jerkoff parade when everyone else is walking around with the dupe. Nonetheless, I want this in the most primitive sense of the word.

What I’ll get instead — The Alex Mill Perfect Weekend Tote. This is already an indulgent purchase I don’t really need, but it’s important to treat yourself right. I could use a bag I already have, or the one my wife will have that will surely be better laid out for the job at hand. But doesn’t this just feel like more fun?

Don’t worry, SLP—SAM is a little too on the nose. I’m not that self-centered.

4. Arsenal vs. Coventry City at the Emirates

Why I want it — It’s not even that long of a flight. Like, yes, when you’re reading this, the match is only a day away, but this is doable.

Out of everything on this list, this is the least expensive but the most time-sensitive. Since my first trip to the Emirates a few years ago, I’ve been scheming my way back. Planning trips, checking flights, never pulling the trigger. My biggest fear when traveling for sport is that they’ll lose. Yes, I understand that makes me sound like a child, but who wants to go through customs with a hangover and an L?

But we’re the champions of England, and Coventry is Coventry.

What I’ll get instead — The current cost of an economy flight to London is approximately 135 pints of Guinness at D’Arcy’s Tavern, so I guess the more logical thing to do would be to cut out a little early tomorrow and get a good seat at the bar.

I hate flying economy anyway.

5. Rolex Day-Date 40

Why I want it —

This is greed in a biblical form.

Solid gold watches are heavy and sweaty. Impractical enough that all prior ones have been sold. This will be different.

The irony of wearing something meant to commemorate a lifetime of hard work with so much more life to live is not lost on me. And this may be my Staten Island showing, but I need this desperately.

What I’ll get instead — A house.

-SP

Finish a Mad Men rewatch and it’s easy to come away saying, “I’m going to dress like Don Draper.”

His looks, in and out of the office, have been the jumping-off point for plenty of well-deserved sartorial glazing. But much like in the show itself, the women get overlooked.

I’ve said this here before: it is easy to look great in a suit.

It is even easier when you look like Jon Hamm.

What the ladies of Mad Men offer is more useful than “wear a suit, look good.” They teach you how to dress for your life, your body, and your ambition.

So let’s turn our attention to the other half of the screen and bite into the good stuff: shape, trends, and how to never look out of place.

Trudy Campbell

Menswear is painfully fixated on versatility—the last one you’ll ever need. Wear it to the boardroom, the bar, the golf course, and then Chili’s with the wife and kids. This is not liberation. We keep burning our waistbands and replacing them with elastic, then calling it a carefree life. All that remains is polyester crap trying to fill every need and never making the grade.

The modern Trudy Campbell would have no interest in “the last pants you’ll ever need.” She would find the idea offensive.

She knows exactly what kind of life she wants, and dresses like she already has it. Understanding every room means knowing one pair of pants cannot answer every call. She doesn’t treat occasions like an inconvenience. She treats them as an excuse to elevate.

She doesn’t need ball gowns and pearls to be the cleverest person in the room. Never enough to make anyone else feel bad, but always a step above. Her garden-party look is the perfect example: a watercolor dress matched precisely to her bag, looking better than everyone there without upstaging the host.

She understands the difference between being comfortable and looking like you gave up. Even her nightgowns understood the assignment, if Pete never did.

Her well has endless water.

Joan Holloway

One thing we can all agree on about Joan is that she knows her measurements. Her clothes do more than merely flatter her, though. They give her authority. She leans into sharp, defined lines and colors that refuse to wash out her red hair. They put it to work.

I could cop out and give red all the credit. But look closer: the waist is exact, the skirts are narrow, the neckline is open but not soft, and the pen hanging at her chest lets you know she knows. Her tailoring commands the room. In a world that expects her to make herself small and unseen, Joan enters knowing she is inevitable.

At the Jaguar dealership, Don puts up a $6,000 check and the salesman lets them take the car out. Joan did the underwriting. A woman like that wasn’t getting into a car with a man whose checks bounced.

What we learn from Joan is not to wear tighter clothes. It’s that clothes should be precise. It doesn’t matter how expensive the clothes are if they’re in a civil war with your body.

I could turn this into a “dress for the body you have” after-school special. But this is prestige cable. Find your shapes and buy them. That does not mean buying the same pants in every color. Learn why they are so good—the rise, the width, the length, where they sit—and hunt for those qualities.

Pull your favorite clothes from the closet, measure them, and use them as anchors against size charts.

An appropriately unsexy ending to a section about Mad Men’s greatest sex symbol.

Peggy Olson

We are all Peggy Olson at some point: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and without the money or confidence to dress for our ambition.

Peggy changes the most. She arrives at Sterling Cooper dowdy, dressed for the job she has. As her ambition grows, the clothes catch up.

She is the anti-Joan, holding their breath and trying not to take up too much air. Rounded collars, frumpy skirts, muted colors—clothes praying to make it through the day without anyone noticing.

As Peggy becomes more confident, her clothes get bolder. There is no makeover montage where the cool girls take her ponytail down and suddenly she ends up in the ad. The change comes through little moments when we are asked to see her in a new light—the black dress with a pink bow that makes Ted rethink every choice he’s ever made. It all culminates in her Black Swan entrance: walking into McCann Erickson with sunglasses, a lit cigarette, and a vulgar Japanese painting tucked under her arm.

It is easier to dress to the expectations of others than to your own taste.

In my early 20s, I dressed in whatever fraternity-banquet clothes, Christmas Vineyard Vines, and TJ Maxx Ralph Lauren I already owned. The crown jewel was a gray Patagonia vest. This was a decade ago. It wasn’t as cursed yet.

Like Peggy, I was dressing to expectations. Once I started making money, that meant dressing “well” for my peers and the people who now worked for me. Usually by wearing something obviously expensive. The low point was a rose-gold Ferragamo logo belt. 2018 was a crazy time.

As I became more comfortable in my seat at the table, the fits followed. Sometimes misguided, but mine. Small revisions, but big changes—even if only to myself.

Betty Draper

Betty knows how to make eyes pop out of heads—look no further than the black outfit in Paris—but that is not where she shines. Her real talent is putting herself together for errands, afternoons around the house, and all the forgettable parts of the day most people treat as a sartorial write-off.

Betty Draper takes casual seriously.

The trophy still had to be polished. Even with no guests. Was that a healthy way to live? No. Did it produce an eye-popping road-trip fit? Of course.

The road-trip fit is simple: a sleeveless floral shirt, fitted shorts, and sunglasses. Nothing fancy. Nothing accidental.

Even off duty, in what you can only assume is a car with inferior air conditioning, Betty still looks ready to be seen.

Stop treating casual like an afterthought. Comfort is all well and good until you catch your reflection and realize comfort was the only decision you made. Don’t wear a neckerchief to meet the DoorDash driver, but give the ordinary some consideration. The clothes can unwind without collapsing.

Not every day needs an occasion, but every day deserves an outfit.

Megan Draper

RIP Megan Draper. You would have loved being an influencer. We would have loved watching you make Don do TikTok dances.

Megan had no interest in being anything but the moment. She was never wrong; she was just early. Her clothes moved, shimmered, and showed enough skin to occasionally caused Don a constitutional crisis.

Her outfits showed who she was in that instant. Hollywood starlet in the blue dress she wears to pick up Don, then starving-artist LARPing at her house in the Hills—the ultimate cool-girl move, deciding the city had nothing to offer her.

I’d love to talk hair and makeup, but I’m not qualified, and this is not the place to start pretending.

Not everything has to last forever, especially clothing. We all love to justify expensive purchases with a little cost-per-wear voodoo, but sometimes it’s more fun to be a prisoner of the moment. Everyone loves “quiet luxury,” a phrase that has regurgitated enough dupes to make me regurgitate. We worry so much about looking timeless that we forget to have any fun.

That does not mean chasing every trend until your card disintegrates. When something looks fun, take it for a spin—even if it is only for a night. You may think you are dressing timelessly now, but your taste will evolve, and eventually you will laugh at yourself anyway.

Dress for the moment. There is always tomorrow for your forever clothes.

The easiest lesson to take from Mad Men is to buy a charcoal suit and be handsome. To be fair, it works.

The ladies ask more of us. They ask us to know our measurements, read the room, dress for the person we are becoming, and give an ordinary Saturday a little respect. They also remind us to occasionally stop wondering whether something will still look good in ten years and wear the damn thing now.

So do your Don Draper cosplay. But once the suit hits the cleaners, keep watching.

The real lessons in the best-dressed show of all time were waiting on the other side of the screen.

-SP

Most collab excitement comes prematurely.

The ones below sealed the deal.

Some became regular clothes, others got worn nearly into the ground or treated with kid gloves. The only thing they really have in common is that I don’t regret buying them.

These are the ones that stuck around long enough to earn a trip to the cleaners.

adidas x Wales Bonner Sneakers

I’m not going to go on and on about these. Look at my fit checks and you’ll see they’ve been used and abused. I also already rambled about them in “Getting Off Half a Fit.”

I had flirted with the Wales Bonner x adidas collaborations for years, but this was the pair that finally made me commit. I needed a whitish sneaker that wasn’t on every “20 Best White Sneakers to Win the Summer” list.

They feel more luxe than your average white bowling shoe, and the brown tab up front adds just enough Krusty the Clown for me to call it fashion.

I didn’t need them to reinvent the wheel. I just needed them to make me feel a little special.

The reason they get the feature here instead of the 3sixteen x Sauconys is simple: I reach for these more.

Emily Dawn Long x Maximum Henry Belt

I don’t buy belts often. In fact, if there’s anything I should probably own more of, it’s belts.

I just don’t like buying belts online. I usually need to get my mitts on them first. This was the exception.

Both Emily Dawn Long and Maximum Henry came onto my radar around the same time, and since a Wanda hat is not something I feel would suit my face, the belt felt practical while still being different.

Maximum Henry supplied the elevated basic; Emily Dawn Long made it feel just strange and intimate enough to justify spending more than I ever had on a belt.

The hand-stitching deluded me into thinking this was all perfectly reasonable.

This is not my everyday black belt. But when I do wear it, I feel like I’m adding a sexy little spark to the outfit—even if it’s just for me.

I’m declaring it here: the hand-stitched belt is the man’s sheer underwear.

Unless, of course, the man’s underwear is already sheer.

New Balance x Aimé Leon Dore Popover Fleece

New Balance x Aimé Leon Dore is a very successful marriage. They’ve been getting back together for years—even if they still don’t make the shoes in a 14.

This turned out to be more savior than foe. Otherwise, I’d have a closet full of New Balance 550s right now.

The most tenured piece on the list. It’s from Fall/Winter 2019, back when the Aimé Leon Dore lookbook was the center of the menswear universe and all of it still felt new to me.

I bought it for the look. It got lived in for the comfort.

The buttons have been replaced, and at this point, it shouldn’t be worn anywhere more ambitious than an errand. That has not stopped it from being one of the most complimented things I own.

I went looking for it online while writing this and found almost none for sale—especially compared with the endless stream of other ALD x New Balance pieces being relisted. The linked one is green; mine is navy and considerably worse for wear.

Our Legacy x Emporio Armani Pantelleria Shirt

I want to be a vintage Armani guy. Badly.

I haven’t had much luck. Mostly because of half-assed eBay searches and never carving out the time to hunt in person.

So when Our Legacy—a brand that may be becoming overly represented in my closet—had another rendezvous with Emporio Armani, I set an alarm to make sure I got my medicine.

I could almost pretend I followed all my rules here. I didn’t own another popover shirt, and the boxy silhouette excited me, along with a pattern that felt fun without being overly indulgent.

Vintage-Armani cosplay without the negotiations.

Something I wear when I’m supposed to behave, but the boxy silhouette and pattern let me feel a little bad without getting in trouble.

It’s nice to wear something not everyone else knows exists without it screaming IYKYK.

I did break my one-item-per-collab rule and bought the logo tee too. It fits great, but I wear it as an undershirt, which means the logo—the whole reason to buy it—is almost always covered.

They’ll always get you with the entry-level slop.

Added bonus: My wife likes this shirt.

She did not like the alarm going off at an ungodly hour so I could buy it.

Palace x Polo Ralph Lauren Polo Bear Sweater

This one is a vibes guy.

It’s the only item on this list I bought resale, years before prices got bloated. I haven’t worn it more than a handful of times, and it’s currently in storage.

But it makes me happy.

Polo is Polo. I don’t need to explain why the Polo Bear is iconic. Palace is a brand I’ve admired from afar, and this collaboration let me own something from their world without making me look like it was Halloween.

A cool skate company making an Ivyed-to-the-gills Polo Bear do a heel flip is enough to earn endless devotion.

Is the hype part of the appeal? Duh.

But I don’t hold onto it because I’m building an archive. I hold onto it because sometimes you just want your clothes to be fun.

Phone a Friend

In the spirit of collaboration, I figured I should actually collaborate. So I brought in a few friends with real taste. You’re welcome.

:

In terms of close to my heart, it will always be the Uniqlo x Engineered Garments collaboration. These brands were heavily influential in my taste in fashion and it had it all. PB&J, a slice and a Coke, Uniqlo and EG, it was a match made in heaven.

Later I then discovered Paraboot x Arpenteur; elevated in taste and my passion for footwear. Elegance and durability, my first loafer that made me a fan forever. Ça me plaît beaucoup!

As far as collabs that didn’t stick—I am sorry to displease my friends and family, but Supreme anything has never landed for me. Too much hype and not compelling enough for me. The collabs are diverse, that I will say, but I am certainly not the audience they were targeting (cue the Black Friday stampede videos). With that, I will go to say any hype collaboration will likely get a NO from me dawg, Randy Jackson voice.

:

This is a complicated ask for the first appearance of SLO! I love my friends, but I don’t love collaborations. I like when chefs cook in THEIR kitchen, I don’t want a pop up.

A collab that I have to tip my hat to is from a few years back. It was 2020 and there was not much else to do but online shop. From way downtown, it was the Gramicci x Deus Ex Machina collab. Gramicci laid the foundation, Deus lent their feel. The pants fit me to a tee, breaking perfectly on my checked Vans. But most importantly, it was my intro to Gramicci, who I have not stopped buying pants from since.

I’m not a big watch guy. I like finding vintage junk and checking my phone if someone asks the time. But a shoutout to the Noah x Timex collabs over the years, those watches are beautiful. The thought put into the design from strap to shape to face is evident. Timex often collabs and they are often fun.

Boo YZY x Gap (lol)! Boo Sperry collabs! Boo Japan Edition L.L.Bean, it was lazy! Boo Tiffany Dunks, and lots of other sneaker collaborations. Down with the cronut! Television crossovers are rarely good, you let me down New Girl x Brooklyn 99.

And love to V’s mention of EG x Uniqlo, we collaborated on that collab. Thanks FF, this was ffun.

To land the plane: the good shit leaves you wanting more.

A pair of pants sends you back to Gramicci. A loafer turns into a lifelong obsession with what’s on your feet.

A good collaboration, like your favorite childhood athlete, earns your devotion before logic intervenes.

Even if it’s an Ivyed-to-the-gills bear doing a heel flip.

–SP

It just had to be Bugaboo.

After months of deliberation, hours of YouTube, and stopping people to ask about their stroller, we landed on Bugaboo about two weeks before Kith announced its 2026 collab.

Fashion guy wanted the Kith stroller.

Very much the opposite.

Now I was going to be corralled with the Kith dads, when really I was there because you can keep the bassinet up top if you have a second kid.

I know what you’re thinking: You’re the only person who’s ever going to think about that.

I know—you’re right.

But I’m the problem, and I’m the one pushing it.

I’ve fallen victim to collab slop before, and I will again.

Exclusivity and borrowed taste are a trap.

Only after the package touches down and the illusion fades does the item earn its spot in the hall of misguided purchases.

As a self-proclaimed big, dirty capitalist, I have no problem with the idea of smushing two brands together to fill the consumer trough. In fact, it excites me.

But collabs have become ammunition in a lame-guy arms race over who can own the most exclusive one.

It’s easy to get caught up in the moment when buying one.

The first question I need to ask myself is simple: Do I actually need this, or am I loading my arsenal for a war with no winner?

Last year, when Levi’s and Barbour collaborated, I bought the jeans.

Why?

Because I wanted to be contrarian.

Everyone will have the jacket, I thought. But me? I’ll have the pants.

Though they are great pants, I should have gotten the jacket—or just sat that one out.

Now I look at the jacket with envy and the pants as pants.

My shining example is the Kith x TaylorMade driver I bought with money I should have spent on lessons.

That one is embarrassing on a molecular level, but sorting it out will probably take a doctor, and we don’t have the time—or the credentials.

To be romantic about it, I could tell you collaborations should be about intention and storytelling, and all of that is true.

Most of the time, it comes down to this: me like, me buy.

But will I still wear it once it falls off everyone’s mood board?

As someone who enjoys the deeply romantic melodrama of what I wear, I fell hard for the Saucony x 3sixteen Peregrine 15.

Saucony gave me a silhouette I love but have no business owning. 3sixteen brought the indigo—and an excuse to buy a shoe that will never see a summit.

I remember buying them from the passenger seat of a rental car in Denver.

My wife was kind enough to drive while I refreshed the page, making sure I grabbed my size 14.

These delivered. I wear them often.

For the first few wears, I left a trail of indigo everywhere I went. My socks are still paying for it.

A good collaboration can add dimension to my closet, but owning a piece from one can also become an ignoble measure of how tasteful I think I am.

After much trial and error, I now pretend to act with some restraint and humility.

Rule of thumb, I only buy one item from each collab. Buying one keeps the whole thing special and stops me from overloading my closet with more of the same.

When I break that rule, I’m always left kicking myself by the time the tags come off.

But none of this means I’m going to stop.

I’ll keep buying collabs, most of which I’ll eventually replace with quieter things designed for daily use.

The curse is that I’ll remain self-aware through all of it.

That’s what makes getting dressed fun: the push and pull between ordinary and what the fuck is that. I usually land somewhere in the middle.

-SP

Put the word out—we back up.

July was wet, hot, and seriously had me questioning my commitment to pants. Somehow, we still got dressed.

Here’s everything I was fuckin’ with in July.

Had on Deck

Nike Standard Issue 5” Practice Mesh Basketball Shorts

In life, it’s important to feel the breeze. Between what had to be record heat and becoming the dad who stepped up for this dog, I needed something easy to toss on but still handsome.

These are not my favorite mesh shorts. They’re easy to find, look good enough to own in multiples, and don’t feel too precious to pick up dog shit in.

They’re a little different from everyone else’s gym shorts without screaming, Look at me, I do clothes.

orSlow Super Dads

These have taken over the top spot in my jeans rotation, unseating a pair from Gap whose seat has seen better days.

I try my best to wear pants whenever I’m doing anything of note because, well, dons don’t wear shorts. The legs give you enough breathing room that you don’t feel like you’re sweating through them, plus a zipper fly because I don’t have the patience for button flies—summer moves fast.

As a bonus, they make my ass look great.

3sixteen Square-Toe Side-Zip Boots in Mushroom Suede

Square-toe suede boots in the summer—the performative male’s version of wearing Timbs to the beach? They just might be, but I don’t care. They look good.

I hold these boots near and dear, checking the forecast before I let them leave the house. But when the weather gives you an opening, you have to strike.

The forecast said clear. I’m zipping up.

Swiped For

Sage Nation Chisholm Shirt

It’s important to stay dialed. The sales are on right now, boys and girls, and they’re hitting.

In a month full of R&D, this one earned top marks. The shirt catches enough breeze without making you look like a parasail, and the color combo makes you look like you really know what you’re doing.

Closet Organization Setup

To live somewhere walkable is to eventually run out of space. That happened to me long ago. I lived in denial longer.

With a baby coming, I finally had to stop pretending the mess would sort itself out. Bins, cedar blocks, labels, and desiccant packs were acquired. Then, to commemorate my maturity, I grabbed a few Stüssy x THOR bins. It’s like a reward.

It is always fashionable to go high-low—even in the storage unit.

Mets Fitted

Remember how I said I wasn’t wearing Timbs to the beach? Well, I will be wearing a fitted.

I haven’t worn one since high school, but after a summer of being disgusted by the Mets, I decided to give them some of my hard-earned money anyway.

Sometimes you don’t want something niche. You want something everyone can have—that you just do better.

Put Away

One McGriddle a Week

God bless me, it’s summer.

Totally influenced by The Bear, I ordered a sausage-and-cheese McGriddle—NO EGG—then tossed a hash brown inside to make it exact. Damn, did I forget how good these are.

You take one bite and think, I could eat this every day. From what I understand, you should not.

So, once a week—usually Friday morning, at a time far too early for the large Diet Coke I inevitably order—I take one down.

Keeping It Tight

In direct opposition to one McGriddle a week, I’ve really been trying to keep it tight. Well, because you gotta keep it tight.

For me, that means working the ones and twos on the food scale, eating a lot of grilled chicken, and swapping some of my ice cream—don’t worry, Ice Cream Summer is still going strong—for way too many no-sugar-added popsicles.

Vegetables remain uninvolved. As I’ve already stated, lettuce is a scam.

Screens & Scribbles

Death of a Salesman

Good things happen when you don’t turn everything into a musical.

Now, I love Grease as much as the next guy—a lot—but I’ve been pushing a more plays, fewer musicals agenda for a long time. Death of a Salesman is my favorite play, and this production cooked and I cried.

I’m tempted to see it again, but I don’t know if I have the emotional—or swipe—capacity.

Mad Men

I’m not going to go on and on about this. I’ve been rewatching Mad Men on and off for a few months, but this month I tuned in heavy. The screens overtook the scribbles, which led to a less-than-impressive reading month for me.

If you haven’t watched it, watch it. If you’ve already watched it, watch it again.

Dungeon Crawler Carl: The Eye of the Bedlam Bride

I’ve been chipping away at the series, and I’m probably 25 percent through this one. I promise I’ll be better next month.

The only other book I finished was Waist Deep. Mid at best.

Ear Stuff

Good Hang — John Cena

Good Hang was recommended to me by my friend Joe, and I’ve been listening sporadically over the past month. But I will never pass up the opportunity to hear from the GOAT.

John Cena makes you want to say the pledge and call your mom.

Jersey Shore Bangers

Ain’t nothing like summer down the shore. So electric.

I may be past my napkin-throwing, clock-beating prime, but that doesn’t mean I can’t relive the glory from the driver’s seat. Nostalgia is stronger than Grails anyway.

Toss on “Calling,” follow it with Tamia’s “Stranger in My House”—the Thunderpuss Club Mix, of course—and suddenly I’m back.

Maybe I’ll even cut the mozzarella.

Red Rising Series — Quick Update

We made it to the final book in the first trilogy, and I’m strategically dosing myself because I’m not quite ready for it to end.

Already Over

Funky Feet

Whether you spend $150 on sandals or buy dollar-store flip-flops, getting your dogs done is a prerequisite.

You don’t just owe it to yourself—you owe it to the people around you.

Coveting

Butter Yellow

As I said, we all do trends. Though I’m keeping my toes between myself and God this summer, I am all in on being a butter-yellow baby.

After weeks of scouring the internet for the perfect butter-yellow piece—which I was sure would be a lightweight summer knit—I landed on this tee from MAN-TLE. It kills two birds with one stone: I’ve been flirting with the brand too, but wanted to ease in before diving into the outerwear.

Hopefully this month’s covet makes the grade. Last month’s already flunked out.

• • •

What made your July Mount Rushmore—and what would you rather forget?

-SP

It’s not always about you, or me for that matter. But even when your number’s not called, people should know you do this shit for real.

The good boy fit is an underappreciated skill. It’s the little shit that makes you different from the brunch boys aimlessly checking the weather while “Unwritten” plays in the background.

When you spend enough time pulling on gaudily priced Japanese references, it’s easy to forget the work starts before the clothes go on.

That means grooming. Maintenance. The deeply unromantic stuff. If you know you have something coming up, get a fucking haircut. Tweeze the eyebrows. Trim the beard. Hell, maybe even floss. I’m not asking you to do some 5 a.m. life optimization routine. I’m telling you a straight-leg pant and a belt that doesn’t phallically dangle can’t do all the work. No point pushing big body if you’re going to fill it with 87.

When the good boy clothes go on, the cameras come out, and the environment will not be hat friendly. Brunch. A shower. A christening. Dinner with people who don’t care how niche your hat is because they’ve already decided it’s inappropriate for family-style Italian dining.

The balance is somewhere between “mommy dressed me” and the guy nobody realizes is in head-to-toe Our Legacy. Nothing destroys the good boy facade faster than looking like you just rolled out of bed with cowlicks shifting like sand dunes.

This one is probably going to get a few people in trouble, and though there are exceptions, let’s rip off the Band-Aid: DO NOT LET SOMEONE ELSE DRESS YOU.

If you’re lost, ask for directions. Don’t let someone else drive.

One, because it’s most likely some regurgitated look from an FYP swag-gap video that’s going to make you look like a little boy.

Two, because nothing will make you feel less confident than coming out of the shower with your outfit laid out for you like it’s picture day and your mom is about to run spit through your hair.

This is where the elbow grease comes in.

The good boy fit is won in the lab.

If you know you have an event coming up, shop for it. Try on the outfit beforehand. There is nothing worse than waking up the day of just to find out the pants don’t fit, your shirt is missing buttons, or your one good belt is not where you left it.

If you’re starting from scratch, the first thing you have to figure out is whether there’s a theme. But we’ll save dressing for a party theme for another day.

As a proponent of leading by example, I’ll break down what remains the biggest good boy fit of my life: my wife’s bridal shower.

An event where I am so obviously arm candy that a bricked fit could have her running from the altar.

I made the business decision early: I was going to wear a houndstooth blazer.

It was book-themed, and a houndstooth blazer is literary as fuck. I left my readers and elbow patches at home, as I was going more for dreamy male lead than hot for teacher.

Now that I had that settled, I had to build the rest of the outfit.

After wrestling with what color oxford to wear—the plight of the man who dresses—I decided to go with the Wythe white OCBD.

This was pre–J.Crew Giant-Fit Oxford fixation, but this pick holds up today because of the higher collar. The white felt like it would make me look the most Mr. Darcy, even though I could not exactly walk in with it half-unbuttoned. I was hoping it would still get across just how bewitched I am.

I took a risk on the pants. Well, a menswear risk.

I wore a blazer with jeans, still flirting with the English professor who sits on his desk and waxes poetic. It worked.

I went with a light-wash J.Crew straight-leg jean, though my original plan was to wear Cowboy Cuts. But the flare did not match the ease and behavior. Cowboys do not behave.

To tie it all together, I bought a slightly slutty thin black belt, wore my daily driver watch, and shoehorned into black horsebit loafers.

To make sure I was truly on my good boy shit, I got a haircut the morning of and even tossed a little Toppik in my hair to make sure I would be able to revisit the pictures without feeling like the walls were closing in.

The most important accessory that day had nothing to do with what I was wearing.

The fit would not have mattered if the flowers flopped. A blazer can get you close. A generational oxford will help. A slightly slutty belt can get you going. But if you show up to your wife’s bridal shower looking pleased with yourself and holding a handful of weeds, you did not nail the good boy fit. You just dressed for yourself, and at that point you might as well be George Wickham.

The good boy fit is not proof that you can put that shit on. It is proof that you understand putting it on means different things.

As I said, this was not about me.

-SP

Do as I say, not as I do.

I own more than one of everything I’m about to list.

But there’s always one that calls louder than the rest.

It’s usually not the flashiest, the best label, or the most impressive receipt.

It’s the most lived-in, and the one that feels most like me. Usually, it’s also the reason the clutter started: another cuff, another wash, another label, all trying to recreate the magic.

The Suit

Most of us only put on a suit out of necessity now.

Office dress codes disappeared, and company-man quarter-zips replaced fine tailoring. A suit became less of a daily requirement and more cake-eater cosplay.

The fucked up part is, you’ll probably never look better than when you’re in a suit.

They’ll take everything if you let them.

Anyway. You really only need one.

I’ll always recommend navy if you’re only going to have one, even though my go-to right now is a green Sid Mashburn suit I had made a few years back.

Never trust an expert.

When you’re looking for that one suit, lean into luxury. That does not mean buying the most expensive suit you can swipe for. There is more luxury in fit than in a fat price tag and a flashy name.

That could mean Indochino, or going to a brand you’ve been making eyes at and having them make something special just for you.

Word to the wise: you’re going to look great in anything made for you unless a butcher made it.

You still only need one.

Spend your money on strong shirting, sexual ties, and devilish footwear. One suit can turn you into many different men.

The Watch

I love watches. This is not that.

I’ve collected, sold, and traded my way through enough of them to know one thing: I am not a watch guy.

I wear a Datejust every day.

You know why?

It’s never out of place.

The days I spent planning my outfit around the Hulk Sub, the fit usually flopped.

I don’t want to talk about movements or ADs. I want my watch to fall in line.

I’m not telling you to blow a bag on a watch. Find something that works, then wear the fuck out of it.

Let it look worn, not worshiped or, worse, neglected.

The guy with the most to say about his watch rarely has much to say at all.

That said, I can’t wait to buy my next one.

The Double-Knee Pants

This might be a me thing.

I understand these have real utility, and a lot of people genuinely need more than one pair. But for me, they are stolen valor.

So much so that my go-to double-knees aren’t even Carhartt. They’re Ralph Country.

I wear them because they’re fucking cool, and because I wish I could do a little real-world building instead of just the literary kind.

I own multiple pairs because I am sick. In a rare turn of events, my favorite pair was not the first one I bought. I’ve returned three pairs since finding the Ralphs. Each one got further from the magic.

I am, in my truest form, closer to a cake-eater than a carpenter.

Even if you buy them for function, not fashion, I’d still recommend only having one pair. Wear them every day for months, beat them to shit, let them live, then sell them to people like me for five times what you paid.

Some people are really sick.

Swim Trunks?

Hear me out.

Most are still rocking eighth-grade-style boardshorts, or they put absolutely no thought into their swim trunks at all.

Let’s put a little thought into it.

If you put in the work to look good in trunks, why spit on it with a blown-out pair of Billabongs?

One good pair is better than a bunch of throwaway trunks that make you look like an extra on The O.C. or hug you in all the wrong places.

When I’m really looking to get wet, I go for the Montauk Trunk by Todd Snyder.

Nice enough to wear around the resort or beach town without looking like you couldn’t care less or getting lost in a sea of Baggies.

That is the job.

A good pair of swim trunks gets you aquatic, full, burnt, and almost overdressed by sunset.

You’re not going to know you have that one good thing until you take it out into the world with some walking-around money.

Once you do, it’s not always about upgrading it, replacing it, or trying to find the same magic in a different version. There’s no point in reinventing the wheel when it already gets you fitted.

What’s the one item you keep failing to reinvent?

-SP

All of this has a purpose. It is my job to find it.

My hands are engulfed in textures and patterns, the temperature in the room building as if each neglected piece of clothing adds a degree.

It is important to remember that I have been doing this for a long time. Styles change. I slide into a pair of mustard-ish cropped Nike golf pants that were, at one time or another, my favorite.

I can still make anything work. I am not the type of person who buys trends. I have a real wardrobe, not just a pile of trends and targeted ads.

It is incredible how wasteful people are, I think, as I sort through piles of clothes with the tags and extra buttons still attached.

There is nothing wrong with any of this. Almost all of it is still good. None of it was a waste.

I mean, you are a sick fucking person.

I throw camp-collar shirts into the air like some sort of demonic Gatsby. Who in their right mind buys this many camp-collar shirts?

I feel sweat beading on my forehead. Every time I turn my head, she turns the AC to eco mode. Does she not understand how fat I have gotten? No man my size can be cooled by eco mode.

This is a hopeless endeavor.

I mean, what kind of grown man owns this much clothing?

I stand at the summit of a mountain of knitwear that should have been used for a down payment but is instead a reminder of my failure and fluctuations.

You are a sheep, adding to cart anything your soft hands can reach.

You sit behind a desk all day. Why do you own so much workwear?

“Yo, what are you selling on these days? I feel like Grailed is dead.”

EVERYTHING MUST GO!

Okay, so everything being sold goes on the left. Donations on the right. Things being kept go on the bed.

The bed disappears before I make it to outerwear.

If you love it and it does not fit, put it in the storage pile. Most of these pants are just a few good sweats away.

You have had a lot of this stuff for years. You would have spent the money on something else anyway. The money is not gone. It is just wrinkled.

Why do you have so many collabs? You are too old for collabs. One man’s shame is another man’s grail.

They’re still good. You just do not look good in hoodies.

Once I get all of this sold, it will pay for the storage unit and then some.

You are clearing room for new things. More you things.

You are going to be a dad. You do not need ALD.

You need a forever wardrobe.

How did it get this bad? When did it get this bad?

Six hours in, and the hardwood is still a distant memory. When am I even going to have time to post all of this crap? No one is going to want this.

I walk over and drop the AC another two degrees as I unearth a pile of District Vision that should have gone into the S&P.

Man, you really let yourself go.

When was the last time you even thought about going for a run? You should charge your Garmin. There is no way you are going to find the charger right now.

Could you even run a mile if you tried?

I pull on the outrageously priced Satisfy x Our Legacy collab I bought for some future running accomplishment and think about the blind ambition I had when I bought it—the arrogance of a man barely running sub-ten-minute miles to own such a thing.

The last race I ran was the NYC Half. I went from the finish line to the hospital.

My dad died that day.

Man, I miss my dad.

What kind of dad will I be? The kind who uses purchases to avoid problems, burying the evidence of faraway realities in the depths of my closet until it overflows?

I stand there dressed like a parade-float run-club member in the ashes of all the men I thought I would become.

I can afford to donate these.

A pile of long-forgotten shirts becomes barely worn clothes for donation. Some things are better given than sold, especially the ones I sweat in.

Still far from done, the opulence parts just enough to expose the slightest ray of hardwood.

All of these clothes will have a purpose, even if it is not with me.

I love clothes too much to have a forever wardrobe. No doubt I will delude myself into thinking the next pair of pants will fix me.

The pursuit of hangered perfection will never end.

Nothing I bury in the closet is going to start fitting, no matter how much I liked the way it looked on someone else or who I planned to be in twelve weeks.

The man I am becoming needs the room more than all the men I thought I would be.

I load up the donations and post past lives for sale. There is no shame in passing along the hope.

I keep the Satisfy collab.

I should probably start running again.

-SP

Maybe it’s the dog days of summer, but how can you not be romantic about baseball?

As promised, here are five things that make wearing less and going out more a little easier, plus enough baseball terminology to finally put this bit to bed after this week.

Play ball.

1. Hard-Hit Ground Ball Up the Middle

Can anyone guess what the hard-hit ground ball up the middle is going to be? Anyone?

It’s your basics.

I know what you’re thinking: does this guy ever talk about anything besides his fucking undershirts?

And maybe one day I will. But based on the amount of dirty socks and bacon-collared T-shirts I’ve seen this summer, I don’t think it will be anytime soon.

The heat makes this easier. Everyone around you is doing the bare minimum.

This does not mean you need to wear your communion suit to get a water ice, but a shirt with buttons wouldn’t kill you.

Lean on your broken-in white oxford. Any brand, as long as it’s lived-in and not painted on. You want it to pick up some breeze.

For tees, go soft. I keep going back to the Supima cotton Gap one my mom got me for Christmas that has since vanished from their site. A harsh reminder: when you find a tee you like, cherish it and stock up.

For bottoms, if you have to wear pants, go broken-in: a chino, a fatigue, a light jean, or a linen pant with a drawstring. I love my orSlow Super Dads for when I have to, or feel inspired to, wear a little summer denim.

For shorts, I’m not going into the whole Baggies thing again. Just make sure they fall somewhere between everyone can see your balls and Eurotrash capris. If you need buttons, find something that doesn’t look like you just played 18, avoid tech fabrics, and you’ll be fine.

2. Bunt

Here we have the lost art form of the bunt.

It’s not sexy, but when done right, your dad will point at the TV and say, “See, that’s what today’s game is missing: fundies. Nothing flashy.”

I am your dad.

This is the little shit: how many buttons do I leave open? Is the beater under it suitable for human consumption? Did you remember the belt, jewelry, watch, and sunglasses?

Are you wearing novelty sunglasses you got for shaking your ass down the shore, with some now-defunct hard seltzer brand on the side? Or are you wearing a frame that actually suits your face?

Not doing your hair? Grab your summer hat. Beat to shit, but somehow aged like wine.

On the dogs, don’t be afraid to toss on a loafer. You’re not obligated to. Bostons work most summer days. Keep your carbon-plated kicks for race day. No need to wear those to a cookout.

The last and most important thing is your socks.

Either clean white socks with some height, or no socks at all. If you’re feeling slutty and bold, you can scrunch them.

I don’t want to see a formerly white sock looking like it’s in witness protection. And no one wants to fuck the no-show sock guy.

And if you’re raw-dogging your cleats but afraid you’re going to end up at a shoes-off house, keep a pair of socks on you.

This is called planning.

Make daddy proud.

3. Bloop

Bloops gotta have funk.

A personal item. Something you chose on purpose. It probably shouldn’t work as well as it does, but somehow drops in.

I find that my best bloops are usually merch I pick up at random spots because it just looks cool. A shirt from Bar Harbor. A hat from a pizzeria. Something that already feels lived-in because it came from something you actually did.

Your Eras Tour merch is not a bloop. That’s intentional. A bloop needs to feel like it wandered into your life and somehow made the roster.

Most bloops are not forever items. I’ll intentionally hide funky camp collar shirts for a few summers so I don’t overexpose them and start feeling like my funky little shirt has gone mainstream.

I call this my personal archive. In layman’s terms, a storage unit.

Bloops are experienced before they are styled.

4. Line Drive

Sometimes you just square one up.

You toss it on when there’s a decent chance you’re going to get flicked up, or when you simply need to look good.

It does not have to be expensive, but it usually hurts going down.

But damn, does it hit.

A line drive is not your call to wear your American flag hot dog socks.

You are standing out through taste, not volume. You’re not trying to get people to look at you. They just do because it’s undeniable.

Most often, that means an upgrade to your usual shirt rotation.

One of my more recent purchases is this mfpen checked cotton-seersucker shirt—the perfect fabric for summer in a sea of people buying targeted-ad linen shirts.

A note on bottoms from a recovering fun-pants guy: it’s not the way.

I have a pair of Bode shorts I wear sparingly. They even made a Magic City voyage, but wearing them too often can turn your line drive into a dribbler.

5. Reached on an Error

Sometimes you just have to shrug your shoulders and say thank you.

Reaching on an error is the reward for putting in the work, running hard, and living in your clothes. It’s the wrinkle in your shirt, the patina on the brim of your hat, the shoes that have seen things and lived to tell the tale.

It’s your hair after a long day at the beach. No sea salt spray required. You cannot buy this shit.

Don’t crumple your shirt into a ball before wearing it or run over your shoes with a car. You’ll brick.

This does not mean wearing your pit-stained shirts or dirty booty pants.

Patina over posturing.

You are not going to reach on an error every time you get dressed.

But what a feeling when you do.

How could you not be romantic about getting dressed?

Tell me about your favorite bloop.

Better yet, tag @farefilone in a picture of your slutty scrunched socks.

-SP

Like anything else, getting dressed is a skill, a muscle, or whatever term is currently trending in the manosphere. The point is, you have to do it a fuckton.

The lights shine brightest at weddings, parties, and restaurants with no overhead lighting. But if you want to play well when the lights are on, you have to go into business for yourself when nobody asked you to.

That means coffee runs. Dog walks. Grocery stores. Family parties where there’s a real chance you end up on your aunt’s Facebook — or, in my case, my mother-in-law’s — with no “do you like this one?” before it gets posted for mass consumption.

There have been plenty of times when my lazy “no one is going to see me” outfit has turned into online humiliation: tagged at a family party, looking like a stranger to myself.

There is a line we toe as people who really do this: do I look true to this, or new to this?

The stakes could not be lower.

You intentionally slip on a pair of Belgian loafers because the dog needs to go out, and someone notices. You take your perfectly thrashed Stone Cold tee out for a beer. You catch some rando looking at it with envy, and you ride that high into a bigger fit.

This is not a call to wear your opera pumps to Whole Foods. But the frozen food section is a launch pad.

It is where you break out the new shoes. Maybe the jeans you’re not quite ready to hard launch on a date. For me, it is usually a vintage tee I overpaid for that will never have the manners for the office, dinner, or any place you have to shower before going.

These outfits are one notch above proof of life.

They should not look like you put a ton of thought into them. They should look like your closet has no misses in it. Everything is so dialed that even your worst grab off the chair has a pulse.

These are the fits your kids are going to post in 20 years with the caption, “How did my dad pull my mom?” There you are, fitted as fuck, eating ice cream or holding court at happy hour post-beach.

Reliable bottoms, something relaxed up top that does not blob you out, maybe one loud or unfamiliar item you are letting decant around clothes with familiar notes.

Go high-low. Gym shorts with casual loafers. Swim trunks with something a little unhinged up top. A new jacket over a uniform that has already paid rent.

Accessories do a lot of the dirty work here. A well-patinaed hat, some good bling, handsome socks, cool sunnies, or a belt with some bite.

The trick is to look dialed, not deranged.

Most people only dress for the ball drop. They look completely lost during the countdown.

Find the clothes you love and live in them. Let them get coffee, pick up the item you forgot, and stick to you in the passenger seat on a hot day.

A wedding is easy pickings. Everyone looks good in a suit, and even better in a tux, as long as the fit is half decent. A vacation is a cakewalk. You empty the chamber. A reservation gives you permission to break out your fancy-boy clothes.

If you wait until your number is called, you are going to look like an imposter in your Sunday best — starched, standing like you owe your outfit money.

Singles score runs too.

Thursday, I’m teaching small ball. Subscribe if you want the cheat sheet.

-SP

Looking like shit is a plague because everyone has agreed to stop calling it one. You can stare directly at your own reflection and not realize you’ve been infected.

We all do it. We delude ourselves into thinking good enough is fine, but most of the time good enough isn’t even close.

The idea of “sprezzatura” was fed to you by people who look better than you and want you to stay sick. That is the trick: making effort look like weather.

A good magician never reveals all his secrets. Lucky for you, I am no magician. I am a man sick of looking at you.

So let’s diagnose the symptoms. Bad outfits rarely happen all at once or on purpose. They come from ignored little problems left alone long enough to become terminal.

1. Your clothes don’t fit

Most men think fit means one thing: can I button it before I sweat through it?

That is not fit. That is survival.

Fit is not just whether something is too tight. Too big is just as bad, sometimes worse, because at least tight has the decency to scream at you.

Oversized, when done with no intention, just makes you look like someone’s little brother.

Clothes that fit well make it look easy. They don’t expose you, swallow you, or punish your body for dumplings and a few beers.

The magic is less about the piece itself and more about what the fit does for you.

The pants elongate the leg and break with intention. The shirt breathes instead of begs. The jacket makes you look broad and intentional, not like you are helping your mother bring in groceries.

Your medicine: try on your clothes. Donate or sell what does not fit and what is no longer worth negotiating with. Learn your measurements. Find a good tailor and treat them like an old friend.

Stop playing pretend. Just because you love her does not mean she loves you back.

2. Your basics suck

If my dad had built houses, he would have said every good house starts with a strong foundation, or whatever.

Outfits are the same.

Your basics were probably fine when you opened them in front of your mom on Christmas morning four years ago. But time comes for us all.

Your pits are stained. Your collar is crispy. Your tees are thin enough to tell on you.

And no matter how much you like T. rexes, they do not need to be on your socks.

The foundation is not supposed to be exciting. It is not supposed to embarrass you.

You do not need an archive to look good. You need a white tee without pit stains.

Your medicine: you do not need to spend stupid money on whatever the viral best white tee of the moment is. I own a few expensive white tees. They are sexual. They are also exorbitant when you are trying to build a foundation.

To find a shirt that works for you, build yourself a little potpourri of cheap white tees. Try them on. Wear them. Wash them.

Once you find the one you like, buy a bunch. When one gets cooked, toss it.

Do the same with socks, underwear, and beaters. Find the boring thing that works, buy enough of it, and stop letting your foundation rot while you shop for paint.

3. It’s all one color

Monochromism is the lie they teach you when they want to steal your drip.

I am not innocent here. This is where I lay most of my bricks.

My mom is big on matching, and now I put on a blue shirt with blue pants more often than I am proud to admit.

This is not me saying never go mono. Mono can work, especially if you are going all-black Johnny Cash.

But proceed with caution. Do not let your best shirt die because your pants dragged it into corpo camo.

Your medicine: look in a mirror. I know, stupid. But seeing yourself as a navy blob will make you think twice before stepping out.

Not every moment is the right time to peacock. Try new combinations, even if you do not think they work at first. Seek counsel if you cannot tell.

This goes for textures and patterns too, if you are feeling brave.

The goal is not to look like you landed a throwaway part in the school play as “Ocean” or “Desert.”

4. You’re a copycat

Nobody likes a copycat.

Any time I've bought something because I thought it looked good on someone else, I've been thoroughly disappointed. My Balenciaga logo scarf would tell you as much, if I hadn't sold it at a tremendous loss and shipped it across the world. There's nothing wrong with some light larping. What little boy didn't grow up wanting to be a cowboy, a soldier, or a mountain climber?

But it ends there.

Most runway items stay on the runway for a reason. They are made for people far more beautiful than us.

It is easy to get caught up in Timmy courtside in Chrome or Jacob’s back-pocket Bottega paperback.

That does not mean you should bankrupt yourself trying to become a carbon copy of your crush.

You copied the idea, not the swag. There is nothing sexy or lived-in about adding a full look to cart.

Your medicine: Don’t buy something because someone living a better life than you has it. Ask yourself: do you want the piece, or do you want their life? If it’s the second one, no shirt is going to fix that. The runway, tunnel fits, and spotted airport photos are traps.

You are here. So at least pretend you’re better than that.

If you really want some designer whatever, and I know I do, let it marinate.

Look for things you already own that do something similar.

If you really want to nerd out, find the vintage apple capital-F Fashion is biting from.

5. You don’t actually care

I do not know why the fuck you are here if this applies to you.

If you made it this far, you have to at least kind of care.

We all get into ruts. You fall into a uniform and stretch it past the point of dignity.

You know the jeans look more like leggings, the shirt looks like your pits wet the bed, and the shoes are one bad step away from becoming sandals.

The truth is, it is easier not to care.

Getting fits off is agony. But someone has to do it.

Your medicine: give a shit. Send fit pics to the boys. Snag a tough rez and rise to the occasion.

Buy something that makes it wiggle, then build something with it.

Get motion, or get lost in a sea of bricks.

If this fixed you, Godspeed.

If you need more medicine, subscribe.

And comment your most recent brick so we can all gather around the rubble.

—SP

I knew it was wrong from the first cut. Medium-rare steak does not cut like this.

The borderline-gray fibers of a $140 Japanese ribeye hung on for dear life in front of me as one question raced through my head:

Do I send it back?

The best day for an expensive package to arrive is when you’re home alone.

Mood lighting. Full free roam to walk around in your new treasure. AC blasting, because no matter the weather, trying on clothes is sweaty work.

Where is our waitress? Am I still allowed to call her my waitress? If I say waiter, is this woman going to know who the hell I’m talking about?

This must be a sick, cruel joke.

Why am I eating outside? It’s 93 degrees out.

I dip my fork back into the mac and cheese. Have to be careful not to fill up on sides.

I look at my wife, who made this reservation two months ago.

I know what I have to do.

Why can I never find my packages?

Man, I miss having a doorman.

Shit. There it is.

Why did she turn off the AC when she left this morning? It gets too hot in this apartment.

Fuck, I’m hungry.

I’ll eat after I try this on. Don’t want to be bloated.

“Excuse me.”

My voice cracks. What’s wrong with me?

“Do you know where our waitress is?”

Her face turns careful as she walks over to the table.

“We ordered the steak medium-rare. I’m sorry—fuck, should I not have said I’m sorry?—but this is well done.”

She apologizes too much, takes the steak back, and I eat a few fries.

Still no sign of our waitress.

I should probably shower before I put this thing on.

It’s brutal in here. I miss having central air.

I’m too hungry to shower.

I shower.

These boxes never open nicely.

The box cuts medium rare.

Why does the box smell like that?

Jacket. Pants. Tissue paper. Sealed.

Is this the color I ordered?

A new steak comes out quickly.

Too quickly.

Brought over by someone I do not recognize.

My wife moves on to her third carrot.

“You should really try one,” she says.

We both know I won’t.

I’m too anxious to feign appreciation for $23 carrots.

I make eye contact with our waitress. She walks over. She knows before I do.

She has me make a show of cutting into the new steak.

It is raw.

She takes it back before we can protest.

I’ve made a grave miscalculation.

This is not the same linen suit I set an alarm for.

Why does it feel like burlap?

And this is sludge green, not beige.

It has to be the lighting.

The bedroom mirror has never reflected me.

Something is off with the proportions.

This was made for a different man.

Let’s go downstairs.

We hear the bell.

One of us says third time’s the charm as our waitress brings out the third steak.

Why did I eat all that mac and cheese?

It had Ritz crackers in it.

So good.

The restaurant stands still.

I cut.

I am full. She is full. The pan must be bent.

Half the steak is rare. Half is medium-well.

Nobody wanted steak anymore.

This will have to do.

The steak is taken off the bill.

I look like handsome Shrek.

Handsome Shrek could be a look for summer weddings, but why do I look like this?

Fuck. This is no good.

It’s the lighting.

Turn off the overhead light. Set the mood.

Remember, you’re going to be outside. It’s a summer wedding.

Take a selfie.

It’s not the suit. You need a haircut.

Delete it.

Take another one.

Delete that one.

Open your email.

Find the shipping email.

Scroll down.

Hit return.

-SP

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Let’s make this a recurring thing: everything I was fuckin’ with in June. Some of it I bought. Some of it I consumed with my mouth, ears, or eyes. Some of it I’m already over. And because I can’t help myself, there’s one thing I’m already coveting for July.

This isn’t my diary. That would require a paywall. These aren’t even necessarily my favorites. It’s just the stuff that, when I look back at the month, comes to the front of my mind: clothes, food, books, screens, sounds, small mirages, and whatever survived the initial impulse long enough to become noteworthy.

Had on Deck

The heat caught up with me this month. June kicked my ass a little, and I found myself reaching for the same few reliable things to avoid fully liquefying.

Our Legacy Borrowed Shirt in Big Daddy Stripe

This was my first OL shirt, and it’s been in rotation for years. It’s a big bastard. It also seems to get stained every time I wear it, earning it the title of the item in my closet that spends the most time at the cleaners. Still, I gravitate toward it on hotter days when I need to look slightly more put together without dreading anything with buttons. It hangs off the body just enough to give fashion-guy drape instead of “I paused my game for this” sloppy, which is all I’m asking from a shirt in 90+ degree heat.

Patagonia Baggies

I’m not going to wax poetic about these. You know the drill. Five-inch Baggies are a staple. Seven-inch if you’re a prude, I guess. Most likely, you wore yours all month too. At this point, not wearing them feels more contrarian than wearing them. Baggies in the heat are basically menswear’s “Florals? For spring?”

Swiped For

In life, it’s important to enjoy yourself. Though the act of swiping is mostly obsolete, it still feels like the most satisfying way to buy something. Tap to pay may be efficient, but those little vibrations have been known to send chills down the spine. Here are a few of my more goosebump-inducing spends.

Todd Snyder Summerweight Camp Collar Shirt

I have a good-boy event coming up, and while my clothes are by no means avant-garde, they may still catch a few looks from in-laws, family friends, and out-of-state cousins. That is where this shirt comes in. It’s light blue, boxy, and just patterned enough to suggest I made a choice without announcing that choice to the room. It separates me from the “honey, I’m home” uniform, but isn’t so offensive that my wife rolls her eyes during my new-package fashion show.

Put It on the Room — Grove Park Inn

I never really bought into the whole Airbnb thing. I don’t want to live in someone else’s life. I want to live in my own delusion. I’m a hotel man through and through. In my humble opinion, there is nothing better than a luxury stay, a spa day, walking around in a comically plush robe with Hemingway tucked under your arm, and the beautiful words “put it on the room.” Sure, it’s still my Amex attached to the whole thing, but for a few days you get to cosplay as a Kennedy until checkout.

Reusable Dog Diapers

It ain’t always pretty. I am by no means an animal person, but bless her soul, my wife is. So when it was time to move in her 14-year-old pit bull because he needed a little alone time from the other dog at her parents’ house, I became the dad who stepped up. Let’s just say these have been helpful. You do not always swipe for luxury.

Put Away

Ice Cream Summer

The same heat that had me spending way too much time in shorts and a T-shirt pushed me and a few friends into deeming this an ice cream summer. Before this goes any further, it’s important to understand that I’m an Ice Cream 365 kind of guy. I do not save frozen treats only for the dog days. I’ve been indulging in the occasional root beer float, strictly with vanilla soft serve, but the standout had to be a tiramisu ice cream sandwich I had at Capitoline. Creamy, espresso-dusted, and the size of a brick. A guinea’s delight.

Cook Out

When traveling, it is always important to taste the local cuisine. In Asheville, after eating at Bib Gourmand spots and influencer havens for the first few days, exploring the Blue Ridge Mountains, and feeling outright giddy with the beauty of this country, it became important to stay grounded. That is how you end up at Cook Out.

Staying on theme with ice cream summer, I upgraded my bounty of a Big Double with bacon and BBQ sauce, a cheese quesadilla, and a corn dog to include a chocolate milkshake. Biting into that corn dog as Old Glory hung beside me, I was a true patriot.

Screens & Scribbles

World Cup

What are we all if not prisoners of the moment? Coming off a magical Arsenal season and a devastating Mets season, I am all in on the World Cup. Of course I’m pulling for the Stars and Stripes, but I’m also enjoying playing expert around friends who still don’t know why the clock never stops. It gives you a great excuse to cut out, even if it’s just the noon game on your second screen.

Off Campus

This is high stakes. If you are not watching what the girlies are watching, you’re just wrong. The people are beautiful, the music is catchy, and I found myself deeply invested, heart fluttering at every Wellsy/Garrett interaction. I have definitely hit the over on the amount of hockey smut I’ve watched this year.

Giovanni’s Room

Putting aside my feelings after losing a rigged Pride kickball game, I picked this up to continue my allyship, and what a banger. Short, devastating, stylish, and memorable.

The God of the Woods

Of everything I read in June, this was the one I kept within arm’s reach. Originally meant to be a vacation read, I got lost in the Adirondacks the week prior and had it done and dusted before the plane touched down. Creepy, opulent, and fast, which is all I want from a summer read. It will be the book I spend the next few months bugging people to read.

Ear Stuff

Camp — Childish Gambino

I’m not a cool music guy. If there’s a hole in my game, that’s it. I don’t listen to much music and tend to get into a groove where I listen to the same thing over and over. This month, Camp struck a nerve. Maybe it was the early-summer feeling or reading The God of the Woods, but it got a few front-to-back listens. “Letter Home” was the clubhouse leader. This is more of a confession than an endorsement. Send me new music that I’ll probably neglect.

Red Rising Series — Audible

Audiobooks are one of the best ways to cut out. I try to read standalone books the hard way, but when it comes to a series, you can get cozy and tune everything else out. After a long day of hearing myself speak, there’s nothing I enjoy more than letting someone else do the heavy lifting.

Since Red Rising is on every “books for boys” list out there, and I’m a boy, I gave it a shot. It hits. Action, space travel, a little romance — the perfect thing to distract you from beach traffic and the next 20 minutes on the rower.

Already Over

Little Gem

I am on record saying lettuce is a complete bullshit food, but I am a slut for a rebrand. Just as I will never touch mayo but will devour an aioli, I gave Little Gem, aka really small lettuce, a shot. I’d given it no-thank-you bites every time it graced my table, but this weekend, when the Little Gem that somehow always gets comped hit the table, I did not take a bite. Apparently, it was delicious.

Coveting

Second/Layer Sherman LS Shirt

Shirting is the most fun and low-stakes item to shop for. A great shirt can make you, but if it doesn’t fit, the whiff doesn’t sting like pants. So I once again find myself making eyes at a new one.

When I first saw this on IG, I immediately sent it to the boys and said, “I want the sherbet-looking one.”

This feels like an anti-good-boy shirt: bold but still chill. Made for doing dirt with the boys, not splitting stuffed French toast with the Mrs.

I bought it while writing this.

-SP

Sometimes you want to go where nobody knows your name.

I enjoy being away, but the days and weeks leading up to a trip always make me feel like I left the stove on.

Naturally, I deal with this in the healthiest way possible.

I look at menus. I book spa treatments. Most of all, I shop.

I prep outfits for days that do not technically exist yet. Because if the fit is hard, maybe the sky cannot fall. I turn my wife into my personal fit pic photographer and painstakingly curate the rare Instagram dump, so a modest audience of people who did not ask can see the fruits of my angst.

Every trip comes with a business decision: am I the weather’s bitch, or is the weather mine?

I went to Asheville recently, and even though conditions were not ideal for my OL Welding Shirt, ALL SYSTEMS WERE GO.

In the monotony of the summer T-shirt and shorts cycle, I was determined to descend into the depths of my closet and wear the outfits I had been sculpting in my head while the stove was on. Even if that meant sweating through lunch, pretending seersucker was air conditioning, and immediately changing back into Baggies the moment the check hit the table.

Chefs do not put new dishes right on the menu. They burn them. They over-salt them. They realize the thing they thought was genius at midnight tastes like a cry for help in daylight.

Vacation does the same thing for clothes.

It gives you a place to stress test outfits before you roll them out at home. A small, low-stakes test kitchen where nobody knows the menu. Think of it like running a special. The shirt you keep moving around your closet, self-conscious about the crop. The pants you bought with confidence, then feared because of their silhouette. The fun pair of sunnies that are not quite ready for a group beach day.

We do not play dress-up on vacation. We give our bold purchases time to decant before pouring them for the regulars back home.

Wear the clothes you are usually too self-conscious to wear and do not explain the choices to anyone. Live in your forgotten garments for a few days and let them cook.

And if they work, they come home with you. Not as souvenirs. As starters.

The cruelest part is that when you finally put on the piece you have been mythologizing, you usually realize it worked the whole time. It worked before the trip. It works during the trip. And if you can remain bold long enough to unpack it, it will work again.

Worst-case scenario, the fit bricks on vacation. And if a fit bricks on vacation and no one is around to see it, did it really brick?

As nice as it is to walk into the same place every morning and have them start making your cortado before you say a word, sometimes you want something with whipped cream. You want to make a lil mess.

Being someplace new removes all the preconceived notions people have of you. Nobody knows your usual uniform. Nobody knows what counts as “a lot” for you. You get to manufacture a little fake aura, wear it around for a few days, and bring it back as lore for the boys at home.

That is the trick: you are not trying to live in eternal vacation fits. You are bringing back a little sauce for when the everyday starts tasting bland.

Snuggling up with some juicy tailoring and cosplaying in a hotel lobby bar with an olive-oil-washed martini is an extraordinary way to spend an afternoon. But the phone will eventually ring, and someone on the other end will be asking a question you have answered a million times.

The dream does not die with the vibration of a phone.

Fare Filone is Italian slang for playing hooky, which is an aggressively romantic way to describe not doing the thing you are supposed to be doing.

The art of cutting out early is not about going off the grid. It is not about “finding your beach.” Most of the time, it is smaller and dumber than that. Steal a little room back for yourself. Break routine without blowing up your life.

Add the extra layer even if you sweat through it. Smoke the cheeky cig. Buy the book even though you have piles of unread ones. Cut out early, even if you have to come back and hop on a call.

What’s the piece you’re packing because you’re too scared to debut it at home?

-SP

My closet has become a hope journal on hangers: full of crushes, delusions, and versions of myself I planned on becoming.

I want all of it, and somehow almost none of it wants me back.

I am, at my core, a dirty maximalist capitalist and proud of it. The thrill of finding that perfect item, the sales associate telling you, “those were made for you,” and the rush of adding to cart — it is the type of bad decision that briefly feels like self-improvement.

But when the tags are off and the return policy is voided, we face the reality of our overstuffed drawers and comically full closets. Here are the items I just can’t quit and the ones that represent the man I want to become.

The J.Crew Giant-Fit Oxford

Why I wear it too much:
This has been my most-worn piece of clothing by a mile. I like the fit. It’s always on sale.

In the interest of full journalistic transparency, I have six of these and am wearing the blue one as I type this. This shirt is my Linus blanket. I wear it with gym shorts and suits, and it never looks out of place.

Why I’m sick of it:
As the expression goes, there’s always someone tired of fucking her. Though this shirt would represent a major upgrade for anyone drowning in performance polos and gingham button-downs bought by moms, girlfriends, and wives, it has turned me into a one-trick pony.

Snuggled deep in the comfort of my slightly oversized oxford, I have lost sight of what really matters: getting off massive fits.

What I should wear instead:
Emily Dawn Long Jeff’s Shirt.

Jeff’s Shirt is the EDL piece that gets me going: personal story, great colorways, and enough detail to make my stack of oxfords look less like taste and more like a tic.

I could have been a coward and referred to the delicious Wythe Oxford that I also own in an abundance of colors, but when getting dressed, we must not take the path of least resistance.

I am not saying you need this shirt in every color. I am saying I bought one a few months ago, wore it a grand total of one time, and have been treating it like it belongs behind glass ever since. But dry cleaners exist for a reason. Live in your clothes, don’t just visit them.

Would I recommend it?

J.Crew Oxford: Overwhelmingly, yes. You should buy ONE of these shirts. Whenever I put in an order at J.Crew, I add one to the cart out of fear that one day they will stop making it. If I feel that strongly about a shirt I’m actively complaining about, that should tell you everything.

EDL Jeff’s Shirt: Yes. Pick one that feels approachably ambitious and start wearing it like you live in it.

UNIQLO Barrel Pants

Why I wear them too much:
There aren’t many better feelings than having pants that just fit. When you’re running behind in the morning, a grappling match with your top button is enough to push any sane person to the brink. That is why we all love pants with a little give.

These give you room to breathe without looking like you have fully surrendered to a forgiving waistband. The barrel leg gives you just enough of an “I do clothes” look in a room full of ABC dupes.

Why I’m sick of them:
When the day comes and you have to put on pants that do not stretch, you are in for the battle of your life. Your trusty wedding suit no longer clasping is not a surprise. It is a jolt of reality. The elastic has betrayed your tailoring.

NOT ALL OF YOUR PANTS SHOULD STRETCH.

Do not let your pants lull you into submission. I, like any other full-blown adult, need pants that do not negotiate. No drawstrings. No secret give. No quiet little waistband bailout plan.

Worse, any fashion-guy effect the barrel leg once had for me has worn off now that it has become part of my uniform.

What I should wear instead:
Casatlantic Tanger Trousers.

Call me Kurt Angle the way I wrestle with this top button. I have had these pants for a few years, and though I have very few notes on them, they have plenty of notes for me.

The leg is wide without looking silly, and they serve as a great base for anything from a T-shirt to a blazer. But I have been betrayed by drawstrings and elastic, and these do not always fit me the way they do in my hope journal.

The dream remains alive, even if the button currently disagrees.

The less punishing route: The Ralph Lauren Andrew Pant can usually be found on eBay for much less, for those who want accountability on a budget.

Would I recommend it?

UNIQLO Barrel Pants: Yes, but be careful not to fall for their trap. You are not shrinking; the pants are just negotiating.

Casatlantic Tanger Trousers: If they speak to you like they do to me, yes. Nothing holds you accountable like spending real money on pants that don’t give a fuck about your feelings.

adidas x Wales Bonner Karintha OG

Why I wear them too much:
I don’t buy sneakers often — a direct response to growing up in New York during the hypebeast era. After learning everything I could about sneakers in my younger years, I checked out sometime around the Galaxy Foams.

In sneakers, I look for ease without going full NPC. I have cycled through 990s, Sambas, Stan Smiths, and any other white sneaker trend you can think of, including an extended stay in a pair of Golden Goose sneakers that I wore through the soles. This pair is my next sacrifice.

Why I’m sick of them:
I’m sick of them because I shouldn’t be sick of them yet.

I was excited when I bought these. I am always looking for a white-ish sneaker, so I hunted down my size and ordered immediately. I love the way they look, and for the first few weeks, putting them on still felt special.

But as I lazily slip them on most mornings, I now greet them with an eye roll and a level of disdain a shoe this beautiful did not sign up for. I have turned them into a prison of my own creation.

What I should wear instead:
Gucci Horsebit 1953 loafers.

I was between two here. The Belgian Shoes Mr. Casual is probably my favorite piece of footwear I own. I wore them on my wedding day. But ultimately, my pick is the Gucci Horsebit 1953 loafer.

I bought my Horsebits as a reward for opening my first office, at a time when I really could not afford them. They made me feel like I was in charge, which is a dangerous amount of emotional responsibility to give a loafer.

The Horsebit is different from the Belgian. There is no IYKYK about it. Everyone knows. These are what I should be wearing when I want to dress up my self-imposed uniform, or when I need a kick in the ass to actually get dressed. To wear them is to show you care, and you want people to know.

Would I recommend it?

adidas x Wales Bonner Karintha OG: Yes. Watch your step. Anything this easy can go from “great everyday shoe” to “foot prison with better branding” very quickly.

Belgian Shoes Mr. Casual: Resounding yes. I love these. I wore them on my wedding day. They look great beat up, and sizing can get weird. Just a heads up.

Gucci Horsebit 1953: Yes. If you’re looking to splash out on timeless footwear, you could do a lot worse. I bought mine when I had no business buying them, and I still think they were worth it.

The Layer I Refuse to Wear

Why I keep doing it:
Day in and day out, I go from an air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned office and convince myself what I’m doing is enough.

The truth is, in my day-to-day life, a sneaker not everyone has and a little play with proportion is going above and beyond. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. And to the untrained eye, it probably looks like effort.

Why I’m sick of it:
A chore coat, a knit, even a belt. Something to turn clothes into a fit.

I keep putting on clothes without getting dressed. The bones are there, but I feel incomplete as I scurry from one climate-controlled area to another. Never having to remove a layer or undo a button, I have been swaddled into mid by the thermostat and automatic start.

I yearn to dress.

What I should wear instead:
Our Legacy Welding Shirt.

To know me is to see my Mr. Porter wishlist. This shirt held a residency on said list for the better part of a year. It is one of those rare wants that became a need. I planned outfits and envisioned a life with her, and when the most recent sale came, I pounced.

I regret to inform you the tags are still on.

As much as leather needs to be worn to find its final form, I neglect it, stowed away like Rapunzel in a garment bag in the back of my closet. This is not a break-in-case-of-emergency layer. It exists because sometimes the outfit needs to stop being convenient and start being dressed.

There is nothing lazy about it, which is why I can’t look it in the eyes.

Would I recommend it?

Our Legacy Welding Shirt: Yes, if it speaks to you. But this is not really about the shirt.

In a deeply unironic sense, I recommend shopping your closet. Give away or sell the stuff you know you are never going to wear again, then find the few things you have been too lazy, scared, or precious to wear and get a fit off.

The clothes are already there. The problem is us.

Comment the piece you have been too lazy to wear, then tag @farefilone in the fit pic when you finally stop being a coward.

-SP

Well, I tried running and it killed my dad… so I guess I’ll start a Substack.

Is there anything more embarrassing than new?

Wearing a pair of bright white sneakers in public for the first time. The sun shining on them. Blinding people as they drive by.

Last summer, I bought a white pair of Nike Cortez and walked them through the nearby park until the picture-day shine was gone, before wearing them anywhere that actually mattered.

As I struggled with my disappearing hair, I did what any sensible person would do: I got the buzz cut. Around the same time, Channing was riding around with Zoë on his pegs. Though I am sad to report I was not an exact clone, it worked.

People liked it.

But the first time you see people after a change, the attention you get far exceeds what is appropriate for a grown man. They all knew the embarrassing fact that I tried. That I was self-conscious about something.

This is the true embarrassment of new: putting yourself out there.

None of this has stopped me.

When you love silly little outfits — the name of my menswear group chat on IG — you can never stop searching for and ringing the shame bell on something new.

Recently, in my search for slutty silver jewelry, I came across Gottlob and bought a silver necklace.

I have never been one for necklaces outside of a cross at my baptism and a misguided era where I wore a rose gold Cuban trying to get in touch with my Staten Island roots. But I took a shot.

Then came the usual questions, including one of my employees asking me if it was a family heirloom because it just doesn’t feel like me.

Nevertheless, I prevailed. I overcame the shame of new and have a new daily driver.

Though I wish I could say that all of my risky purchases go off without a hitch, even the most coveted items sometimes fall flat.

After weeks of deliberating, I pulled the trigger on an awesome MFPEN sweater.

Unfortunately, it did not fit anywhere close to how I imagined. It would never see the light of day on my body, despite being something I thought was surely going to be a staple in my rotation.

It left my spirit deflated and my body inflated.

Sometimes the worst part about trying is trying on.

New was not always like this, though.

New used to be met with anticipation and promise.

In 2004, fresh off Kevin Garnett’s MVP season, Adidas blessed us with the KG1. I had to have them.

After a lifetime of wearing Shaqs and, at the time, uncool New Balances due to my mother’s insistence that I had a wide foot — a statement I think is her own version of Munchausen by proxy — the KG1s would be my back-to-school shoe.

Growing up in a working-class family, as you may know, the back-to-school shoe was a huge decision that would anchor my outfits for the foreseeable future.

Choosing the quilted white pair — before new white shoes made me want to crawl in a hole and die — was bold.

I was bold.

My obsession with clothing and what I wore came at a very young age, and though outwardly it ebbs and flows and I fall into a uniform like most others, the love remains the same.

That is what we will do here: explore that love with a few other things that I feel I have more authority on than others for no real reason other than I like how I do it.

I’ll tell you my size — probably only if you ask.

I’ll link you to things I think are good. I won’t get paid for it, and I’ll tell you what I paid.

I’ll do my best not to list the five best shoes to wear this summer or clothes you can wear from the office to the course to date night.

And if I’m talking out my ass, I’ll tell you upfront.

I will chase trends and regret it. I’ll tell you when the fit bricked.

Example: the Tom Ford ballet flats I have been wrestling with for the past few weeks, which my wife has made clear are hideous and should remain between me, Tom Ford, and my group chat. I can promise you that if I could find a 14, they would be purchased and regretted.

Now for the embarrassment: the public shame of putting yourself out there, most likely to abandon it and have it remain online forever in the graveyard of fitness-journey accounts, cooking accounts, and dog accounts.

But why not give it a shot?

This may end up being the next KG1.

I would ask you to subscribe, but I am not as bold as I once was.

— SP