I could use a strong hand right now.
I have not been adequately degrading myself and sacrificing to the gods of the Reel and the patron saints of fit pics.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you probably noticed I didn’t post my Weekly Fits on Saturday.
After fielding countless concerned texts and calls—people wondering, “Is this the end of Fare Filone as we know it?” “Will this Instagram become another graveyard of shame?” “Did this 31-year-old man really make a TikTok just to quit?”—I’m here to report:
I haven’t heard no bell.
Now that we’ve done the bravado and grandeur, let’s get back to tongue-in-cheek transparency.
I just didn’t fucking do it.
Weekly Fits were never a part of the plan. The plan was to write about pants and let the adoration and accolades fill me to the brim.
That plan took two things for granted: how few people know what Substack is, and how many people will actually sit down and read.
When I was talking about this with a former blogger, he told me, “It’s tough to keep writing things down with minimal acknowledgment. I don’t even think a pimp could get me to do it anymore.”
I probably wouldn’t read some kid I went to high school with writing about his niche interest either.
Here’s your lesson from the Fare Filone content class: people may not want to read me writing about pants, but they’ll sure as shit look at me wearing them. They’ll probably want an ID too.
And just like that, “How the Sausage Got Dressed” was born.
Now the psychosis of it all. Let’s put my ass on trial and break down what I remember wearing out of the house—because the fits were hard AF, even if there’s no evidence.
Monday: I mean, don’t even actual influencers get Labor Day off? Taking fit pics is labor, even if it is a labor of love.
This was an honest mistake. I just forgot it was Monday.
I wore blown-out Bostons, yellow beach-GORP shorts from Old Navy, a Turkey and the Wolf tee with an OG Simpsons-looking graphic, and a crusty white Wythe hat my wife really wants me to throw out.
Tuesday: Back to the grid.
My normal daytime photographer was away, and I couldn’t handle the embarrassment of having to explain to another grown man how I like my picture taken. RayRay, you are a gem.
With my daily ritual disrupted, I ignored my self-imposed full-time job.
I wore the Manresa Roebuck shirt, my C.P. Company cargos, and the white adidas I always wear.
Wednesday: I had to wake up way too early to put any real thought into getting dressed, but this was going to be the day I got back on track.
I had Tuesday’s fit put aside so I could toss it back on for the picture. Monday would be excluded under the Holiday Exception, I’d get Wednesday’s shot, and we’d be right where we were supposed to be.
Then there was the idea of making my eight-month-pregnant wife take my fit pics, which made me feel negligent and demented.
I wore a brown Aaron Levine quarter-zip, blue Uniqlo barrel-leg pants, and blue adidas Gazelles.
Thursday: This is where it starts to become a blur. I don’t remember the fit, so an oxford was probably involved. I do know I didn’t wear jeans or loafers all week.
At one point that day, I decided I was going to do a funny photoshoot making fun of the fact that I hadn’t taken any pictures all week.
I didn’t do that either.
Friday: This was 9/11.
You have to be a fucking animal to make content on 9/11.
It felt skeevy to take and post a fit pic that day, and even worse to use it as the day I made up for an entire week of ineptitude.
So I didn’t.
Though I had ambitions of doing a flat-lay video of everything I wore that week, those faded as the outfits blurred together and I started drinking.
2–0 to the Arsenal.
There you have it: the lost week of dressing the sausage, in blurred detail.
I had something else planned for today, but this felt like an important thing to acknowledge within the Fare Filone non-cinematic universe.
I’m happy to report that Fare Filone is not going anywhere. We’re back to our regularly scheduled programming this week.
The bell has not rung, and there are 100 mugs in a shipping container in China with the Fare Filone logo on them. If they arrive after I stop posting, they will bring me a level of shame I cannot comprehend.
See you Thursday.
-SP