RIP: The Last Hour of Brooks Brothers in Downtown Los Angeles

Although long and permanently estranged from his hometown of Los Angeles, the werewolf was slightly saddened to read this pensive and reflective obituary of the Brooks Brothers flagship in downtown Los Angeles.

The werewolf knew this particular Brooks Brothers rather well. It will always have a special place in his black heart. It was late during the summer of 1999, a few weeks before the werewolf was set to return to New Hampshire to wrap up his senior year of high school, that he was first formerly introduced to this branch of classic men's clothing retailer. The werewolf's father invited him downtown for lunch at the grill room in the esteemed Jonathan Club (a classic Los Angeles social club that despite a fading reputation and growing detachment from the old-world ethos that made it so worthy, remains one of the greatest places on earth and a perennial favorite of the werewolf's). The werewolf's devotion, affection, and nostalgia for the "J Club" merit a post unto itself one of these days. It also reflected a cherished time of naive innocence and blissful optimism prior to werewolf's estrangement from his family and the jading effect that life's hurdles and frustrations permanently impress upon us took root.

Prior to his retirement, the werewolf's father worked on the 24th floor of 777 South Figueroa, one of the most commanding and attractive sky-scrappers in downtown Los Angeles ,which loosely resembled a tiered wedding cake from afar. On a clear day, it providing not only captivating views of other sky-scrappers, but beyond the nearly infinite suburban sprawl, the occasionally snow-caped mountains east of Los Angeles could be seen when the smog wasn't too obstructive. It always gave one good reason to pause on a clear day. The office building itself was about four or five blocks south of the Jonathan Club, with the storied Brooks Brothers location exactly in between.

It was a beautiful, albeit, slightly toasty summer day in Los Angeles. After parking the faithful old Acura Legend at the J Club and walking down to his father's office because that is how it was done back then, the werewolf recalls the pleasant small-talk walking back to the J-Club to enjoy lunch in the Grill Room. After lunch, the old man informed the werewolf that a jaunt to Brooks Brothers, just down the street, was in order because it was time he had a real suit.

It was the werewolf's first suit buying experience. It was a pretty cool. He had occasionally gone with his father to GB Harb & Son, a old LA tailor-shop, and always admired the sense of style and impeccable fit that ensured from those trips, yet was too young to understand how it could possibly apply to him.

The downtown Brooks Brothers store was surprisingly voluminous and had an expansive series of suit racks accommodating every type of potential customer out there. After long and deliberate discussion with both his father and salesman, the werewolf settled on a two-buttoned, pleated, charcoal gray suit from Brooks Brothers entry-level line. The salesman was impeccably thought and offered what seemed to be prudent advice at the time. There was a brief flurry of debate about pinstripes, which the werewolf's father was wearing that day, but being young, brash, and unsure of his style, the understated universality of the charcoal gray won at his father's aggressive urging. The suit itself was legendary and would endure seven years of hard use by the werewolf before being retired. It survived countless job interviews, two summer internships on Capitol Hill, a brief stint in London, countless student government meetings, several wild parties in South Africa, including one where it ended up, along with the werewolf, in a swimming pool chasing a pretty girl. It was worn so much, that eventually it just gave-out in certain areas - the seems connecting the sleeves to the jack body tore and one of the pockets got caught on something leaving gash in the side of the pants -  although it always fit rather well for on OTR suit, and as the werewolf got older, and lost and gained weight cyclically, it seemed to conform to his body obediently. A white and blue oxford cloth button-down, along with a regimental tie, that the werewolf's father called "a Reagan tie," and busy paisley tie were also acquired that day. Nowadays, the werewolf wouldn't get caught dead OCBD with a suit, but it worked well back then.

Although he never frequented that Brooks Brothers, his seasonal visits to that store and first time suit buying experience will always resonate with him. The werewolf loves a good Brooks Brothers suit, but has evolved to prefer made-to-measure suits form  Samuelsohn or Adrian Jules mixed in with several old-faithfuls from Brooks Brothers.

Having long left LA, the werewolf knows his sadness is slightly illogical and strange. Yet, he can't help but feel like downtown Los Angeles has lost out on some level. Here's to cherished memories.

The werewolf interviews

One of the things the werewolf intended to write about when this blog was quickening, was the style and haberdashery of the modern man. (It's unoriginal, I know, but they say write about the things you like and know about.) To be charitable, the werewolf can be described as a rabid clothes hound with an insatiable appetite for classic tailored clothes and styles. He fancies himself a bizarre blend of trad, preppy, and country gentlemen when he is at his best.

The attempted look was the understated financial services professional seeking to blend in, yet knows how to dress. The suit is an two-buttoned, medium shoulder padded, single pleated, made-to-measure charcoal gray Adrian Jules from the now defunct Michael Christopher in Atlanta; the shirt is a light blue herringbone with french cuffs and a spread collar from Robert Talbott, the tie is standard navy and red Hermes; the cuff-links are hunting hounds from England; and the shoes are black Johnston & Murphy cap-toes that the werewolf acquired during his first internship on Capital Hill in 2001(They are faithful servants on their second sole).  During the end of business school and throughout exile, I have lost a little weight causing some billowing in the shirt, yet somehow, I look like a chubby-fuck in those pictures. I would love any input on the look, as I am constantly trying to improve and I fear exile has dulled my sartorial senses.

Anyhow, last Thursday, the werewolf was in Washington, DC, interviewing for a management consulting position. For the record and despite being an Vanderbilt MBA, the werewolf wants it to be known that he harbors a healthy skepticism for lawyers, investment bankers, and management consultants. (The werewolf recognizes and embraces the value that the aforementioned trades bring, but the consensus of their alleged collective greatness stokes his contrarian flames on multiple levels, plus consulting promotes the wearing of black suits, a hell-bound and unforgivable style sin in the werewolf's book) He'll think of something pithy to have engraved on his headstone that captures the aforementioned sentence and his strong emotions on the subject.

Back to the interview, for whatever reason, something about the interview had the werewolf profoundly nervous and agitated the few days prior. It was some sort of uncharacteristic lapse in confidence that was a first for him. Perhaps it was the fact that the quiet desperation of exile has him considering career options he vowed never to pursue and that breaking his own internal code of honor for all the wrong reasons just causes indigestion. He conquered his internal defects and rallied to put his best effort forward. In retrospect, The werewolf gives himself a B for his interview performance. He didn't royally fuck-up, yet, yet he didn't knock the truck window out. Quick overview, the werewolf had two interviews with senior managers in the firm, both lasting about an hour. The first interview was with the chief of research officer, a nice and smart guy, who had the attitude of a failed academic. It was lively discussion; there was were a few small case questions bandied about, however, the interviewer fixated at the werewolf's three years as an insurance broker, and was obsessed with trying to get the werewolf to confess that there is no longer a value-add in that important financial service. Rest assured, the werewolf didn't buckle. The second interview was the head of new product development. The guy was nice enough, but had a sever head cold, and was doped up on some sort of cocktail of DayQuil/NyQuil because he asked the werewolf the same question three different times throughout the interview and kept being intrigued by the same answer. Plus, his runny nose and glassy eyes were distracting. That's the quick wrap on it all.

The company itself was a tad sterile and stodgy. However, they must have had an unwritten policy that dictates recruiting tall attractive women from the volleyball teams of elite universities. While waiting in the reception area, three exceedingly lust-worthy women who exceeded 6ft in height, floated down the marble floored hallway with the sound of their clacking heels heralding their approach. They all had that bitchy and entitled "I know I am hot, asshole" look about them bred exclusively in elite universities. The werewolf was proud to be caught by the second one in one of those head-turning scope the chick's best features as she walks by moves. Sometimes, discretion is overrated.