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.

Lazy sartorial analysis from the Financial Times.

Once upon a time, the werewolf considered himself somewhat savvy when it came to the realm of traditional men's style. He hopes that exile hasn't dulled his sartorial sensibilities. However, this article (registration may be required) from the Financial Times, by Vanessa Friedman, shows that Ms. Friedman possesses an embarrassing ignorance of American style trends in politics over the past decade. She's vapidly attributes the blue-tie craze to Obama, when in fact blue-ties were the hallmark cravat of the Bush administration. It was under President Bush that "blue became the new red" in terms of displaying power ties. The media extensively covered Bush, as the outgoing blue-tie president, here and here. In fact, one fashion photographer thought that Obama replicated Bush's style so much, that he put together a quiz. Take it. (The werewolf bets you fail). This isn't even a partisan jab. The werewolf loved Tony Blair's style, and finds Gordon Brown drabness just cause for blinding himself.

Neither Bush nor Obama are particularly stunning with regards to their suit selections. Bush seemed to wear slightly fuller suits, whereas, Obama's seems to have slightly trimmer cuts to fit his more slender frame. However, as President's of the United States, both seem to appropriately error on the side of understatement in their professional presentation.

The werewolf thinks the banking CEO's, (also featured in the article) knowing that they are in deep poop, deliberately picked the most boring ties and dullest suits they could find in order to minimize any point of contention during their senate hearings. Recall that the auto CEO's were roundly criticized for flying to DC in their corporate jets to beg for their bailout money. Bankers have a reputation as flashy dressers, so raiding the nearest Jos A. Bank's was both a prudent and logical PR move on their end. Well executed, gentlemen. The werewolf will now wonder where the hell you are spending the trillions of dollars in bonuses and bailouts you have received, because you're both dressed like an impoverished sales associate at the Men's Warehouse.

The media seems to love to find reasons to fellate President Obama. They usually miss the mark by a wide margin, but missing it by this far, well, that is just embarrassing.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss?

According to the NY Times, storied San Fransisco clothier, Wilkes Bashford, narrowly dodged going the way of the Dodo. Despite a growing population, and until recently, an expanding wealth base, it seems to me that specialized men's clothing stores have struggled as a business concept. Among other things, I chalk this up to the tragic homogenization of taste/style, men outsourcing their wardrobe decisions to their wives/partners, inconsistent dress-code policies at the office, the rise of online shopping, and the ridiculous "we're so desperate to get foot traffic in our stores" promotions that include "buy one ugly thing and get six free" at Joseph A. Banks. Also, the homogeneous big-box stores like Macy's are purely a volume play, so at some point they, too, engage in "80% off" sales to move the product they over-purchased off the shelves to make way for the next season of boring goods. While there is some price relief for consumers, a good thing, methinks, it's a sad trend for the clothes horse, but an inevitable one, I guess.

It looks like the white knight who swooped in and saved Wilkes Bashford from folding, the Mitchell family, have been successful in buying struggling local men's stores and breathing new life in to them. Interesting. Despite a slight affection for Brooks Brothers and J. Press, I always preferred getting outfitted by the local guys to the national and hyper-boring chains that dominate most of the retail scene. The local shops that were worth their salt offered better service, invested themselves in their relationship with you, usually had distinctive merchandise in stock, and made it a point to understand me as clothes horse consumer, rather than push conformist and seasonal trends my way. A few outstanding examples that I formally patronized were Atlanta's Michael Christopher(now semi-defunct), and H. Stockton; Charlotte's Old Dog, and Taylor Richard & Conger; and Nashville's Oxford Shop.

Despite several visits to San Fransisco over the years, I never made it to Wilkes Bashford, although it was always a store I heard was worth walking through. It does sound too pricey for my blood. What I find interesting is now that Wilkes Bashford, which served the hoity-toity monied elite of the bay area, has been acquired by east coast clothiers, will it still be able to select merchandise that its patrons are accustomed too, or will it lose some of its uniqueness by being part of a larger purchasing collective with an east coast bias? Clearly the old model didn't work out, as Wilkes Bashford was in death throws only a few weeks ago. However, I am always interested in the claim that nothing will change when new ownership takes the helm, despite the notion that change is clearly afoot. There are certainly upsides by being absorbed by a larger owner, like leveraging suppliers on volume purchases, along with other economies of scale, yet, there also exists the potential to get product dilution and lose the sense of local distinctiveness that was once a source of viability. The jury is out and change is clearly afoot, it will be interesting to see if the new model for local guys is to band together and consolidate in the name of staying alive. Here's to adapting and surviving.

Confession of a dangerous mind: An Anglophile admits to liking something French. Phoenix - 1901(live)

It's funny. For years I eschewed almost all things French. There is no serious logic to the roots of this Franco-contempt I harbor. Since I was a child, I have always been imbued with a profound Anglophile streak. This can be chalked up to a deep resonance for tales of Churchill, Nelson, Thatcher, and Wellington among others, while despising the likes of Marshal Petain, and generally interpreting the French as venal, petulant, feeble, and unreliable. I still proudly maintain most of these biases. The Lafayette shtick never really held that much water with me.

My anti-Gaulish bona fides were so legit that during the spring semester of my junior year of college in 2003, a political science professor started off his April 1 lecture by announcing that I was taking up a collection to repatriate the Statue of Liberty to France. Along with collective gasps of dismay from the classroom, the girl sitting in front of me quickly snapped around and in wide-eyed rage accused me of being a "patriotic pig," before the professor could announce it was an April fool's gag. Gone are the days.

I guess I have mellowed a tad through the years. Despite never taking to French wines, even though my father always pushed them on me, I have always loved French ties. I permanently borrowed my first Hermes from my father towards the end of college, and have aggressively expanded my collection French ties since then. My favorites have always been the unlined, unstructured ties of Arnys. They tie great knots and drape distinctively. Charvet ties have such bold colors and are so beautifully woven that their elegance is hard to surpass, but I find them delicate and quick to fray, hence they don't get worn as much. Hermes has great patterns, although some would consider them cliched. The Hermes tie I lifted from my father is probably thirty years old, yet its subtle display of equestrian bits goes with just about any professional outfit I can throw together. Timeless.

I have never thought much of French rockers. For the most part, the French just aren't programmed to get rock and roll. This link says it all. Trust me. However, I will confess to being pleasantly surprised by Phoenix. I find their current hit, "1901," to be appropriately catchy and enjoyable. I became aware of the band years ago through their song "Too Young," and always thought them to be French Canadian for no good reason. Anyways, since this werewolf is in exile, he'll be honest with the world by starting to admit that he is finding a few French things likable.

Mad Men style.

There are many redeeming features to AMC's hit series Mad Men, not the least of which is a new found attention to the classic and nostalgic standard of men's haberdashery that is associated with JFK, the early 60's, Ivy league preppyness, et al. I am a huge fan of the show and the style it showcases. I'll save the attempt to wax uneloquent about the various political, social, and cultural overtones of the show during another post. However, I have been bemused and slightly perturbed by how Don Draper is frequently branded as the show's paradigm of style. This is a mistake, methinks. Draper, while certainly projecting a muted reverence for classic Madison avenue style, is slavishly boring when contrasted with the more colorful, poignant, and imperial Roger Sterling. Sterling, superbly portrayed actor by John Slattery, is frequently armed with a tumbler of scotch in one hand, a Lucky Strike cigarette in the other, and he possesses a endless quiver of scene stealing one-liners that showcase his sardonic wit. He qualifies as a dapper Dan extraordinaire. Between the meticulous silhouette on his three-piece suits, the understated color contrast of his neck ties, and clean cropped hair cut, he is clearly the titan of style on the show. If dominant suit manufacturers such as Brooks Brothers, Adrian Jules, Oxxford, Hickey Freeman, or Samuelsohn had a true understanding of the show, they'd try and leverage "Sterling style" at some point in the near future.

Disclaimer: I secretly yearn for the return of three-piece suits.