In these “modern” times, it’s a challenge to find anyone–“male” or female–that dresses on your level. More often than not, you’re lucky if you stumble upon someone who wears anything other than a snuggie-similar garment upon exiting the apartment. But for those who still actually put clothes on that have buttons and zippers, being seen in public with the garden variety schlub that tends to abound in this town can be a constant source of embarrassment. I mean, didn’t New York used to be the only U.S. hub of high fashion?
Further, when taking into account just how fey and feminine “men” have become ever since the term “metrosexual” was coined in 1994 and became a household word as a result of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and David Beckham, one would think that they would at least feel inclined to take greater pride in their appearance. But no, it’s just as Cher Horowitz said: “I don’t get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants, and take their greasy hair—ew!—and cover it up with a backwards cap and, like, we’re expected to swoon? I don’t think so!” This is, however, apparently exactly what “men” expect, making you look as though you’re constantly dressed in a ball gown in comparison to their perpetual frumpery. So until you find your Jareth the Goblin King, you might prefer to walk the streets alone to spare yourself the trauma of being seen with someone sartorially unworthy.
Leave it to Williamsburg to ruin something as formerly proletarian as a pair of Doc Martens. Once a symbol of the “worker,” then a symbol of punk, it has now been commodified enough to warrant getting a large outpost on the new Madison Avenue, Bedford Avenue.
You’re also missing a dick if you work there
It is one thing to buy a pair of Doc Martens from the Union Square or Lower East Side locations, once parts of Manhattan that represented grit and needing to wear intimidating boots for the sole purpose of kicking people in the face or area where the dick might be as they tried to mug you. But to stick a Doc Martens atop the avenue of Bedford somehow seems a grander sign of how anti-establishment emblems are so easily turned into profit. But at least now you can pick up a Ralph Lauren button-up after you buy your objectified footwear.
The only amount of time a “man” should be spending thinking about his wardrobe is the amount of time it took James Dean to put on a leather jacket. And yet, in Williamsburg, “men” seem to think the more money and effort spent on clothes, the more alluring he will be.
Spin that yarn
Such is the case with a new company called Boerum Apparel, which focuses on a “nerd core” aesthetic and “farm to closet” approach. If these two terms alone didn’t black you out over how dickless a “man” can be, then you must be missing a pulse (in addition to dick). The founder believes in “sustainable clothing,” which mimics that Portlandia episode where Carrie and Fred wanted to know everything about the chicken they were going to eat. But, truth be told, the less one knows about the food they consume and the clothes they wear, the better. It makes it so much more enjoyable to spend ten dollars on a t-shirt as opposed to a hundred just so you can be sure it was made by a white “man” in Williamsburg.
I’m not quite sure how Oak came to be in existence. For all I know, someone could have found a tarp lying on the sidewalk and decided to sell it in at their store, and then just ran with the theme from there. What I do know is, the lack of definement or construction of Oak garments absolutely screams, “I’m missing a dick!” I don’t understand men willing to pay a hundred dollars for a sweatshirt when they could just as easily put the funds toward a penis implant.