Spite: Or the Best Reason to Do Anything! Keep Your Grubby Eyeballs off My Jacket.

They say that living well is the best revenge, but I say that running someone down with your car is REALLY the best revenge. Adjacent to revenge is the other great motivator of action: spite (it says it right in the title.) I can even count the number of times I have sex with people out of spite (sorry if you are one of the people I banged for that very reason, but I tried to make it as pleasant for you as possible, knowing that you would tell the intended target and we would both have gotten some sort of sick satisfaction.) Are you shocked, my gentle reader? I hope not since you should have some insight into the rich tapestry that is my soul.

As we all know, I am not here to talk about my personal exploits (that may be a baldfaced lie, but just let it pass for the moment. You can send me a strongly-worded email later, and feel confident knowing that I will answer you. I may be a jerk, but I do know the meaning of propriety.) I AM here to relate the vast complexities of existence to sartorial simplicity. No doubt I have already made it painfully clear that "on sale" is always a fantastic reason to change a maybe purchase to a well duh I am already in the checkout line so it's too late purchase, but we have all been on the fence about that one item, the last of something on the rack, where we sort-of like it but aren't sure, knowing that if we pass it by it will be gone. Then someone slinks up beside you, looking over your shoulder at said item, trying to look like they are intent on some completely unrelated garment, all the while hovering over you for when in that moment of weakness you put it down. It's in that moment when you notice that opportunist lingering and leering askew that your asshole instincts kick in and you make that snap judgement that you may not necessarily want the thing in your hands, but you'd sooner die than let that usurper get their grubby mitts on it. If only they had exercised some subtlety in the matter... some discretion... you would have just let them have it, but THEY had to make it into some sort of competition... an event of olympic proportions. We've all been there and here is one case where that jerk has my eternal gratitude for riling me up.

These "go" but they don't "match."

I was in H&M (I am unashamed to admit that it is one of my favorite sources of cheap pieces that can make for a fetching outfit) when I found this one (and only one) tweed jacket. I agonized over whether or not it would work in my wardrobe or not. I had a tweed vest in an extremely similar fabric and style, but I knew that when two pieces are so close without really matching you run the risk of looking careless and sloppy. If you are going to match, then match. There is that no man's land between things that match and things that go, generally described as "matchy-matchy." If things truly match you don't even notice they do, whereas if they are slightly off they read as too much of whatever they may be. Think of the difference between a suit and single pieces that just don't quite fit. That was my dilemma standing in that dark and far-too-loud H&M basement when that little weasel of a man sidled up to me and started shuffling through the rack. It was very clear that he had taken notice of the jacket in my hand and at first tried to find another. It was after his failure to do so that precipitated his thinly veiled buzzard-like circling, picking up a random assortment of jackets and shirts, never moving more than four feet from me, even following me from place to place. Naturally, I had to tease him by returning it to its spot, watching his eyes light up, but never taking my hand from the hanger. It is the kind of assholism I learned from chess... making that losing move to titilate your opponent, only to take back that deliberate misstep. Psych!

Just tuck the price tags inside.
There is no reason to cut them

Of course I bought it, and it has served me well. I have not looked back. Not once. No, that's a lie since I did have my back-up plan where I would return it... to a different store, perhaps in a different borough or even across the river in Jersey City. I had conceived that oh so brilliant plan on the spot in the store knowing that it would give me a month to make my final purchase decision and keep it out of those undeserving hands. 

I'm gonna return that purchase and keep the money.
You can do that, you know!

 

That is my second rule of spite shopping: you can always bring it back and get the full satisfaction of sticking it to your target without any of that financial or wardrobe space commitment. Then again, if you keep it, that article of clothing becomes a trophy making for an even sweeter outfit. Trust me when I say that every time I put that jacket on I swell with pride at my victory.





Coming soon: Underpants and How to Tell if Someone is About to Steal Yours.

You Can Wear a Bathing Suit as Underwear, but You Probably Shouldn't

So with Winter drawing to a close (just ignore this week's... incident), I think it's time I address this topic: SVIMVEAR!

OMG! I Totally grew up in that house!

Now, my gentle readers, since all 5 of you know me so well, and since I talk about my childhood ad nauseum, you are very aware that I grew up in a seaside resort town that shall remain nameless for legal purposes, but you know the one... the one with the Spring tulip festival and Fall lima bean festival. I think there's a horseshoe crab festival in there too but I forget when that one happens... June 26, I think.

I come from a rich cultural tapestry.

Throughout my childhood it was impressed on me (pounded into me) by peers and one particular sibling, that beachwear was the sole indicator of your social status and your place in society (jock table, band table, art table, theater table, mathelete table, stoner table?) so it was of the utmost importance that I pestered my parents until they bought me the appropriate Birdwell Beach Britches, or perhaps Sundeks so that I would not be the social pariah who could only hope for a riptide to end my shame. Of course I had to rely on the hand-me-downs, so it was a matter of luck whether or not an older brother would have that fortuitous growth spurt while his suit was still fashionable. Alternatively, you could REALLY beg to go to the Kona Sports end-of-season sale and maybe engineer a shift one rung up the social ladder for next year.

My ass never looked anything like that.

These are what I had, down to the classic sky blue. My GOD! Those are expensive! No wonder I never got them new. Note to self: call parents and have them mail those to me.











That's probably all (more than all? way more than all?) the background one needs to understand the deep-seated psychological issues I have on this topic, and why I now tend to swim at nude beaches. You might think that someone who loves clothes as much as I do, and conversely hates nudity, would not favor those 70s swimming spots, but go figure.

All that being said, I do have some preferences for beachwear. In a perfect world we would all be wearing Victorian or Edwardian fullbody trunks. It isn't that I subscribe to the Victorian social mores of modesty, but rather the style is phenomenal! Any outfit that you can top off with a straw boater can not be praised highly enough.

Why do these only seem to exist in Second Life? Are we so incapable of realizing our fantasies? I would wear the crap out of each and every one of these. Imagine a beach full of nothing but this! Perhaps THAT is why people cash in their 401Ks to spend in virtual alternate realities.










This brings me to another point, first expressed to me by a good friend on the beach: straight boys are terrified of their sexuality showing... kind of. It is actually a bit more complex than that in an analogous way to the aforementioned Victorian Modesty. For some reason, to show any flesh below the hip but above the knee (or even the knee) is somehow as risque as being absolutely naked; however, low-rise (so we ALL know you manscape) is de rigueur, much like a Victorian woman showing ankle is clearly a trollop, but a plunging décolletage is completely acceptable. Now I have some idea as to how this has come to pass, but I don't want to get into the whole pants-on-the-ground debacle that makes me cry inside. Suffice to say it is not a good look, and society would be much better in general without the crackshow. Standards and Practices said no!

Knees??? I shall positively swoon!

Confession: I am NOT 13
in this picture.

Somehow a trip to the beach now involves wading through a sea of shapeless, sack-like suits but I refuse to fall into that and it still earns me sneers and scorn. I say pheh to all that! I am not 13 years old anymore. 

Please wait 30 minutes after eating before reading
to avoid emotional cramping. 

Speaking of BEING 13 on the beach... funny story: I had ridden my Schwinn Varsity from school (singing "school's out for summer" the whole way) over the solitary hill in town (it was a bridge... it was the best we could afford back then) to the beach to frolic in the surf. Lo and behold, there on Popular Crowd Beach was a particularly unpleasant red-headed girl from the 9th grade doing her own frolicking with the Popular Crowd after whom that beach was officially named (look on Google Maps, hand to god it's true!) Unsurprisingly, she dropped in on my little sitting rock to bombard me with her special brand of tomfoolery, rifling though my backpack to triumphantly wave my change of underwear over her head like some sort of victory flag. To this day I am not sure if she thought that tightie whities were something freakish or not, but she did delight in running down the beach with them and putting them on to the amusement of the other PCB teens. That is the exact moment that I had my epiphany and came into my own. I watched the other boys laughing and knew that they all wore the exact same underwear, give or take (mine were high-quality Haines, not crappy BVDs like others... you know who you are, former PCM minions), and this chick (I'll call her Mabel, since I can not for the life of me remember her name, but that sounds plausible) acting like an idiot (she was in remedial math, remedial reading... you know, everything... so I am fairly certain that she was technically an idiot) and I realized I was not at all interested in being a PCBer or having their approval. In an instant I knew I was so much better than that and than they were. I had no reason to be ashamed of my skinny body, or glasses, or lack of a tan. They should want my approval, but they were all just a bit too dim to understand that. I walked up to Mabel and said, "You keep 'em baby. They'll help you keep your dick under wraps."

I left the beach and never looked back. That isn't to say that I never went back: it was the nicest part of the beach, and I was not about to give up my spot. To this day, I sit in the same spot with the same beach towel.

Yes, it is the same bathing suit from 1985. The sunblock, however, has gone from SPF4 to SPF70.

But I digress... this isn't Degrassi Junior High and I am just here to rap about the rad threads. Sorry. That still sounds like some Degrassi guidance counselor talking.

Original Jams just like Moondoggie used to wear.
I still like mine better, so suck on that, Gidget!

My all-time, non-crack revealing favorite bathing suit is the one pictured above: my Original Jams. While they may have faded from their original florescent 80s grandeur, their 60s inspired new wave sensibility outshines anything I could find today. In fact, I have scoured the InterWebs for something similar, but to no avail. I will be heartbroken should they ever fray. Luckily, they were made with love and built to last so maybe they will outlive me.





Then there is that even more classic square cut suit that James Bond favored. How could anyone NOT want to have even half his style. There is something simultaneously sexy and sophisticated about that look which reveals just enough while still looking natty.

Daniel Craig or Sean Connery? Or George Lazenby?

I have to say, I feel extra suave when I wear mine and drink martinis as the swim up bar.

Matthew Williamson and Lifestyles. Sexy, huh?

And during the course of writing this, my mommy informed me that she could not find my old Sundeks. That is the same mommy who bought me those tightie whities, because duh, I was 13...who else was going to? Everyone's mom bought their tightie whities when they were kids. What 13 or 14 year old had the discretionary income for underpants? Problem solver that I am, I did find these on eBay Israel for a mere pittance. Sadly, they have succumbed to that lengthening trend, and THIS now qualifies as short. Perhaps I can get them tailored to what they should be.

Clearly the ones on the right represent the ideal Sundeks of the 80s.

If I have left you with a sense that I had a melancholy, solitary childhood, fear not gentle readers, for I did have my own crowd, and I did consider us the Popular Ones. I still see a lot of them, and we are still the coolest!

Coming soon: Underpants, and why come your mom will always buy them for you.

When It Rains, Most People Suck (Or Just Because It's Raining Doesn't Mean You Have to Be an Asshole)

Ok, that may sound harsh, but I bet you, my gentle reader, are saying "fuck yeah!" under your breath while trying to demurely sip your cappuccino across the street from Lincoln Center. Golf umbrellas? On a crowded sidewalk? Is that some sort of deliberate powergrab, trying to control personal space when life is spiralling beyond that feeble grasp? Even that fattest ass among us does not need 6 feet of umbra' to be 'ellaed.

Now this all seems particularly relevant based on this odd (meaning psychotic) weather that we are having. Stupid global warming! If you are one of those naysayers who denies climate change and refuses to look beyond the weather STOP READING NOW! Go sacrifice some coconuts to your monkey god or do your interpretative dance to wake Mothra so that she will finally defeat Hedora and we can all go about our business. Do that or perform your equivalent and equally reasonable ritual.

I said shuffle, chasse, feather step, ball change, ball change, chasse, heel pull! I don't know what you were doing.

Are they gone? Good. Now I can get back to it. I don't actually address climate science at all from here on out. Anyway...

We all know that I am not the sort to simply curse the dark without teaching a man how to set a fish on fire, so I want to remind the world about raincoats, trenchcoats, and hats; all of which can be both stylish and functional. This isn't to say that umbrellas are completely out (we all love a clear, bubble umbrella or not-so-secretly want to be the Morton Salt Girl) but we do live in a society here.

So that little bitch only had to bring home one thing from  Kroger's and she couldn't even do that right.  I won't even show you what happened when I sent her out for Faberge Eggs.

So clearly the better option to explore is a little less intrusive and provides more opportunity to show a little flair. Why not raincoats? I admit that I had a love-hate relationship with those so-called slickers since childhood. Much like most of you I suspect, I grew up with my mother forcing me into an ill-fitting Gorton's Fisherman-style yellow raincoat and matching hat. (For my younger, less fishsticky audience, think I Know What You Did Last Summer.)

I am not absolutely sure, but I vaguely remember posing for this. 

At the time I was teased mercilessly on the school bus by the cool kids for wearing that, but in retrospect I was the one who showed up dry to school and not the one with plastic bags affixed to my sneakers with rubber bands. In fact, I would be thrilled to have a rain set like that in my adult life. Those industrial closures were so fashion-forward that it makes my head spin. (I hope you know the ones I am referring to, because there is not a single picture of them online, which I find odd since you couldn't swing a wet cat without hitting one back in the 70s.) I wish I could get some of that classic rainwear now, even my sister's purple raincoat that my mother once made me wear to punish me for leaving my yellow one in a wet ball on the garage floor. Does that explain why I am like this now? Maybe. By high school I had at least developed the good sense to know what chic was all about, and I spent quite a while trying to find a clear plastic trenchcoat. Unfortunately, by the mid-80s they only existed in little girl sizes. You would think Zhora would have made them popular, but that was not the case. In the early or mid-90s I did finally find one made by Tripp and bought it without a moment's hesitation. The lesson I learned from that is to always consider HOW you are going to wear a fabulous piece. In this case, your outfit and outerwear do become one, and that is much harder to coordinate than you might think. I realized that I am no Zhora and hardly ever wear it. Also, clear plastic does steam up inside. However, I did make a very convincing Dale Bozzio in it.

So what do I wear now? In warmer weather a short trench keeps me surprisingly dry and well put together. A long, black raincoat keeps me dry in cooler temperatures without looking too Columbine... whatever, it has been long enough.

This is actually belted, but you will have to use your imagination.  Forgive the background,
but the gobos were moireing and you just can't see that the jacket is that very same grey-on-black glen plaid.

This groovy piece of glen plaid
set me back a cool $15 at H&M,
so I don't want to hear excuses.

Hmmm... it seems I really do have
a preference for glen plaid in my
rainwear. What does that say
about me?

I have a certain fondness for hats (have I mentioned that? I am pretty sure I have. Perhaps I will write all about that later) so I do wear my uncle's old-man hat to keep my glasses dry. There is nothing worse than water droplets all over your glasses. Those novelty windshield wiper glasses from Spencer's Gifts in the 70s were not that ridiculous after all, but I can not find an optometrist willing to install them for me. I am sure I could use more wet weather hats. Perhaps some sort of Rex Harrison hat. (Technically a tweed Trilby, but if you say "Rex Harrison hat" everyone will know exactly what you mean.)

I hope you know better than walk into someone's house and start hitting people with your Rex Harrison hat.

Now I am not some sort of umbrellaphobic monster, smashing everyone that I see in some sort of blind rage. I do have a number of human-sized umbrellas in just enough colors to complement any outfit without taking out the eyes of those I pass on the sidewalk. My beach umbrella does not double as a rain umbrella. I trust you noticed that in a particular picture above, the accessory is indeed coordinated.

Trust me: if it looks grey, it's houndstooth. Perhaps I will expand on that later.
By the way, I never did catch that bus.

Here is what you should take away from this: Oversized Umbrellas Are Destroying America. Wearing an Aquascutum is patriotic. Old-man hats are cool (not Kevin Federline hats or hipster, ironic trucker hats...those are douche-y.)

Coming soon (a related post): Underpants, and How to Keep Yours Dry When Your Whole World Is Damp.

I Have Not Forgotten About My Blog

I swear, I still wear clothes. Something will come soon.

Where the hell have I been? Certainly not tuned in, turned on, or dropped out.

Truly that is the question on everyone's mind since I have not written anything here in ages (can't count the Pantywaist Factory Fire, since that wrote itself, and did not entertain anyone, especially not me.) Well, let's just say that my rage got the better of me and I had to be removed from society for a period of observation. Thanks for all the flowers, by the way.

So... what have I been wearing? Not some other human's skin, not that anyone can prove. I know that I have mentioned Trash & Vaudeville's shoe sale rack bargain, and the importance of buying that second pair along with the first. I also know that I left you hanging, only showing you ONE pair of shoes. Ever since then, one question has been haunting you day and night, plaguing your dreams, ruining your appetite (or prompting binging – everyone has different ways of coping.) I am oh so happy to proclaim, the wait is over... TA-DA!

Neat, huh! How can you beat black and pink winklepicker brogues? I have always had a bit of penchant for two-tone footwear, especially when it exhibits such a saddle shoe influence. I get that from my mother, like a surprising large proportion of my aesthetics. She loved buying me saddle shoes when I was a little boy, which was somewhat difficult since all she could ever find at "The Shoe Rack" (Yes, our local shoe store was called that. Actually, there were two shoe store across from each other on the Washington Street Mall, but both were owned by Mr. Casale. I am not certain what shoes were at "Casale's" since that was the full retail store whereas "The Shoe Rack" featured that late-August back-to-school sale.  Clearly, I was indoctrinated into the sale lifestyle from the time I could first walk.) were girl saddle shoes. Somehow, post-50s saddle shoes were relegated to the world of cheerleaders and fetish prostitutes. In retrospect, perhaps that contributed to the late elementary school abuse that was hurled at me by the like of Jamie Anderson... he was the ringleader, shouting "tinkerbell" at me across the lunch room all though the fifth and sixth grades. It stung a bit, since he had been a friend of mine before that, but I could never take it too seriously. For instance,  he was short (even by 5th grade standards) and had a horrifying speech impediment. When some tiny goblin with a Dorothy Hammil hairdo starts screetching "tink-i-bell" at the top of his prepubescent shemale lungs, even a delicate 10-year-old has got to laugh. I suppose I was bullied back then, but it was done so ineptly it just didn't register. I should find him on FaceBook and see if he ever broke the 5 foot mark or if he ever found his Rs. Suffice to say I was cool beyond my years in the late 70s.

Wait, what? Oh! Blogging! Sorry. As with any new shoes these needed to be broken in, and even in this day and age and in this city, walking around with shoes and nothing else is frowned upon (also, apparently wearing someone else's skin does NOT count as being dressed either.) In short, I needed some sort of outfit above (but not distracting from) the shoes. The pink and white card suit socks were a natural choice, not just for the color, but for that Guys and Dolls alley gambler motif that follows the saddle shoe idea so nicely. It was either that or bobby socks and a cheerleading skirt.

From there I simply picked my only pink and black suit, the pink of course is only in the lining so it only peeks out as I walk, giving just that flash of zort to those who are paying attention. The thing about this suit that makes it so enticing is that it is sculpted velvet paisley, adding a delicate and complex pattern on top of those relatively bold shoes. My mother has a thing for paisley too, so it's just more of my genetics pushing through. Funny thing about paisley... it has developed this idea that it is a 70s pattern, but really it can be traced back to Persia and India about 2000 years ago. (Thus concludes my educational responsibility to place things in a historical context.) Paisley has to be done right so you don't look like some sort of dirty, patchouli-scented hippy though.

Speaking on the subject of patterns, you may recall (oh, toss me a bone and say you do) that I wrote at length about the joy of combining literally billions of patterns as long as you maintained a cohesive color scheme. I used the black and white example but alluded to using actual colors. Well, the converse is equally true: You can play with perhaps one gajillion colors IF you stick to one pattern. Now this example doesn't really demonstrate that in an extreme sort of way since you will see mostly neutrals, but you get the point, right?

Now here is my big BUT: contrary to what I said above, if you throw too many colors in with a paisley you DO wind up looking like the aforementioned stinky hippy. We are all aware that looking stinky is more or less equivalent to actually stinking. People will just assume that you reek and will go out of their way to avoid you. They will also be terrified that you will attract others like you and spontaneously form a drum circle. But look, it can work if you remember dignity, always dignity. 

I just look like someone you would want to sniff.

I do promise that I will give you a much more exciting mono-pattern, multi-color treat just as soon as I feel like it.

Coming Up: Underpants and why come a child's large fits better than an adult's small.

Happy Great Pantywaist Fire Day Everybody!!!

Today is the 100th anniversary of my second favorite NYC disaster. As anyone who knows me is already aware (my audience of perhaps three? four?), I make a point of wishing a happy Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire day every year. Normally, the only other mention that it gets is a NY1 “Today in NYC History” mention, but since it is the centennial there is a bit more hubbub about it. 

I always assume that everyone understands that this is not some ghoulish affectation on my part but an actual appreciation that a massive historical tragedy inspired some sort societal reflection on what went wrong, and how we (as a society/civilization) might be able to make changes in our philosophy and behavior to prevent a similar (or even vaguely similar) event from happening again. The Great Pantywaist Fire (sounds more magical and perhaps a little feyer) led to not only reforms in fire safety but also to greater power for workers and unions to improve their conditions. My all-time favorite disaster, the General Slocum fire, let to massive reforms in boat safety and government regulation of mass transit.

This year the anniversary is a little more poignant with the recent re-demonification of unions... those greedy unions wanting collective bargaining power to secure healthcare benefits, cost-of-living pay increases, and (oh! the audacity!) fire exits. Somehow, there is now a monologue reminding us about how the benevolence of Executive Management and Owners is being threatened by the money-and-power grubbing laborers. Clearly, if someone has money they deserve it, and those who don’t have it are lazy crumb-bums demanding it at the expense of YOU, the only hard working real American. Of course if you are making similar demands then you are also an un-American commie. After all, the oligarchy gets their authority from god, and no one should fiddle with that.

I know this ranting doesn’t fit within the scope of my blog, but I just don’t want the true meaning of the Great Pantywaist Fire day to fall by the wayside. It’s bad enough that Purim quietly became hipster dufus Halloween.

Next time, back to the usual and informative, I swear: Underpants and Why Factory Seconds Is an Equally Valid Lifestyle Choice

Cake... they all always want cake

So I was bored the other night... really, really bored, and Jeff was passed out on the couch while some bad movie that we had already seen was on the TV. I had nothing to read (since I have yet to replace my liberry card that I lost in August of 2009), so I did what every modern multi-slacker does: YouTube spiral. Now I am VERY allergic to cats (I wasn't when I was a teen, go figure) so UNLIKE what every modern multislacker does: I avoided all videos of cats, kittens, kittens riding cats, cats stuck in boxes, pianos being played by cats, and even monkeys washing cats (heh heh heh). My spiral started with some 80s videos (the music kind that they used to show on MTV, before it became the Knocked-up, Unwed Teenage Slut 24-hour network. (Kids, you can ask your parents what those letters stood for before they meant My Turnpike of a Va...oh, you know.) (Should I edit that out? It did come from a place of both rage and despair.) Anyway, I had forgotten about this particular video but watching it now I realize that its visually styling must have had a massive impact on me.

I could claim some sort of op-art influence on my affinity for dressing in pure black and white, but as you have no doubt learned about me by now I use this forum for the dissemination of truth, not as a virtual chamber of lies and insincerities. I am old enough to have grown up with a black and white TV in my bedroom at the foot of my bed; one that looked much like this:

So I do have a particular fondness for the stark contrast one gets on a classic black and white set. Couple that with some nice static and you wind up with a world that is both bold and alien. Forget the other end of the spectrum — those heavenly 80s fluorescents (because there is plenty of time for that). When I would watch TV in black and white I would just see a screen of graphics; pure graphics. If I became absorbed in what I was watching (maybe Wonder Woman, maybe Space 1999) I would have to let my imagination fill in the colors, and my brain would see something very different from what my eyes saw. Perhaps saying that I would have to let my imagination do anything is a mischaracterization; that part was just automatic. It isn't that far removed from another aspect of pure black and white: it is reminiscent of good old print. Nothing is more vivid than a well-written page, printed in black ink on a white page. Philosophically, I am really gung-ho for black and white.

Ok, perhaps that did diverge a bit from wearing black and white. (How many times have I written "black and white?" A lot, I bet.) Let me try to reel this in a bit and just make some sort of list of something or another:

Wearing all black and white implies a certain level of class and sophistication, not necessarily intrinsically, but by referring back to black and white films. Watch the New Year's Eve/Engagement party scene in Holiday, and tell me that those people aren't dressed to the nines. Now watch any film from the black and white era and tell me that those people don't look good. Even the Charlie Chaplin hobos. The contrast between black and white provides such clean lines that you can't help but notice. Clean lines are sharp.

When you wear all black, you have to make sure everything is equally black; any variation from true black is evident when put against any other variation of black. A really dark warm grey next to a really dark cool grey will smack you right in the eyeballs. That can work for you, but you can't do it all willy nilly or you will just look sloppy and bumbling. The same is true of whites. Of course if you wear both, the contrast of the black and the white overshadows any small variations and you can get away with a lot more. (Murder? Maybe not, but at least manslaughter.)

When your color scheme is strong and coherent, pattern becomes your pal, your buddy, your bitch. You can throw as many together as you want. Of course this is really true of ANY simple and coherent color scheme, but black and white gives you essentially unlimited latitude. Weak-minded people have said things like, "You can't mix stripes and polkadots." I (with my large brain) say poppycock and fiddle-faddle! Throw in the checks too, if you want. If you really want to you can totally redefine the shape of your body with your patterns. This is especially handy for evading predators. Ask a zebra or a panda or a fresh water angelfish. I am actually an endomorph, measuring 5'2" and weighing in at 247 lbs, but you would never know it.

Why are my arms this hairy? Stupid Eastern European genes. At least they left me with a proclivity towards beets. (Bonus tip: No beets while wearing white, if you know what's good for you.)

Just guess what I might be hiding under that outfit.

Coming soon: Underpants and why come we can't wear a bathing suit under our clothes instead.