Posts tagged jake gallagher

Since starting to work at Epaulet, one of the best perks has always been the commute.  Being able to walk to work means that on any given weekend, while you’re wearing your laidback weekend best and heading out to brunch, I’m typically strolling towards the Lower East Side dressed in a pair of Walt trousers and a blazer. Despite how much I appreciate the luxury of being able to walk to work, it’s still around a twenty-five block trek. While that’s no sweat in the fall or spring, it’s becoming a bit uncomfortable in this epic heat. For the first couple of blocks I’m typically feeling pretty good and proudly thinking to myself, “Ha, look at all these short-sleeved mugs. I look suave as heck and feel completely at ease in this jacket.”  Around block ten or so, though, something goes horribly, horribly wrong.  It starts with the tickle of that first bead of sweat, which seems to come from somewhere invisible and sinister, and only gets worse from there.  For the next ten blocks my shirt acts less and less like a functional cover-up and more and more like a sponge. This is when I assure myself that no one else notices the tropical storm walking down the sidewalk.  “Just keep smiling and act natural”, I tell myself. Then comes the next unfortunate development, usually occurring when I have about seven and a half minutes until I arrive at the shop. The trickle has become the full-on self-baste. At this point, I start to feel like a drunk trying to act sober in front of a cop. It’s futile, however, and I am officially that guy—the one idiot dumb enough to wear a positively Victorian amount of layers on the hottest day of the year. Maybe I’m paranoid, but even dogs start to run in the opposite direction. Side note, you ever notice how there are so many more dogs in the city during summer? Is there some kind of puppy farm upstate that rents out miniscule terriers and shibas to twenty-somethings during the summer?  Additional side note: if that doesn’t already exist, I need to start that.   But I digress, the point is that you don’t wanna end up looking like the guy who thought he could outsmart nature. Trust me; you’ll be paying the price with saline.  So here’s some advice.  Leave your fall jackets in the closet. I don’t care how awesome that vintage Harris Tweed blazer you found on eBay is, it’s hot. Second, sometimes oxfords are just too dense. Thirdly, while some things may be your best friends in the winter, like, say, flannel, opt for something that lets some air through it, you’ll need the ventilation.  As for shoes, leave the cordovan at home on the hottest days.  It may be the world’s finest shoe leather, but that won’t mean much when they’re glorified spittoons.  Sweating isn’t the end of the world; just find some a/c, powder up those sweat spots, and head back out there.  What’s that old adage, “everyone sweats, even girls”?  …Or is that farts?

Since starting to work at Epaulet, one of the best perks has always been the commute.  Being able to walk to work means that on any given weekend, while you’re wearing your laidback weekend best and heading out to brunch, I’m typically strolling towards the Lower East Side dressed in a pair of Walt trousers and a blazer.

Despite how much I appreciate the luxury of being able to walk to work, it’s still around a twenty-five block trek. While that’s no sweat in the fall or spring, it’s becoming a bit uncomfortable in this epic heat. For the first couple of blocks I’m typically feeling pretty good and proudly thinking to myself, “Ha, look at all these short-sleeved mugs. I look suave as heck and feel completely at ease in this jacket.”  Around block ten or so, though, something goes horribly, horribly wrong.  It starts with the tickle of that first bead of sweat, which seems to come from somewhere invisible and sinister, and only gets worse from there.  For the next ten blocks my shirt acts less and less like a functional cover-up and more and more like a sponge. This is when I assure myself that no one else notices the tropical storm walking down the sidewalk.  “Just keep smiling and act natural”, I tell myself.

Then comes the next unfortunate development, usually occurring when I have about seven and a half minutes until I arrive at the shop. The trickle has become the full-on self-baste. At this point, I start to feel like a drunk trying to act sober in front of a cop. It’s futile, however, and I am officially that guy—the one idiot dumb enough to wear a positively Victorian amount of layers on the hottest day of the year. Maybe I’m paranoid, but even dogs start to run in the opposite direction. Side note, you ever notice how there are so many more dogs in the city during summer? Is there some kind of puppy farm upstate that rents out miniscule terriers and shibas to twenty-somethings during the summer?  Additional side note: if that doesn’t already exist, I need to start that.  

But I digress, the point is that you don’t wanna end up looking like the guy who thought he could outsmart nature. Trust me; you’ll be paying the price with saline.  So here’s some advice.  Leave your fall jackets in the closet. I don’t care how awesome that vintage Harris Tweed blazer you found on eBay is, it’s hot. Second, sometimes oxfords are just too dense. Thirdly, while some things may be your best friends in the winter, like, say, flannel, opt for something that lets some air through it, you’ll need the ventilation.  As for shoes, leave the cordovan at home on the hottest days.  It may be the world’s finest shoe leather, but that won’t mean much when they’re glorified spittoons.  Sweating isn’t the end of the world; just find some a/c, powder up those sweat spots, and head back out there.  What’s that old adage, “everyone sweats, even girls”?  …Or is that farts?

Dylan and Jake Comment on “The Great Gatsby” Trailer

Epaulet crew members Dylan and Jake don’t always share the same taste. These differences in opinion are usually over film or music. A recent example was their divergent reactions to the somewhat newly-released trailer for Baz Luhrman’s adaptation of The Great Gatsby. Upon viewing this trailer, their faces were like a disparate pair of drama masks—one exalted, the other dismantled. Here are their reactions:

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JAKE: I suppose it’s only right that the trailer starts off with a Kanye West/Jay-Z song, because let’s be real here, this is not the kind of party that any of us imagined Gatsby would be having.  No, this is some full-blown, 40/40 club on a Friday night, Cristal bottle’s popping, dancer’s standing on tables sort of affair.  Truthfully, I couldn’t be happier. I mean if I’m gonna see some wild prohibition era parties, they better be totally over the top.  And knowing Baz Luhrman, I’m sure this is just the tip of the iceberg, I’m fully expecting some people swinging from chandeliers, or some fire breathing dragons, or at least a swimming pool full of gin.

DYLAN: Ignoring everything except for one thing, I do see something legitimately awesome: a zebra in a fountain. That zebra is the only character with which I can identify in this trailer. I imagine the confusion and distaste that I feel while watching this trailer is similar to the experience of a displaced zebra bucking in a booze and bodily fluid filled fountain in the middle of a rave. Baz, you should have used this zebra to remake Au Hasard Balthazar instead. That could have accidentally passed through the stargate of stupidity and ended up on the other side, as opposed to perpetually, asymptotically, approaching the limit of idiocy without ever crossing it.

JAKE: This is the moment in the trailer where I got a bit lost. Why is Gatsby smiling, he’s ruining all his nicely pressed shirts?! I get it, he’s wealthy, but come on, throwing your shirts, that’s just nonsensical.  If they’re wrinkled, then how will people know you’re rich?  Once I saw this scene, I couldn’t stop worrying about those poor shirts, strewn about the floor.  For me, this is the true dilemma of Gatsby, why is no one asking about the shirts?! But, I suppose in the end that speaks more about my personal obsessive compulsiveness then the movie itself. Hey, if you got Gatsby, what’s a few shirts, and I suppose there are maids to clean it up after all.

DYLAN: A good trick of cinema is when no characters say anything of any meaning, thereby forcing the audience to supply their own to an action. We are compelled to pressurize a constantly deflating story. For me, this shirt-tossing ritual is Gatsby’s sincerest form of flirtation. These pressed, pastel “I love-you-nots” scream, “I am form without substance!” and Leo nails it.

JAKE: Regardless of whether or not the movie ends up being worth its salt, one thing is for certain after seeing this trailer, Great Gatsby will certainly have a visible impact on men’s style in the year to come. In the two and a half minutes of this trailer alone, I’ve seen cream colored tuxedos, collar pins, three-piece suits, satin peak lapels, fedoras, pinstriped blazers, and other throwback designs that I’m sure countless designers will emulate in the next few seasons. 

DYLAN: In some seriousness, though, the costume design does look pretty outstanding. I can’t wait to see what Gatsby gets buried in. Maybe they’ll wrangle his body into all the suits he wears throughout the film like one of those time-lapse world-record tee-shirt wearing videos, and the only mourner at his famously poorly attended funeral will be his fountain zebra. I would love that movie with all the marrow in my bones.