Better Late Than Never

I've been nursing a bad case of writer's block. Every word I typed seemed trite and labored. Similar to being physically ill, I tend to look for quick fixes to return to normal. I have read excessive amounts, hoping to be jolted by the words of another writer. I've watched movies and TV to discover a phrase or situation that I could relate to and extract from. Countless times in the last week I have sat down and tried to force it out of me, harking back to my college days where ritual consisted of working under pressure and baffling with bullshit... which quite honestly I still do today. Hey - it works. I graduated with top honors but there is enough moronic word spew on the internet without a forced, hackneyed contribution.

A few days ago I found an article that explored the methods used by a few "exciting artists and creators" to combat a rut. Besides the cliches such as music and the subconscious, many talked about "being inspired by everything around them". *Ahem*Cough*... speaking of bullshit.

Then I left my office and it hit me. They are right. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner - walking! The remedy was right there in front of me.  Buried in a song title from the very film I was trying to write a post on.  A Walk Up The Avenue was just what I needed.  

There is little that a jaunt up Madison Ave and a jumbo street pretzel can't fix. I have mentally penned every post while walking somewhere in New York. When I walk the mental clutter is whisked away and I begin to focus. There is a freedom and a frustration to this walking technique though, as insights pass through me like flour in a sift... the ideas only clinging until new ones pour in, pushing the others out. One minute's observation is forgotten and replaced - self proclaimed "genius" lost forever. No chance to jot or type in the hussle of the sidewalks, just think and struggle to remember. However, with each person and draped window that I pass, thoughts and inspiration continually race through my head. The curse begins to lift and the Princess of words awakens. Raw thoughts break the barrier of writer's block and I realize I was just trying too hard.

I know what the real problem is - deadlines. They have always been the culprit. The nasty mental monster that scares my words and fosters fear and hiding. The nice thing about a blog is that there are no real deadlines... until there are. Certain posts become more timely than others and in this case Easter already seems like ages ago. Luckily procrastination, as it always seems to do, actually wound up helping me. For in my venture home I happened upon a piece of clothing that validated my style instincts and provides a link to a cherished Easter custom.  A link I had been struggling to find to get this post written.

Easter means one thing: Fred Astaire. Each year on what is otherwise a dull holiday, I sink my skinny hind end into the crevices of my parent's couch and prepare myself for the wardrobe porn that is Easter Parade. I consider Easter Sunday a free pass for otherwise obscure attire and Easter Parade overflows with rakish inspiration. Seeing that Astaire and I are built on similar frames I envision myself in his natty wares, as well as drool over the ability to move with his lithe precision. He appears in everything from full white tie (tails and top hat - which apparently he never enjoyed), to double-breasted hemmed waistcoats, dandyish boutonnieres and a velvety smooth smoking jacket, so rich it's like a piece of tailored dessert.

Of all the items I was mentally cataloging, the one I took most interest in was a club collar shirt. I had recently noticed the collar advertised as an option for Brooks Brothers made-to-measure garments. It's such a simple twist on a shirt but one that is rarely, if ever seen on men today. The rounded collar conjures up a distinctly stiff and sepia toned memory of the 'aughts.  Something an Astor or Rockefeller might sport. It would become my new object of desire as the perfect shirt for the budding warm weather - sure to standout amongst the standard button downs.

The original force behind my aforementioned walk home was to return pants at my succubus - J.Crew. Intending only to get a credit, I made the dreadful mistake of taking a singular spin around the floor to keep aware of the new spring crop of designs. After a brief chat with "my guy" about an up coming event, what do I notice on the rack but a white club collar oxford... and the exact same price as the pants I was set to return. Did Fred have a hand in this from above? Was this divine sartorial intervention? The garments were quickly swapped at the counter under the faint sound of tap dancing in my head.

During the remainder of my journey I recalled scenes from the movie and reflected on the fact that I am fortunate enough to live where the storyline unfolded and on the joys that his swagger and effortless dancing bring each Easter.

During the opening number of Drum Crazy, Astaire strolls into a toy store adorn in a gray one-button suit, white waistcoat, bowler hat, bamboo cane and spats. Just think - in 1912, that attire would have been casual! The following four minutes showcases Astaire's baffling abilities and slippery suaveness. See for yourself:

Towards the back end of the film, the most captivating and famous number makes me tense up in excitement and awe. Leaping out in a beaming smile with the forceful entrance of the song hanging in the background, Astaire as Don Hughes, is ready to dazzle. Steppin' Out With My Baby is brilliantly shot (partly in slow-motion) to fully capture every twist, turn and element of his hypnotic movements. His costume is angelic but with devilish accents - white suit paired with red accessories, straw boater and brown spectator shoes.

Image: Home Cinema

By the time the credits roll each Easter Eve, whatever reservations I might have had about looking overdressed for Sunday morning services have usually passed. The walk to and from church is my own 5th Avenue parade so how could I not get all turned out?

I have a longing for men's attire to return to the grandeur displayed by Astaire and the characters he portrayed. A day when we dress properly again and a sense of formality overtakes constant casualness. Certain occasions call for different levels of attire, and wether it is practiced, any efforts made should at least be respected and not mocked. To me, thanks to Fred and Easter Parade, Easter Sunday will always call for a heightened refinement.

My humble efforts to acheive Astaire-ness:

Sunday's Best.

Brooks Brothers bow tie, Land's End Custom Dress shirt,
Uniqlo Linen/Cotton Double-Vent Blazer,
Pink and Blue seersucker pocket square.
If only I could have snagged a simple boutonniere! 

Banana Republic Heritage stripe pant.

Gray stripe pattern. 

Well-worn Johnston and Murphy medallion oxfords.
Wide gray/blue stripe sock.