A Dying Breed

Eastwood at his best.

I've never claimed to be on the cutting edge as most blogs are, and in fact I am about two years behind on screening Gran Torino. If you've never seen it - watch it. If you have - watch again.

Right away I found myself glued to the man more than the story. Eastwood's portrayal of a curmudgeonly Korean war vet who has little tolerance for his Michigan neighborhood's expanding cultural make-up is hysterical, exhilarating and captivating. He is an old-school man's man if ever there was one. A tortured past fueling his present day attitude. He grunts and sneers with palpable disdain for what he sees around him - the disintegration of culture, hard work and respect, managing to maintain likability through snarky comments and expressive reactions. I tend to think I have more in common with his geriatric character than with most of my 20-something peers.

At nearly 80, Eastwood is more of a badass than ever, each weathered crevice on his face lending itself to the severity of his character's demeanor. His trademark salty whisper, like the rumble of the motor on his aged Ford pick-up, continually spews vitriolic slurs at those around him whether in malign or jest. He reminds me of my grandfather in his view of the world and a pining for the way things used to be... reducing people down to ethnicity and class, the idea of political correctness a foreign concept. Being a former assembly line worker and Mr. Fix-It, he has a vintage definition of what it means to be a man. A coded language, primitive interactions and a sense of self sacrifice. An aloof stare hides a screaming silence within. He strips away emotion, most likely a casualty of war, and is left a stoic, callous and intimidating presence. A thick fog of a man... one that not even his own family can see through.

"I'll have a shot of Jack and a Pabst"
Me too, Clint, me too.

I actually expected the movie to be more violent and less endearing. His rifle toting, PBR sipping, grizzly, blue collar exterior subtly began to shift as he imparted course wisdom on his young mentee - an amusing journey towards his ultimate sacrificial demise. He never really shows outward emotion, rather expresses his feelings through actions and expressions: a grimace or snort, a wince in pain, the sharing of tools, a visit to the hardware store and barber shop, or merely giving his word in recommendation. This was common practice before open displays of male sensitivity were accepted.

In the opening scene of the film, Walt Kowalski stands at attention beside his wife's casket and scowls at his bratty, disrespectful grandchildren as they joke, text and befoul the ceremony with un-evolved antics; their fathers endorsing the behaviour with silence. It's moments like this that showcase the ever-widening generational gap in grace. Men of prior generations seemed to have a better sense of propriety, striking a balance and awareness between rugged and refined. We, as the new school, on the other hand tend to feel entitled and are quick to adopt a closed door policy on tradition, opting for comfort and convenience. It may not be the right way, but it's the right way for ME. Grrrr.

Eastwood's Kowalski personifies the root of this blog proving that being a man is an attitude, on either side of the R/R spectrum. While I appreciate fashion and style, men of that generation didn't just dress a part, they lived it. As I sit here in my chambray shirt, Levi's and Red Wings, it will never make me as rugged as Kowalski in his old man staples. His experiences - war, depression, social change - shaped his personality. His hands chapped and boots worn because of what he endured. His clothes simply a utility. Does that make me a fraud? Probably.

We take our modern day style cues from men that dressed for a purpose. The Kowalski's of the world, hard at work at the Ford plant or the Drapers high atop their cushy office thrones. It wasn't a trend or an homage - it was a uniform to produce, and they wore it well. A Walt Kowalski never relied on others to do something that he could have easily done or learned himself. Sadly, these men are a dying breed and I fear that we, their spoiled replacements will never be able to fill their shoes. They did and we watch. They worked and we type. They lived and we...

"I said, get off my lawn."

The concern I have with my generation of men is that as far as we've come emotionally, we seem to be missing the rugged attitude of the past. Instead, we rely on technology and third-party information above challenging ourselves to experience and explore. I find that the better part of my week is spent managing a virtual life instead of living a real one. I can easily read and write about being a man instead of going out and just being one. It's been a goal of mine to DO more... go camping, drink whiskey, take a woodworking class. But also to be responsible, respectful and courteous. To start to carve out my own legacy of how I want to be remembered. Not just as a man who appreciates style and the arts but one that can fix a sink and start a fire. To make this blog a ethos, not a vessel of empty words. To make Walt proud.

I've always lived vicariously through movies. In the end I couldn't help but feel more excited than ever to be a man. Watching Clint just has a way of stimulating the rugged. I found his presence in Gran Torino more intimidating and hardened than any western figure he ever portrayed. There is something so much more inspiring and entertaining about watching a septuagenarian intimidate rowdy young punks than the overcooked battles between middle aged men. If there is one thing this movie helped me to realize is that aging might not be as terrifying as it seems. Because let's face it, Eastwood makes turning 80 look down right cool.

Weekend Reading

Yes, it's orange.
Smug Esquire.

Friday I had one of those days where I just wanted to power off. File->shutdown my mind and disconnect from everything that vies for my attention. No more blackberry, e-mail, phone calls, blog rolls, etc. I wanted a CIA hit put out on my devices. Blackbag them all... dunk them in water and hook their little electronic testicles up to jumper cables. Take. Them. Out. It all just gets to be too much sometimes and I yearn for a technological quarantine. That's when I like to simplify with ink on paper.

Lucky I awoke yesterday morning (alright, technically afternoon) to a gray and overcast Saturday. Perfect for guilt free seclusion indoors and a chance to catch up on much overdue reading. Before grabbing a sandwich from the local deli I ran into Barnes and Noble to pick up the last of my weekend reading list. The night prior, while waiting for a friend to finish her shift, I wandered into a Hudson news in Grand Central Terminal and noticed that the Spring 2010 issue of Esquire's Big Black Book had been released.

Barnes and Noble is an interesting and frustrating place - causing me to wonder what people have against working in the sanctity of their own home. The magazine stand/cafe was booming with tea swilling, laptop wielding, trendy academics, making it near impossible to get anywhere close to the merchandise. It's like any Starbucks window you've ever seen x 1,000. After bending, weaving, squirming, limboing, shimmying and excusing my way around fellow patrons (and I use that term loosely as none of them seemed to have actually bought anything) I finally secured a copy of the BBB and was on my way, feeling like I had just finished a floor routine at a gymnastics meet.

Now I am a devout reader of GQ and even looking at the cover of an Esquire makes me feel like a philandering libertine. I have a deep loyalty to the magazine and its staff of excellent writers who consistently keep me in the know. Much like a dog seeing his master after the abandonment of a workday, there is little else that can excite me more than a copy of GQ spilling out of my tiny metallic mailbox each month. It's cherished pages are like babies giggling, flowers blooming or the sun shining to most normal people. Pathetic - yes. But it's the truth.

The Big Black Book is the exception. It's the roving eye to my otherwise faithful relationship. A tawdry affair, providing me with something that my glossy spouse can't give me. The Big Black Book has carved out a niche in how to showcase a gentlemanly lifestyle. The writing highlights diverse topics not found in normal monthly magazines. There is a presence to this book as a whole that ups the ante on sartorial knowledge. Even the advertising is less intrusive and offers a reason to stare. Currently working in the industry, I find this publication to have brilliant photography, fantastic layouts and unique editorial content that all culminates in near perfect printing.

This issue includes:

• Spotlights on luggage and advanced chronographs designed for varying purposes
• A Trad Trad Trad World - Traditional Prep Staples
• Away We Go - Spring Style for the Man of Adventure
• How to Dress for Golf - More Arnold Palmer, less Rodney Dangerfield
• The New Recruits - Historic lables get a boost from a new lot of designers
• Summer Party Style and Knowledge for Buying a Summer Suit
• And, as always a highly educational Maintenance section printed on old school tinted uncoated paper.  Offers insight on everything from the anatomy of a shoe to the rules of showing chest hair or how to make your own collar stays in a pinch.

My cheating ways are an act I'm not proud of but one that will continue to entice me and quench my lust for obscure stylistic information. It fulfills the piece of me that GQ can't. I can only hope that my magazine of record can act the political wife and turn a blind eye.

Pick up a copy at most major newsstands for $9.95. Well worth the price for the sartorially minded.

Let's All Raise a Fork...

A Groom's cake.
Served in a tumbler?

... and toast the Bride and Groom.

I first tasted Laphroaig in a stark, dark bar on 11th Street in the East Village. My favorite type of watering hole. The burnt bartender frequently left his post, entrusting us with its care while he stepped outside to smoke. The 70's had been his prime and from the looks of it he took full advantage of every opportunity, good or bad, that passed his way... my guess is mostly bad. A guitar whispered from the back corner while a man and his dog enjoyed take-out by the window. That dog was a rock star in the confines of the small crowd, enjoying belly rubs and the fawning of beautiful women. I wished I was that dog.

Hailing from the Islay region of Scotland since 1815, Laphroaig's peaty presence and medicinal palette put it at the opposite spectrum of what I usually enjoy. As the thin liquid lapped against my tongue I detected a distinct taste of the sea with notes of seaweed and brine. A little oily but it finished dry. Some say they find an oaky background... lucky them.

No matter the brand - killer cake idea. After enduring "bright hydrangea" dresses and cutesy floral arrangements, there is nothing wrong with the groom enjoying a swig of ruggedness at an otherwise frilly event.  Doilies are not welcome around this masterpiece.

High-five to those responsible for such a gem. Perhaps those over at Butch Bakery can capitalize on this idea.

Masters Sunday

Framed Masters flag.
A gift from my aunt and uncle for college graduation.

My first set of clubs were hand-me-downs from a distant relative. A mish-mashed set in a worn red leather bag straight out of the late 1960s. Salvaged from the depths of a basement, they smelled like your dead uncle's moth ridden suit. The grips were smoothed and the clubheads mildly rusted. Had I been wiser at the age of 15 I might have considered them vintage, instead I just thought them old. But they did the trick - under my reigns they sent the ball from tee to hazard consistently and, most important... they were free. I had been told countless times that a club doesn't matter if your mechanics are solid. In my case both were laughable. 

When my interest took hold I was informed that it came honestly from my grandfather, an avid golfer. He enjoyed spending his Saturday afternoons swinging and swigging away with his buddies from the police force. My mother recalled how "happy" and relaxed he would be after his weekly round... quite different than my usual feelings when leaving the course. Anxiety over the game only became more intense the older I grew.   After playing with my college friends for the first time I realized how bad I was. They personify all the advice I had received in my early years, punishing the ball down the fairway with mechanical precision and intent. My ball consistently well behind theirs, if even visible at all.  If you look at the fairway as a scatter plot, my data always represents the outlier. They make it look so effortless and I hate them for it. Luckily, their patience and penchant for sinking more beers than putts provide an inviting atmosphere to refine and enjoy my game. A round in their company remains the ultimate summer treat.

My grandfather's clubs - when woods were wood.
Ahhhhh the stories I bet they could tell. 

Each year I spend the better part of Masters Sunday slouched in front of a TV ironically envious of sun-drenched golfers and their picturesque playground... meanwhile, an equally gorgeous day winks at me from outside my windows. Golf is one of only two sports I follow and enjoy watching (lacrosse being the second).  Although I believe it to be more of a mental disorder than a game - akin to demonstrating bi-polar behavior - with frustration and elation confined to a single swing. All it takes is one shot to sway from giddy embrace to permanent abandon. The game of golf is most often played like watching E.T. or Old Yeller - fun followed by heartache, smiles wiped away by tears.

Living in New York seriously stifles my time on the links. Inconvenient locations, public transport, cumbersome equipment and choking greens fees make course play near impossible.  I fully admit that these reasons alone could one day drive me from my beloved city.  However, I have discovered various ways to quench my cravings until a proper tee time awaits in Maryland. There are easily accessible ranges on Randall's Island and at Chelsea Piers that provide me with the space to swing my Pings freely within the urban limits. Most recently though I have found the confines of my own apartment to be the best (and cheapest) practice tee by utilizing a Wii and Tiger Woods Golf 2010. I can only imagine the hours of amusement I give peeping neighbors who peer in as I decimate the Olde Course St Andrews (5 under) or Bayhill (3 under) - complete with pre-round stretching, waves, fist pumps, collapses of agony, and "did you see that putt????" arm "Y"s of rejoicing.  (*Note -  Tour atmosphere setting should be in the ON position for the full ego boost.  Swing away and hear the crowds roar.)

But on to the important issues - attire.

I am excited to see golfers, particularly of the younger generation like Ian Poulter, Camilo Villegas and Adam Scott returning to the sleeker outfits of the past, mixing in dandyish colors with classic staples. Labels such as J. Lindeberg, Izod, and my personal favorite Munsingwear's An Original Penguin have infused a sense of style back into the game. They have brought trim, flat front pants and clean fitted polos to the twisted lines of the players, embracing golf's fashion heritage.  In fact, Original Penguin shirts are iconic golf wear and the revived brand provides a retro link to classic design.  Golf outfits worn by fathers and grandfathers everywhere are now the envy of the youth and a burgeoning definition of cool on the course.

My favorites for the upcoming season:
Original Penguin: Van Cortland

Original Penguin: The Glenn

Looking back on golf history and then to the majority of the current field, I can't help but notice how far we have fallen... much like in all other areas of proper dress. Hogan, Demaret, Sneed and Hagen revolutionized the game and did so without moisture wicking fabrics and gaudy logos, rather relying on ties and heavy wools to get them to the 19th Hole. Their dapper dress helped to cement the game as a gentlemanly pastime and demand respect of those that approach the tee box. Perhaps it wasn't just pure luck that helped Ryan Moore hit a hole in one yesterday.  The golf gods were smiling down on him as he donned a tie (with tie bar) and cardigan to pay homage to Augusta Co-founder Bobby Jones.

I bet he never had to hear the phrase:
"Get in the hole!"
Those were the days. 

One man stands above the rest when it comes to style on the links though. No one can argue with the fact that Arnold Palmer was the James Dean of golf, a pomaded rebel with a cause - to dismantle the competition and look damn cool doing it. His tight polos, casual cardigans and smoldering cigarette were part of the equipment list in the late 50's and early 60's. There is something inertly macho about his portrayal of golf, to which his attire directly contributed. A Mad Man meets athletic icon. As the season draws near, the picture below of Arnie and Jack will be my inspiration for proper attire. I may as well look good while playing bad.

Now if only I could figure out how to eliminate the farmer's tan, I'd be all set.

Do golfer get much cooler than this?
Check out the posts from Sartorially Inclined: 
Post 1, Post 2

My other set of clubs: cocktail stirrers. 

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. 

Animation Upgrade

Image: FX

Imagine a show with the impeccable style of Mad Men, story lines of international Bond-like intrigue and the crude, observant, intricate humor of Californication or Family Guy. It almost sounds too good to be true... but it's not.

Archer on FX might be the best kept secret on TV. Having now seen the full 10 episode first season, I can attest to its razor sharp wit and culturally laced references. This is only a "cartoon" with regards to production genre. The writing is superb and stylistically it trumps 95% of the live action comedies (or dramas for that matter) that exist on the telly. The artists create a fictional wardrobe worthy of envy down to the tie bars and pocket squares.

Image: FX

Sterling Archer, the show's leading man is an archetypal misogynist... an egotistical, pretty-boy prick. He resembles the bastard love child of Don Draper and Pierce Brosnan's Bond - an obvious carrier of a mutated form of the awesome gene. He's demeaning and despicable yet equal parts debonair and dumb... an all around delight to watch! Sarcasm pours out of him, like the booze into his mid-day cocktail. With his mother (voiced by Arrested Development alum Jessica Walter) at the helm of ISIS, the CIA-esque bastion of espionage, he can't help but be a spoiled, entitled douche. Part of you wants to be him and the other part wants to hit him in his squared-off, line-art jaw.

Image: FX

"And where the hell are you going!!!!?" yells his ex-lover/ curvy, abrasive partner Lana after discovering a palette of explosives on board the "rigid air ship" [read: blimp] Excelsior.

(Archer: in a white dinner jacket and bow tie, running to his room)

"I've gotta get my turtleneck... I'm not diffusing a bomb in this!?"

Image: FX

A similarly smug clothing reference comes during Episode 8 as he claims to have invented the idea of spies wearing black turtlenecks during covert ops: "I didn’t invent the turtle-neck, Lana, but I was the first to recognize it’s potential as a tactical garment. The tactical turtle-neck, Lana… the tactle neck!"

The tactle-neck in action

The job will always comes second to his own narcissism, mocking and selfish gain.  He is a much better smart-ass than he will ever be a spy.  Something I can relate to.   

Ruggedly crude-humored, stylistically refined. Archer is in my top 5 shows to watch.

For more on Archer:

Official Archer Homepage: Full episodes and a slew of other insight.

Hulu: Currently offering 7 of the 10 episodes.

The GQ Verge: Interview with Archer co-creator and writer Adam Reed.

Toss Me a Cold One

Image: Lovely Package

I realize more and more that not everything advances over time.  Take a look at a modern suburban house: thin plywood sheeting, vinyl siding or brick veneer, cheaply hung sheetrock, contractor-grade carpeting and laminate floors.  The Home Depot in a box... some assembly (and many repairs) required.  Compare these "McMansions" to homes built back in the 19th or early 20th centuries.  Solidly constructed with ample detailing: tongue and groove hardwood floors, plaster walls, ornate mouldings and exterior ornamentations, carved wood banisters, etched glass, fireplaces... that work... with wood... and actual fire!

"The Bushwick Castle" - Brooklyn, NY.
Image: Scouting NY and Article: New York Times

Discovered during a walk through Carroll Gardens, BK.
Solid brick construction with hardwood detailing.
I was in awe of the iron girder over the doors.
The perfect rugged/refined house.

Same house - top floor window ornamentation. 

For all of our progress in science, technology, medicine and engineering, I look at the arts and craftsmanship and wonder... are we really any better off?  Will there be another who can paint like Michaelangelo, write like Shakespeare?  Sing like Sinatra or dance like Astaire?  Design like St. Laurent or dress like Agnelli?  It's said that all art comes from other art - but perhaps there is a law of diminishing returns.  The talent of today seems to lack the potential to reach iconic status.  The sheer volume and clutter of "contributions" make most creative endeavors nothing more than trends - quickly passing and easily forgotten.  Because of this we always want what came before us... a constant yearning for the past... for the tried and true, the tested and timeless.

When it comes to art and design, regardless of the year, vintage is always "in".  It seems that no matter how hard the current crop tries, our predecessors have always done better.  As I perused the interwebs earlier in the week, I discovered this photo of vintage beer cans on Lovely Package and it serves to prove my point.  I was immediately captivated by the image, like a 13 year-old to a centerfold.  The cans held such a clean design, devoid of eye-sore metallic swirls and comic iconography - one with no branding at all, only LITE BEER.  Their stark shapes and muted attempts for my attention only make me covet them more.  My favorite of the group features a derby!  Can you image the jersey-clad, sneaker-footed men of today drinking a beer with a derby on it? Updated to current times, the lager might be called "Gangsta Brim" with an uncreased New Era ballcap as the logo... gold foil sticker and all.

Perhaps my affinity for these cans reinforce Draper's ideas in my previous post. During the Kodak Carousel pitch he states that creating nostalgia can be paramount in advertising... finding that sentimental bond that ties us to an object.  I don't just look at these cans and see simple throw-away items, rather I see my grandfathers and great-grandfathers with their buddies sharing "a cold one" after a long day on the docks or at the office.  The designs themselves carry with them a link to people I never really knew.

Image: Copyranter (one of my favorite blogs)
Speaking of good design, vintage advertising can be spot on
...well maybe not the copy. 

As the vintage craze of today continues to flourish and uniquely American classic work wares are in fashion (see Woolrich, Red Wing and Levi's), how exciting would it be to see a resurgence in clean design across the board... starting with beer cans?  I would fully embrace a throwback to a square cut can, and happily hang the triangle-carving opener from my fridge. Ad men and designers continually try to dazzle us with color and shape when Occam's razor should still be the golden rule. 

I wonder what future generations will look back on and envy during this time - things that I stare at every day that hold no real stylistic value at present?  Crocs? The Snuggie? Ed Hardy? Bluetooth headsets?  I can only hope that the future spawns smarter, more style-minded humans.

Bottom line: these cans would offer the perfect accessory to any stylish gent in a bar.  Rugged in shape, refined in design.

Asking for a Miller Lite bottle just got a little more depressing. 

More beer can pics: here, here, here and here