June 8, 2005

Every Girl's Crazy 'Bout a Sharp-Dressed Man

Long ago, I started my series on life's little luxuries. Today, I take you one step further in making yourself a little more pampered. Look, it's simple: clothes often make the man. The man himself, it is true, can ruin your impressions of him by behaving more the ass and less the gent, or vice versa. But the fact is that time and again, people are shocked by being mugged by "well-dressed" men. Even after they've been threatened, such people will retain a sense of doubt and think that something must be wrong, because after all, he was wearing a suit! But a suit alone doesn't do it, because we all know from movies and TV that certain men just don't look right in a suit. They wear rumpled clothes--though they fit haberdashery niceties--and they are rumpled men. But not everyone looks good in a suit, and especially not when they don't look like the mannequin in Joseph Abboud, Hugo Boss, or Calvin Klein's studio. My particular morphological crosses to bear are thick thighs, a broad chest, and shoulders that slope (and at which every tailor and suit salesman I've ever run across has either shuddered or commented). Put me in an off-the-rack suit, and I'll look like a kid wearing his dad's clothes or a bouncer putting on airs about his stylishness. Which is why a custom suit, though expensive, is the little luxury I trumpet here. I don't have many; don't think I can do that so well. But I have a couple, and they make me look and feel like a regular studmuffin.#[stud] The clothing doesn't bunch, it hangs perfectly and straight, it makes me look slim and poweful simultaneously, has room for wallet, keys, phone, Blackberry, and pen without it looking like you're smuggling raisins or heavier fruit. Put very simply, it makes me look as though I was born to do this, to wear this suit, to walk this way, and to be that cool. And while I definitely think I was born to be cool (or at least that I very much enjoy being me), the fact is that the suit just shows that to be the case without telling everyone. I am comfortable showing myself as a well-dressed, professional person in my suit, even when I'm not being particularly professional or am feeling somewhat uncomfortable. It's not quite a suit of armor against the world in which you may feel awkward, but emotionally, it's the exact same thing. [stud]: Yes, studmuffin. Like Patrick Swayze without the sleaze.

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November 24, 2004

Sushi Right

I'm at work, but I'm not working. I've just read the whole way through Stephanie Klein's blog, hoping, praying that I'll be able to come up with the right words to describe dinner at Sushi of Gari last night. The adjectives may come flying out, but much like the migraine story, this is one that you will never quite understand until you try it. Let's start with the man himself. Gari is a bald-headed, white-goateed Japanese man, with the build of a former wrestler and the guileless joy of an artist who still doesn't quite get what it is he does with food. He is almost like you would expect Buddha to be, without the pithy sayings. He is happy that you're happy and is not at all like the Soup Nazi, which for whatever reason, was precisely what I was expecting. I nodded and mock bowed (probably offensively) to the host, the waiter, and anyone I could to make sure I got the very best cuts of fish. And we did. Wow, did we. Words, even if they conveyed these sensations, have long left my brain. Instead, little snippets. You know how when someone gets a really good piece of food, something nourishing and addictive, with just the right amount of everything? How those people, they just stop and, no matter how polite and genteel they might be, just have to ooh and ah through their mouthful? The sounds, wordless, indicate joy and happiness, and you can tell through the wild gesticulations of their eyeballs that they cannot possibly indicate how amazing the food is? Now imagine if those people are taken to a higher level, to noiseless satisfaction. The food goes in...and the eyes roll back in the head. Every instant satisfies and must be savored, every chew simultaneously conveying the flavors and textures into the brain and forever erasing them in an instant. Where you're nearly afraid to chew for fear that the next bite won't be as good. And then it is. Just watching S take a bite and mime for me the sensations I was experiencing on my side made me realize again how much I love her, because she fundamentally understands me, even when I'm paralyzed and unable to utter a word. Her raised eyebrows, widened eyes, and still body perfectly mirrored my own focus on my upper half. I had had a growling belly, but it was silenced, not by its satiety, but by my brain's decision to willfully ignore it. All brainpower, all sensation, all focus, was dedicated to the feelings on my tongue, the crunch under my unfeeling teeth, and the warmth and zip on my palate. I've had my share of sushi. I shudder to think of just how many tuna have been harvested on my behalf alone, how many giant salmon I could have eaten in my time. And I've had it all over--exotics like Sushi Samba, fakers like the Columbia University dining hall (but just that once), and in Japan itself. I've been to hyped-up, out of the way places, solid local establishments without a name yet with great fish, and places where you swear they got theirs from the mass-manufactured Home Sushi Making Kit. I won't claim to be an expert, but this is not the word of a new convert's zeal. Gari does fish. I mean, in the sense that he seemingly makes love to the fish. Not being dirty at all--just that fish was so damn tender, so flavorful without being "fishy" (apparently, that's bad). He really knows what he's doing when he gets the fish. I daresay that he could just pick the fish, cut it (and there is a boatload of talent required there) and sell it as is. The fish would probably still get out of its minced place and sell its own self. But then the sauces, not just amazing in themselves--a jalapeno sauce lightened with citrus, a tofu sauce that made toro sing, miso flavoring that transformed cod--but harmoniously matched in a way that you wish internet dating could. The staff was friendly, courteous and genuine, and although cramped, the place was lovely. That's it. My first restaurant review.

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November 12, 2004

Scoop it Up

Today, I want to discuss the little things in life that make things happier, just a bit nicer, and have virtually no real reason for existing. In other words: luxuries. They may not be for you, and they probably don't represent me in my finest fashion, but by gum, sometimes you just have to say what you believe in, and barring that, what you really like a lot. Furthermore, let's admit it: there are only so many ways that one can demonstrate one's personality or accessorize, if that one happens to be male. Bracelets, rings, and necklaces, I'm told, are not particularly attractive to most women; the tongue stud, which I'm told is, is decidedly not for everyone. [Picture: your father.] So when you have the opportunity, I am a big believer that you should take joy, if not pride, in these little flourishes and outward demonstrations of personality that the newest pair of jeans simply cannot communicate. Affectations though they may be, they often end up making me feel better; perhaps they can do Today: Parker writing instruments. A fine pen is difficult to come by. The cheap ones are all over the place, and it's very easy to lay your hands on the closest writing instrument when you're at the office or someone's hotel. Yet those pens are always exploding, running dry with lots of ink in the reservoir, disappearing, and being stolen by someone else whose hands are as nimble as yours. When you have a good pen, however, you almost always know where it is, and you will be hurt, if not actually devastated, by its loss. The pen feels like an extension of your personality, writes smoothly and continuously, and the truly special ones are nearly warm to your touch, even when you haven't used them in days. But pens are as quirky as haircuts; kids and Beatles look good with moptops, but only the kids would look funny drawing with a Mont Blanc. Where football star millionaires can sign with a Sharpie, Paul Allen and Donald Trump (millionaires, billionaires, whatever) never would. The proper tool for the job, you know? For me, I've got fairly bad handwriting--fine motor skills are probably not my forte#[fine]--so, I need something fine enough to prevent my letters and words from blurring unnecessarily. However, I also press pretty firmly on the paper and grip fairly tightly to my pen#[hand], so I need something sturdy and without too fine a point lest I shred the paper or the pen...or both at once. Kerpow. [hand]: The concept of handwriting my entire bar exam scared the bejeesus out of me, in the fear that I might in fact have come out of the Javits Center without having passed and with a permanently misshapen claw ending in a pen or pencil. I could hear someone's mother, though probably not my own, screaming: "It's going to freeze that way!!" [fine]: Let's face it, one reason I blog is because I can bang the keys as hard as I want and the letters still come out rosy-perfect every time. This is why I use the Parker Jotter. You've seen them everywhere, but that doesn't mean they aren't good. You see Mercedes automobiles all over the world, but that doesn't mean they aren't good, either. What's more, the lines of the Parker pens have been copied by knock-off artists and other pen manufacturers time and time again. The pens feel substantial, they write as smoothly as the words come out the end of your dominant hand, and even if they slow you down a bit, they still flow naturally. For me, the Jotter is exactly what I need--the metal upper barrel adds the heft, while the plastic writing portion is substantial and, as I noted as a requirement, it seems to be nearly alive with its internal warmth. And what's more, they're fairly inexpensive, write forever, the ink is extremely water-resistant (which someone told me was the reason they used it as a traveling sales representative), and fits perfectly between my wallet and the side of every pocket they've ever traveled with. It gives off a satisfying "ka-chunk" when you depress the button, another when you release it, and does it all over again when you retract the pen. It never disgorges its ink inopportunely [schmancy for: "it doesn't leak"], and the little arrow-clip, Parker's signature, ends up giving just a tad of flair and shows that you've splurged on name-brand. Except you haven't really. A Jotter is $5. Five dollars buys you quality, craftsmanship, all the things you need, and even if you lose it--and experience that moment of heartbreak--you haven't lost that much at all. And let me just say: I've written with Mont Blancs, Bics, Papermates, and Sanfords, Caran D'Aches, Watermans, and Crosses. I know me some pen. The Jotter--and in fact, all of its Parker cousins--kicks their butts on the all-around. The Mont Blanc might be warm, and the Waterman solid, the Bics and Papermates cheap, but none of them is the perfect combination of all that. The Perfect Storm of pens.#[storm] [storm]: Have you noticed that ever since The Perfect Storm came out, people are constantly referring to combinations of things as "the perfect storm" of blank? Basically, it's a little dab of heaven. And then, earlier this week, I discovered the Jotter pencils. Take all that's good about the pen, and turn it into a pencil. It's got smooth, dark lead that is thin enough to leave precise marks, but thick enough to withstand the might of the two-ton handwriter, and generally works in every way you could want it to. Another dab of heaven. That makes a scoop.

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