Sam Adams: Fashion God

I’m no Joe Schmo when it comes to fashion sensibility, but I’m no Kanye West either. Never really got the hang of that racket. My dad used to tear the Jumpman symbols off his new Jordan’s, and while it made me cringe, I find my 25-year-old self not interested in the least in logos, trends, or “the new black.” But after taking an in-depth review of my internal closet, I may have just stumbled on the glass slipper….

I went to an art school, but I never much got along with the kids there, and I always felt it had something to do with my under-the-radar duds. It was hard to be the guy in Gap jeans, a Bulls hoodie and beat-up New Balances in a place where the mandatory wardrobe included Yasser Arafat shawls, straight-brimmed baseball hats that had more to do with aesthetics than team affiliation, and jeans that cut-off one’s genital circulation.

I thought about trying their look, maybe just to make friends, but it just didn’t make sense: I had no affiliation with the Palestinian nationalist movement, I hated the New York Yankees, and I really was interested in the future prospect of fathering children. Also, I hated PBR, or as those born within the Chicago city limits call it, Pabst. No, hipsterdom was never for me.

But what about being a jock? I’d always loved sports, didn’t have a problem with drinking games, and for one reason or another –probably having to do with my then-Hunter Thompson fixation– really liked those easter-colored J. Crew shorts that made you look like a prime candidate for the Martha’s Vineyard croquet calendar.

But after a few months at that game, my hair product bills started getting out of hand. My fashion-teacher mom said that my backwards hats made me look like “a medieval page boy.” And I gave up on Polo shirts when I learned that wearing them in public was code for “I like barfights.”

Thrift stores? Not a fan. I know we’re supposed to be more aware of this whole “carbon footprint” thing, but not for me. I don’t like the smell of mothballs, and I don’t like to think of all the things a person could have done in the clothes on my back. Nothing like walking around in an old Pearl Jam shirt that had a past life as someone’s “happy towel.” No thanks.

So where am I now? I guess a few things come to mind — I’ve been spending a lot of time around older, literary types as of late and they seem to have a style that I don’t mind so much – collared shirts, jeans or khakis, a pair of sneakers. Not that it looks great, but it’s classy enough to wear to dinner and I can find the whole get up at Marshalls, my favorite one-stop-shop spot.

Mick Dumke (r), older literary type and fashion role model

Then there’s the Southern Gentleman look. I like that one. Not many occasions for it, but if I made enough dough to migrate to Kentucky, I’d probably have a hallway closet full of seersucker sport coats and canary yellow ties, not to mention the two-tone shoes. Just ask Joakim Noah. Now there’s a sharp-dressed fellow if I’ve ever seen one:

Not so fast, Valentino….

So with these thoughts in mind, I went for a self-made makeover at my two favorite stores, Marshalls and the Gap. What I came up with was a beautiful plaid sport coat and a pair of classic blue jeans. Shopping the sales as I always do, this all topped out at $50. Not bad. I brought home the booty, proud to show my girlfriend the dazzling resourcefulness of the future editor of GQ magazine.

“Look, baby, new jeans!” I beam.

“Oh…”

Her attention must be diverted. Happens a lot when I talk about myself. Or maybe she can’t take her eyes from this sex-magnet of a coat. I try again:

“Two new pairs. Gap. The 1969’s! You love these!”

“…Have you washed them yet?”

“Sure, nice and clean!”

“In hot water?”

“What? I don’t know…Yea, yea, hot water, I guess. Nice, right?”

“Then why didn’t they shrink?”

Too big. The pants are too big. Dammit, I just can’t get this right. At least there’s the jacket. I begin to turn away, still cradling a sliver of pride.

“What’s that on your back?”

“There’s something on my back? Get it off!”

“No, no. That jacket … what the hell is that?”

“My new duds. Marshall’s finest! Sharp, huh?”

“You look like that basketball guy.”

“Who … Not Craig Sager?!?”

Craig Sager and Benny the Bull

“Yea, him! You look like Craig Sager in fat-man pants.”

Screw it. Wasn’t  cut out for this whole fashion thing. I retreat to the closet, throw on a pair of sweatpants, Bulls hoodie. Decide I’ll go for a jog. There’s my old ratty New Balances.

I step outside feeling like a million bucks. As I run, my mind wanders … the clay jogging path looks more and more like a red carpet. The mid-afternoon sun bursts through the trees like a thousand paparazzi flashbulbs. Onlookers stop in their tracks and gawk.

“Who’s that man?” One guy asks.

“Couldn’t be certain,” says his friend, “but I believe I’ve met him before …Style… Yes, that’s it, Style’s his middle name.”

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