Flaming Pablum

Sole Asylum: My Incrementally Futile Quest for Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows

 

PREAMBLE: I’ve never considered myself an especially materialistic person. Sure, I collect a bunch of stupid shit like records, compact discs, vintage rock posters and dumb band t-shirts, but those have more to do with my associations with the music rather than items that assert any impressions of wealth, status or style. I couldn’t care less about luxury goods. I don’t care what type of car I drive, as long as it can get me from point A to point B. Prestigious fashion labels like Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Fende, Versace … none of that matters to me at all. I have no real brand loyalty other than an adherence to that which has proven long-lasting and practical. I mean, sure, I like nice things as much as the next person, but by and large, the stuff I like is more super geek than uber chic, and that is entirely fine with me.

This post, meanwhile, is something an unwitting exception to all that — a fixation I backed into with oblivious and entirely coincidental parallels to the zeitgeist, something I am otherwise habitually out of step with.

It’s a silly situation, but here it is…

For a million years, all I ever wore was Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars, … and usually the black ones. While completely clichéd and ubiquitous today, their low-tech, retro aesthetic, back in the '80s, set them well apart from the frankly ridiculous, then-newfangled sneakers of the day. Eschewing the garish, boot-like footwear sported by meat-necked jocks, frat guys, mean girls, professional athletes, proto-yuppies and rappers in favor of comparatively cheap, thinly soled, minimally supportive and tonally dour sneakers (originally designed, ironically, as basketball-wear) was a lifestyle choice I embraced based on their alleged espousal by the Ramones.

That said, nine times out of ten, any photo of da brudders usually found them sporting battered, no-name, filthy canvas plimsolls instead of Chucks, the picture beneath being something of an exception.

Regardless, black Chuck Taylors had established themselves as sartorial shorthand for “punk,” at some earlier point, and became the de rigueur shoe of choice for the sneery agent of renunciation I was aspiring to be.

The inherent problem, however, was and remains that Chucks just aren’t all that great. Sure, they look cool, but they’re murder on your arches, don’t really protect your feet, are prone to smell and don’t usually hold together for very long. And God help you if you get them wet -- you might as well walk around with coarse, wet towels on your feet. Time was when sporting Chucks may have equated with making some sort of outlaw, bohemian statement, but you were often courting orthopedic fallout as a cost.

Today, of course, black Chuck Taylors are everywhere, including the feet of our new Vice President. Over time, much like spiked bracelets, ripped jeans and band t-shirts, they stopped serving as signifiers of a specific subculture. But that’s not why I stopped wearing them.

Well, not entirely. I stopped wearing them so exclusively because I fell in love with another shoe.

Back in 2012, I was very dubiously employed as a homepage editor at the website of NBC’s “TODAY Show,” which, in all candor, eventually turned into fraught experience worthy of a whole, horror-filled post in itself, but I digress. In any case, at one point, we reported a story about sneaker titan Nike getting caught in an awkward position after releasing a line of their signature Nike SB Dunk Low sneakers timed for St. Patrick’s Day called “Black and Tans.” Evidently not keen on doing their homework, the brilliant minds at Nike assumed the origins of the term “Black and Tan” pertained exclusively to the cocktail of mixed beers -- usually Guinness Stout with either a Bass Ale or a Harp Lager -– that results in a layered visual effect (hence the colors … black and tan). If you don’t know your history, that might be a perfectly reasonable assumption. The reality, however, is that the name “Black and Tans” actually refers to a notorious British paramilitary force trained to quell the Irish uprising in the 1920s. Suffice to say, the Irish very understandably don’t take that stuff lightly. Don’t order the drink that way in Ireland, either -- call it a Half N’ Half, else you’ll be courting pugilism.

Anyway, we ran the story, and I was so intrigued by the whole chapter that I wrote a follow-up piece for TODAY.com’s short-lived and star-crossed “fashion blog,” The Look. The mere fact that I was allowed to write about fashion for the outlet ought to give you a clue as to the quality and credibility of the finished product. Don’t bother looking for it today, it has thankfully gone the way of all flesh. Once again, I digress.

In any case, so besotted was I with both the design of this sneaker and its troubled (pardon the pun) history, I thought it would be kinda neat to own a pair. Knowing, however, that I couldn’t simply stroll into my local Foot Locker to procure them, I turned to eBay and, in relatively no time at all and for a slightly more than conventional cost for a pair of sneakers, a fetching pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows were mine. In fact, below is a shot of me in that pair at my desk at the “Today Show” website, shortly before I was unceremoniously given the keys to the street by the outlet.

I should point out, at this stage, that I’ve never given the slightest whiff of a damn about Nike, Nike SB (what’s the difference?) or sports culture or anything of that sort. And despite being essentially half-Irish, I wasn’t really interested in the shoes’ botched attempt at Celtic affiliation either. I just thought it was an intriguing story, and I just really dug the color scheme. The fact that they were comparatively hard to find only made them more special. That was really it.

But, once I owned them, I loved these sneakers. They looked great, went well with everything, and were super comfortable. Random dudes would also periodically stop me in the street with assertions like “fresh kicks, bro!” Sometimes I’d lapse into the needlessly convoluted backstory, but most of the time I’d just say thanks and keep movin’ on.

But in seemingly no time at all, I wore them out, wearing holes into the flattened soles from overuse. Aghast by the unspeakable notion of parting with these cherished sneaks, however, I jumped back on eBay to find a replacement pair.

I used to have a colleague at that “Today Show” gig named Phil. Phil used to make it a point that when he latched onto a particular item that suited his needs, he’d buy that item in bulk, sparing himself the trouble of ever having to hunt said item down again in the conceivable future. I used to give Phil shit about that strange habit, but I was suddenly learning why he did it. Upon my return to eBay for my second pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows, the scarcity of the product and its rarefied charms had caused a noticeable bump in its pricing. Undeterred, I ponied up the dough and — boom — the problem was solved. I had a new pair to replace my first pair.

You might start to see where this is going.

Since tracking down that first pair in March of 2012, I have bought no fewer than four pairs of Nike Black and Tans (although, if I’m being honest, I have technically lost count), each successive pair being slightly more expensive than their predecessors. And given that production on this particular design was hastily halted nine long years ago, the prospect of continuing to find further replacements for each ravaged-soled pair has become uproariously daunting and not-just-a-little unlikely. But, like a pathetic junkie, I have gotten myself hooked on a niche commodity in astonishingly limited supply.

Adding insult to injury, two other factors have come into play.

I suppose there was always a furtive subculture devoted to it, but since about 2005 (if not well before), a virulent cult of -- for lack of a better term -- sneaker fetishism has been on the ascent. No longer an esoteric pursuit, rarefied-sneaker shrines like Flight Club on Broadway and Concepts on University Place have gone upscale and above-ground, selling coveted, status-affirming footwear to high-paying fashionistas and style-conscious b-boys. The same cats who used to remark “fresh kicks, bro” at me now stand on long lines to get into these emporiums to drool over lovingly presented, limited-run or discontinued (like mine) sneakers from eons past. Online ventures like StockX and Grailed act as liaisons between rabid collectors and merchants the Beastie Boys once referred to as “sneaker pimps.” Sneaker fetishism is now a big, lucrative concern, and my little predilection for Nike SB Black and Tans has gotten ensnared in it.

Then, of course, there is also the Travis Scott factor.

If you’re not familiar with the name, Travis Scott is an of-the-moment rapper who is widely revered in the hip-hop world. Personally speaking, I cannot say I am very familiar with his music, but I know he carries a lot of clout and exudes a great deal of influence. Some may remember an incident back in 2019 when Travis sported a 90’s-era Rush t-shirt for a performance at the Grammy Awards, which prompted SPIN Magazine to write a cheeky little piece advising impressionable young fans not to get the impression that Rush were actually somehow “cool,” which goaded me to post something of a pointed tirade in response. Disrespect Rush and expect my wrath. 

In any case, it seems Travis and I share a few things in common in that we evidently both like Rush t-shirts and we both like a Nike SB Dunk Lows. Who saw that coming? In fact, that's Travis pictured above in both a pair of Dunk Lows (although not the Black and Tans) and a different Rush shirt. I actually have this shirt, given to me by Geddy Lee himself. My daughter now wears it, and doesn't care about any of this ridiculous bullshit. 

As I understand it, Travis Scott’s stated affinity for the very type of sneaker I’ve spent the past several paragraphs waxing rhapsodic over has even further accelerated and brazenly inflated their already beefy street value. It’s as if the fates are pointedly conspiring against me.

Here in March of 2021 … almost nine years to the day since I got ahold of my first pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows (size 11.5, if you’re curious), new pairs — when you can actually find them — fetch upwards of $450-500, with some sellers audaciously asking twice those amounts for them.

Now, as a sliver-scalped, 53-year-old father of two high schoolers, I can no longer really justify dropping those sorts of sums on pairs of sneakers simply because I like their design and vainly consider them part of “my signature look.” While I continue to peruse the web looking for affordable pairs (although I’m not so hot on the idea of “used”), I am coming to terms that my chances of finding another new pair for myself are strikingly slim.

Right now, I still actually own two pairs of them, although the soles on both are worryingly thin. I have dispatched one pair to a concern somewhere in Florida who claim to be experts in repairing this variety of footwear, although the likelihood of them being able to replicate the specifics of the sole are evidently very slim. I’ll probably get back some sort of mutant-hybridized pair that will technically lack authenticity.

As I type this, I’m currently wearing my other pair, which I took out of cold storage when I shipped off their younger siblings to the Sunshine state. These soles feel like they could give way at any minute, honestly.

Sadly, the time may indeed by nigh to either try something new or get those dusty black Chucks back out of the closet.

Droning in the Park

I realize you can do super-cool things with them, but I’ve become somewhat wary of and annoyed by drones. Last summer, when I was fleetingly squatting at a cottage out on the South Shore of Long Island, our next door neighbor had one and routinely had the thing hovering over our house. It’s not that I was concerned about him filming us (he would have been catastrophically bored with the end results, I assure you), but the constant buzzing and whirring noise of the thing was really irritating. They’re a nuisance.

That all said, when used properly, they can deliver legitimately breathtaking perspectives heretofore only available to birds and/or people in very expensive helicopters. Below in one such video.

Shot from in, around and way the Hell above Washington Square Park, here’s a novel view of my neighborhood. He even flies over my drab, nondescript building, at one point. Thrills.

Ignore the awful stock music and enjoy.

Back to Loisaida

It’s all very easy for blogs like mine to lament the loss of the East Village’s punk-rock character and shake a fist at the bottomless brunchers on St. Marks Place or the dude-bros walking down Avenue A carrying golf bags, but it’s prudent to remember that there was a community on the Lower East Side with a complicated history of its own well prior to the arrival of Sonic Youth, Richard Hell, Debbie Harry and the Cro-Mags.

“Viva Loisaida” is a film directed by Marlis Momber in 1978 that depicts the neighborhood well prior to the decades of gentrification that have turned it into what it is now, and the differences are stark. 

One wonders what its subjects would have to say about what the neighborhood transformed into.

Oates in the Streets

When you think of New York City in the late 70’s, a lot of musical names probably spring to me: The New York Dolls, The Ramones, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Richard Hell, Lou Reed, The Dead Boys but … Hall & Oates? Probably not.

Now, as far as I’m concerned, while they’ve never been especially “edgy,” Hall & Oates are pretty unimpeachable. Sure, you may listen to none-blacker-than variants of metal or super-esoteric indie or wildly forward-thinking electronic music or deep, underground hip-hop or WHATEVER, but if you can’t appreciate the finer moments of Hall & Oates’ august catalog of rock, pop and soul, there’s probably something wrong with you. Just as I said about Rush some time ago, Hall & Oates may never have been hip or cool, but for what they do, they are untouchable.

So, imagine my surprise, this morning, upon spying a new interview on Legs McNeil’s Please Kill Me website with John Oates, talking about his formative days in New York City, braving the Downtown scene with Daryl Hall, opening for Lou Reed, checking out the New York Dolls at the Mercer Arts Center and Television at CBGB. Hell, John even played in a part-time band with Pat Place from the Bush Tetras. WHO THE HELL KNEW?

Anyway, it’s cool stuff. Check it out here. 

In The City: Urban Navigation in "The Warriors"

With both my wife and daughter out of the apartment, last evening, my 15-year-old son Oliver and I were left to our own devices, so to speak, so we ordered in some Chinese food and decided to watch a movie. Usually, this has meant umpteenth viewings of any number of Marvel Universe films or installments in the “Star Wars” series. While I am entirely cool with both of those options, when opportunities have arisen, I’ve tried to broaden my son’s cinematic horizons with further-flung fare. Last year, I introduced him to both the subterranean thrills of 1974’s “The Taking of Pelham 123” (the original, not the Travolta ripoff) and the Kafka-esque, comedic nightmare of Scorsese’s “After Hours” (my favorite film of all time), both of which he was engaged by and warmed to. Seeking to further expand his viewing, last night I dangled the prospects of three crucial films before him, namely “Blade Runner,” “Apocalypse Now” and Walter Hill’s 1979 classic, “The Warriors.” Oliver opted for the latter, so we dug into our beef with broccoli and settled in.

Now. I’ve written about my love of “The Warriors” here numerous times (see links below), so it’s almost impossible for me to be objective about the film at this very late stage in the proceedings, but it was interesting to watch Oliver soak it in. In all fairness, even to die-hard fanboys like myself, what seemed like a palpably edgy and unvarnished portrayal of a violent and lawless urban dystopia in 1979 has not really retained its aura of nervy realism. As I mentioned before, there is inarguably an unwittingly campy element to the film, as well as a relative wholesomeness (despite the odd homophobic rejoinder and crude sexual innuendo, there is not even the slightest whiff of drug use or racial tension, even on the allegedly big bad streets of late-`70s New York City). Admittedly, there is that uncomfortable scene in Riverside Park wherein foul-mouthed Ajax basically attempts to roughly have his way with undercover cop Mercedes Reuhl, but he gets a nightstick in the groin for that, so there are at least consequences for his indefensible actions.

But for all the film's tension, imminently quotable dialogue and stylized depictions of nocturnal combat, Oliver’s observations were cuttingly insightful, calling into question several plot points that, in my practically life-long avowal of the movie, even I had managed to overlook.

Oliver was primarily incredulous that the tough-guy protagonists in Coney Island’s Warriors were all presumably native New Yorkers, yet all seemed largely incapable of navigating the intricacies of their own city’s mass transit system. Now, it could be indeed argued that, at the time, New York was so atomized and localized to the point wherein residents of certain boroughs simply never left their own turf, but the hapless Warriors are completely flummoxed even in locating the Dyre Avenue subway station they only recently disembarked from. Never mind running the gauntlet home from the Bronx, how did these guys manage to find their way around on normal days?

Personally speaking, I don’t believe I started riding the subways until I was a freshman in high school, but in relatively short order, I was perfectly able to distinguish uptown from downtown and fully capable of getting myself from East 96th Street to Union Square — continually misrepresented by certain Warriors in the film as “Union Station” — without being confused or hassled. Now, granted, I wasn’t being pursued by baseball-bat-wielding brigands, but the stress of being hunted by roaming gangs doesn’t preclude one from remembering topographical basics.

This nagging complaint with the narrative almost derailed Oliver’s enjoyment of the film, prompting him to suggest other subway lines and/or alternative routes they might have taken to the relative safety of their Brooklyn destination. Beyond that, he was also curious as two why director Walter Hill chose to film the Warriors' first encounter with the Baseball Furies at the intersection of West 72nd and Broadway, when the shot prior found them getting off the subway at 96th street.

While these were absolutely valid points, I basically told Oliver to relax and enjoy the movie, which he eventually did. But, privately, I felt a sense of accomplishment. When my kids were relatively little, I frequently made it a point to take them to as many remote corners of the city as was feasible. My intention was not only to showcase all the great things the city has on offer to them, but to instill within them an inherent understanding of where things are, how to get to (and away) from them, and always how best to find their ways home, ideally without having to “bop” anybody or “waste any heads” along the way.

More About "The Warriors” on Flaming Pablum.

Farewell to The Fury

"The Warriors" at 40

Leave "The Warriors" Alone

Let's Get Down To It, Boppers: Exhuming "The Warriors" 

Can U Dig It?

 

Shea It Ain't So: Talkin' Trash `Bout The Clash

I’m a Clash fan of the variety that basically picked up everything the band saw fit to put out, bar the odd compilation and box set of studio recordings of songs I already had, so when Live at Shea Stadium was released in 2008 — 26 years after it was recorded — it was a no-brainer. I even sprang for the limited edition, hard-bound book edition, because that’s the type of dork I am.

It’s a lovely artifact, especially the edition I bought, appended with photos from noted rock shutterbug Bob Gruen, who also penned the purple-prose-laden forward to the liner notes. But, I’m not gonna lie, in the wake of the release of 1999’s From Here to Eternity: Live, it all felt a bit needless. But, again, being the dutiful fanboy, I picked it up, spun it a few times, and “threw it on the pile,” as they say (or, more accurately, filed it with anal-retentive precision in “the Clash section” amid my increasingly anachronistic shelves of CDs). It’s pretty much sat there ever since, as it’s — if I’m being honest — rarely the first Clash album I’m inclined to pull out or listen to, especially since most of my listening transpires on my iPod while commuting to and from work.

But there’s another thing about Live at Shea Stadium that prevents me from lauding it as others might, and that’s the revisionism. Yes, the Clash did indeed play Shea Stadium on the rainy night of October 13, 1982 (my birthday, incidentally), but, crucially, they were not the headliners of the event in question — The Who was. Sure, Bob Gruen cites this in the afore-mentioned forward, but if one were simply to peruse the album cover, that inconvenient truth is nowhere to be found, arguably giving younger, less-informed and/or casual fans the misconception that The Clash were a big enough concern in 1982 to warrant a gig at Shea Stadium on their own. 

And yeah, the Clash were blowing up, at the time. Having already ascended out of the rough-hewn rabble of British Punk by their iconic third album, London Calling, they were swiftly becoming a globally-known and entirely accessible quantity. I vividly remember spinning “Train in Vain” off same, and having my mother jitterbug into my room with a big smile on her face “Now *THIS* I like!,” she beamed. To the 13-year-old me, there was no greater ignominy than having a parent approve of my favorite music.

Indeed, by 1982’s Combat Rock, the Clash no longer belonged to a furtive cabal of gatekeeping punks. They were everyone’s band. Between “Rock the Casbah” and “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” they were all over the place (and, clearly, the cracks were starting to show). The big time was surely beckoning.

But not Shea Stadium big, let’s be clear. Surely, their spiritual forebears in The Who probably recognized a bit of themselves in The Clash and Townshend was still seething to claim some kinship to Punk Rock (seek ye “Who Are You?” and “Rough Boys” if you need convincing), so adding them to their bill (alongside former New York Doll David Johansen) got as close to checking that box as was feasible. But the majority of the vast throngs of people who came to Shea Stadium that night were not there to hear The Clash. To hear my friend Rob — who attended the gig — tell it, the crowd was essentially the old school — aging classic rock fans with painted denim jackets. The Clash weren’t poorly received, but their short, opening-band set was largely tolerated politely by folks pining to hear hoary rock-opera standards like “Pinball Wizard” and “Baba O’Reilly,” not the menacing dub of “Guns of Brixton” or the forward-thinking funk of “The Magnificent Seven."

By and large, though, Live At Shea Stadium paints the Clash as conquering heroes of the punk generation, usurping the fabled Queens enormo-dome from the Beatles (when, in actuality, it would be the Police who accomplished that feat a year later). Personally speaking, for a band so steeped in conviction, the downplayed specifics, omissions and fact-fudging of Live At Shea Stadium all seem a bit disingenuous. The heart and conscience of the band, Joe Strummer, was already long dead when the record was released. Maybe he’d have cast it differently.

So, why am I discussing any of this now? Well, because I was recently watching yet another episode of Amoeba Records’ “What’s In My Bag?” and rapper Vic Mensa proudly displays his vinyl copy of Live At Shea, clearly unaware (and/or possibly unbothered) by the fact that The Clash played Shea under slightly different circumstances than is implied, … as if that would matter.

At the very least, it made me listen again, and — if nothing else — Live at Shea Stadium does feature a live version of “London Calling” that is markedly superior to the one captured on From Here to Eternity: Live. For whatever reason, Joe comes in with his opening verse a bit late, by about a whole bar, which reveals the choppy, staccato foundation of the song in an enjoyably illuminating manner. Secondly, unlike the version on From Here.., Joe actually remembers all the lyrics and manages to sing them in the original order, which is nice.

As you were.

St. Marks Place in Snowy `69

Before the vape joints. Before the brunchers. Before the punks. St. Marks was still ... St. Marks. Check out Gem Spa and the Fillmore East....

Other People's Pics

Here is a clutch of seemingly random photos that have been languishing on my desktop, mostly for no readily apparent reason.....

Cait O'Riordan of the Pogues. No idea who took it. Cait was invariably the coolest member of the band. 

A still from Scorsese's "Mean Streets." I walk this strip whenever I head to the office. It's no longer this grotty.

A shot of the Strokes, although I have no clue who took it. I was fleetingly inspired to write another post about the band, based on their actually not-bad, new material, but lost interest, probably because of this picture. I mean, really...

Another shot of long-gone First Avenue favorite, Downtown Beirut. Renowned for their stellar jukebox. Note the unfinished Missing Foundation insignia near the door. 

Another age-old Rock Hotel flyer. I set this to one side not because I ever cared about Cycle Sluts from Hell (I didn't), but because the venue in question is Downtown, the spot on Bond Street I spent some time researching some years back. 

A great action shot of Tod and Natz from my beloved Cop Shoot Cop. No idea where this picture was taken, when or who took it. 

Snapped by one David Vega in 1985, here's an amazing shot of the since-razed corner of St. Marks Place at Third Avenue, replete with also since-vanished Gringo mural. 

Spotted this on Instagram. This is someone's shower curtain. I approve. 

A lovely family portrait of the Sex Pistols after their fabled, final performance at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. No idea who took it. 

A outtake from Pennie Smith sessions for the cover of Sandinista! by The Clash. 

...and there you have it. 

 

Back to The Palladium

Someone posted this on Facebook today (albeit without a photo credit, sadly) and it's just such a smashing image of the place, I thought I'd share it. Click on it to enlarge.

The first time I went here was in 1982 to see Devo on the Oh, No It's Devo tour. Some time after that, it was closed and completely re-modeled and re-invented as the quintessential big 80's club. In that iteration, I saw Public Image Ltd., Fishbone, The Dead Milkmen, 2 Live Crew, Digital Underground and a neck-snapping triple bill of Foetus, The Unsane and Cop Shoot Cop. 

Today, the footprint of the Palladium plays host to a soulless NYU dorm (churlishly still referred to as The Palladium) with a Trader Joe's  on its ground floor. By my estimation, the iconic spot where Paul Simonon smashed his bass guitar, as captured by photographer Pennie Smith for the cover of London Calling, is somewhere at the end of the produce section.

Who did YOU see here? 

Below is frankly goofy 3D reconstruction of its iteration as a nightclub...

Goodbye to Brooks Brothers

The first time I ever set foot in the Brooks Brothers flagship store on Madison Avenue and 44th Street, I was invariably with my mother. As an Upper East Side brat attending a private elementary school of the sort that required the wearing of blue blazers, I was invariably there being fitted for same. Just a stone’s throw from Grand Central Station, Brooks Brothers was this hallowed Manhattan institution, frequented by monied captains of industry, and practically the Kaaba of all things “Preppy.” The store, just like the clothes it sold, exuded an unmistakable air of exclusivity, prestige and privilege. Seemingly erected on that corner not long after the settlement of the New World, Brooks Brothers was an iconic brand that became synonymous with old New York, almost as hallowed a place of worship as St. Patrick’s Cathedral just a few blocks away. As such, when I was a child, whenever I was taken there, I felt self-conscious, awed, undeserving and underdressed.

By the time I made it into my teens, I’d become not so enamored of the place, its pricey duds and the associations that were inexorably entwined with them. While Brooks Brothers clothes were impeccably well made, I largely wanted no part of that image or the mindset that espoused it. As both a cathedral of aspirational wealth and the uniform of the avaricious, Brooks Brothers started to represent everything I wanted to renounce. Somewhat ironically, there was a Madison Avenue record shop I’ve invoked here a few times that I regularly patronized in the early 80’s that was only a couple of doors up from Brooks Brothers. I was a thousand times more likely to be found blowing my dubiously earned allowance on LPs by The Clash and The Plasmatics there than ridiculously expensive neckties at Brooks Brothers just down the block.

But once an Upper East Side kid, always an Upper East Side kid, I guess. While my sartorial inclinations skewed largely towards all things black, augmented by band t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, there has always been a stubborn streak of inherent prepdom to my wardrobe. A former brother-in-law once described my style as one foot in CBGB and the other in Brooks Brothers. I think I resented him for it, at the time, but he pretty much summed it up.

In time, I gradually had a come-to-Jesus moment and reconciled my issues with Brooks Brothers, disregarding any remaining feelings of guilt or disdain upon treating myself to a snazzy jacket there in later life (it helped that, over the years, Brooks Brothers had branched out from its stodgier origins). My mindset, by this point, was that the clothes don’t make the man, they just help him look a little more presentable. Never was this more confirmed for me, however, than in July 2005.

It was a brutally hot day, and I was walking through midtown with my wife Peggy and then-baby-daughter Charlotte. Everyone was getting a little cranky from the heat until Peggy remembered she was carrying a Brooks Brother gift card and rightly assumed the nearby flagship store would be sumptuously air-conditioned. As such, we repaired to the palatial interiors of same to cool off and browse.

While pushing Charlotte’s umbrella stroller around tables draped with immaculate mandalas of pricey neckties, I heard Peggy remark behind me. “Check out that guy in the cowboy hat.” I glanced over and saw a tall gentleman with arms outstretched, presumably being fitted for what looked like a three-piece suit, and — indeed — sporting a jarringly incongruous, ten-gallon cowboy hat. I smirked, but then did a complete double-take.

The cowboy in question was Michael Gira, lead singer/primary mastermind behind SWANS.

So struck by the sight, I actually exclaimed, “Michael?” Through my friend Tod from Cop Shoot Cop, I’d actually met Michael Gira some years earlier, not that I was expecting him to remember me. He looked up and I just told him I was a big fan of his music. He smiled and told me I had a lovely family and got back to being fitted for his suit.

Peggy looked confused. I explained who the nattily-dressed and convivial cowboy was, taking pains to point out that he was the same man who wrote and recorded such zingy chestnuts as “Mother, My Body Disgusts Me” and “Raping a Slave,” which made Peggy look even more confused.

For me, though, the striking thing was that for Michael Gira, there is truly no more abjectly derisive and palpably base word than “consumer,” and yet here he was in the very plush, velvety lap of consumer culture. Now, maybe this was all a middle-finger to the face of that which he so abhors, but it certainly looked to me like he was enjoying himself and indulging. I don’t assume I’ll ever know the whole picture, there.

In any case, that episode totally absolved Brooks Brothers of much of its haughty intimidation for me. At the very least, it decimated any fleeting concerns about Brooks Brothers not being “punk” enough, or whatever.

The last time I went to Brooks Brothers, I went in looking for a Navy Pea Coat for my son. True to form, I found a nice one for Oliver that was a significant step up from the clunky one we’d gotten him at the Gap a year or two earlier and he went on to cherish it.

Today, the wife and I were back in midtown running an errand and found ourselves walking down Madison Avenue. We’d heard that Brooks Brothers was in trouble, but were still taken aback when, upon reaching that iconic corner of East 44th Street, we looked in and saw the flagship store closed, empty and gutted.