by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans. “Aye. Looked for It. And I found it. Miles Standish Proud. Congratulate me.” That unmistakable nasal whine. Those lyrics, unforgettable to me after thirty-odd years, n...
by Alexander Freeling. In the fifth smallest county in the United States, and the smallest in Nebraska, there’s a town called Arthur, population 118. Taking Fir Street, you can walk from one end ...
by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans. I’m thinking, for some reason, of the late Adnan Khashoggi and of a host of dead playboys and nabobs, shrouded in the finest custom shirts money, so much money, could b...
by André Larnyoh. Like many others who were (or still are in some cases) stuck inside during this strange summer, I have immersed myself back into the world of cinema. Personally I’ve been enjoy...
by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans. Something large is crashing through the brush in front of me just out of sight. I wait half-expecting it to emerge but, keeping the mystery, snapping, thudding, it n...
by Daniel Penny. As I’ve written elsewhere, I’m in the middle of a closet embargo, only worsened by the pandemic. A few necessities have slipped through: socks, underwear, a single extravagant p...
by Reginald-Jerome de Mans. For a surprisingly large set of men, particularly Frenchmen, who care about beautiful shoes, an artificial patina is, with apologies to Mr. Bungle, the sweetest taboo.
by Reginald Jerome de Mans. One of the joys of custom clothing, they used to say, is that is supposed to last forever. Any English teacher would immediately ask, who are “they”? The reassuring v...