I love fashion but I hate you.

Letters of Frowning Upon #1

It has come to my attention that I have promised to relate my sartorial philosophy, but have not yet delivered on my word. This must change.

As a Postmodern Gentleman, I find myself to be full of Postmodern Fury, that is Postmodern Indignation. And since I am far to civilized to raise my fists, and far too lazy to raise my body from it’s reclining position in front of the HDTV, I will instead utilize The World Wide Web to deliver my righteous Fury. I love to Capitalize things Needlessly.

My weapon of choise is the Letters of Frowning Upon. Utilized by Postmodern Gents for centuries, since Aaron Burr slew Alexander Hamilton over the matter of a mismatched stocking.

Sir, those are NOT maroon!

Sir, those are NOT maroon!

Of course, the Letters have evolved somewhat from the ball-and-pistol to the click-and-point.

Indeed, my first Letter must be directed today to none other than The Sartorialist. Certainly, Sarty will most likely not reply to my Frowning Upon, using such tired excuses as “being too busy”, “being too important,” or “who are you get out of my house I’m calling the cops.”. I’ve heard them all. In particular, I must Frown Upon the following:


This is not so much a picture of a man as a much as a picture of bag that has decided to sport the latest human accessory. The Gent in this case suffers from that latest, most virulent Fashion Affliction: TPHHS – Tight Pants Huge Head Syndrome.

Don’t believe that it is prevalent? Behold an entire website dedicated to the documentation and display of TPHHS.

TPHHS is marked by, well, come now it’s a pretty self-descriptive name. The Gents with TPHHS look like they’re being looked at through a door peephole, or perhaps a fisheye camera lens. TPHHS is marked by flimsy, vestigial appendages which the healthy would use for walking, but at best the victim uses only to prop himself up awkwardly outside of night clubs. The head, as a result, is massively inflated, figuratively and literally. The disease is particularly pathetic, as victims cannot help but have that vacant, far away look of total vulnerability.

It is inappropriate, therefore, Sartorialist to take advantage of these poor bastards, sad as their states already are. Instead, we must join together to sneak meat into their diets, swap their Matchstick Super Slim jeans for merely Wood Stave Regular Slim, and perhaps begin a matching program to find them appropriately-sized handbags, or, if we hope against hope, shoulder or backpacks.

One Response to “Letters of Frowning Upon #1”

  1. Ben says:

    Sandpiper legs. _Sandpipers!_

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