I have said before that my style, which in its extreme lends towards the costumey, has now morphed into a Crouching Tiger Hidden Sprockets look. I love the construction of Asian garments but since I cut my sartorial teeth in the ’eighties I am chained to black. It’s like I made a pact with Comrags or Carol Pope. Or both. Rich and I share a small closet and because we both dress in the same black-grey shades we cannot find a thing. Retrieving a dress shirt for the poor boy is like searching in an I Spy for German nihilists.
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