"Occasionally Clothed" is an ongoing series in which Paul Beirne builds outfits for life's many occasions.
What do you do when you're invited to a seersucker-themed dandy-fest? Well, you can take the low road and tell your friend/host to take their barber shop quartet jacket and wipe a hobo's ass with it, "Let's see you wear that shit to your fancyboy party now." Or you can take the even lower road and sweep their puckered-cotton pinstriped leg right out from under them in a confusingly slow and deliberate fashion that defies time, space, physics, metaphysics, things, social studies, Jenga strategies, etc. with one sub-crotchial deathblow. Seer suck on that. There's an even lower road still, where you just crumple the invitation before your friend's eyes, fiendishly retorting, "Fuck your dreams, Gatsby. You're the reason your parents got divorced." If you're gonna kill the messenger you might as well eat his face.
You could go ahead and just "not do" those things—an option that, for some, may yield positive results. I recently took the high road, attended a friend's "seeksucker social" and celebrated with many gin spritzer.
The second you say yes to a theme party, you've gotta commit. I did my research and watched the entire Great Gatsby trailer (beginning to end) and was all, "Okay, research complete." Armed with my new-found wealth of knowledge, I ventured into my closet and Gatsby'd up all the seersucker I had. This yielded a single pair or cut-off seersucker shorts. Fully stocked with munitions (a pair of shorts) and my library of intelligence (a movie trailer for which I hit the "Like" button to certify successful transfer of data) I created an outfit of epic absurdity.
Alright, scenario is set. Q: Attire? A: Multi-level inception dumb. The legitimate "Yo, I know this supposed to be dumb, but this is literally stupid" stupidity of Dumb and Dumberer. Think dumb within a dumb. Still with me? Obviously, I'm going with a blazer over my shorts. Something simple to show some semblance of decency above my cut-offs. It's hot out, so I'm thinking unstructured jacket. Not trying to sweat out this booze. Not ever.
Downstairs, no hosiery. Ankles NSFW. Monked-the-fuck-up. Straps at half mast because I knew Flag Day was around the corner and I'm really, really respectful, and classy, and love our troops more than you. Got a lot of silent, approving nods for my thoughtfulness that day.
The kicker though, and ultimate "go to hell" move was the bow tie. I'm pretty adverse to bow ties in general. I only own one, it's black, and I wear it with my tux. Occasionally I wear it—and it alone—when I'm giving a lady friend the night of her life. You know, the full treatment (I won't tell you what that is because I'm a man of morals and some things should go unsaid). For this occasion I went with the loudest one I could find, because hey, if I'm playing in the Land of Make Believe, I'm playing that shit to win. King me.