STOCK ITEMS

With the pending opening of our new space in “The Big Easy” (cool name for New York City), we hereby proudly announce the 2013 price list for in-store photography.
Please be aware that due to the high demand, we are limiting access to accredited press and high-profile internet media, a.k.a. “blogs” only.
That means there is no need to apply unless your blog has at least 100000 (in words: one hundred thousand) page impressions per week. For proof, we accept a double notarized printout of your Google Analytics statistics for the last eight months.
If your blog doesn’t match these criteria, do not despair. Starting in March, you will be able to use your Twitter follower numbers to balance out page impressions of your site. Every 1000 (in words: one thousand) Twitter followers will be worth 10000 (in words: ten thousand) page impressions. That means you could apply for a photo session at our space with only 10000 (in words: ten thousand) Twitter followers per month. Again, we need double notarized proof that you are the rightful owner of the Twitter account. Please supply a list of at least 56 (in words: fiftysix) tweets made during the last 14 (in words: fourteen) days mentioning STOCK ITEMS in a positive way.

The prices for qualified members for the media are as follows:

Please note that due to cultural differences, we reserve the right to charge an accommodation surchage or to deny access to our space if improper conduct is to be expected. As always, we offer limited discounts to favourite ethnicities. Please refer to the updated table below.

Interested and qualifying parties, contact us right away here: Contact form

✳ New York City ✳ Space ✳ STOCKITEMS ✳ orSlow ✳ Engineered Garments ✳ beams ✳ store ✳ opening ✳ NY 

My dearest Daiki

As I’m writing these lines into my new Papier Labo notebook, I’m sitting on the floor, alone in our new space in the East Village. It’s late, and I can feel a busy day of hard renovating work in my muscular torso. The boys are gone, somewhere, to eat, to drink, to have fun…to be happy. I didn’t join them. Told them I’m not feeling well and will hit the sheets soon. But that isn’t the truth. The truth is that I’m feeling empty. Empty and sad.

Since we arrived here in New York, I realised that I couldn’t just keep lobbing things over the fence wondering where they were landing. If they were even noticed. I can’t live with the uncertainty anymore.

Back in the days, I thought we had a thing. Remember when we visited you for the first time in your studio to interview you? God, I was so excited. I never told you this, but I had to change my 2010SS chambray work shirt three times that day because of the sweat stains. But due to your professionalism, the day saw itself saved. The interview went great. We kicked back and forth what I thought were some pretty important ideas about the future of curation. You said you liked my pen. So I had a pack of them delivered to your apartment. We really clicked. Or so I thought.

Since that day, and this is something that took a while for me to come to grips with, I feel like nothing I do is of any importance to you. I thought all the hard work I poured into our relationship would gain me your respect. Or at least your attention. I even grew a messy beard - for you. Back in Canada, people were ridiculing me for it. But I just let the hate bounce off of me with a smile, because I hoped you’d notice me at that party we last saw each other at. You didn’t. Whatever I do, I feel that I’m two steps behind, not catching up with you quickly enough.

Isn’t it strange that the mag is good enough for Tsutaya, but apparently not sophisticated enough for your space? That all the Japanese brands are climbing over each other to work with us, but we won’t get EG for our NY space? Remember that evening in Firenze, after Pity? When we were supposed to wine & dine together, but somehow you changed your plans without telling me and I waited for six hours at a touristy pizzeria drinking fizzy l’Ambrusco while you were partying with the guys from The Rig Out? Until now, I told myself that it was just a misunderstanding. But I’m not so sure anymore.

I’ve hit rock bottom. I have to limit my losses, D. Even if you can’t bring yourself to accept me as kōhai, you will always be my senpai. You motivate me. From the busy tumblr, to my travels around the world, to opening our new space here in New York - your New York, I don’t think I’d been able to come this far if I had never met you.

But I get it. This is going too quickly for you. Maybe I was pushing too hard. But please be assured, I could have pushed much harder, had I wanted to. Did you know that we had the chance to get a space right across the street from yours? We were really that close to signing the lease. I think you’d have profited from it as well. I’d have been able to watch your every step 24/7, make sure you are safe. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fantasising about us. After a long day of really, really hard work, we’d close up our stores and go downtown together for Katsus or Sushi. Then back to my place. Have a chat about your childhood in Japan. Or mine in Canada. Tell each other about our roots. Find out how it could happen that two people who grew up so far apart from each other would both end up sharing the exact same interests. You’d read to me from the latest Free & Easy issue. We’d play Kelly Slater on the X-Box. Just two of the world’s greatest curators stimulating each other. Step our respective games up. Oh, let me assure you, this is not a gay thing. I’m as straight as they come. Just ask my ex-girlfriend. Alright, alright. If you insist, Angelo can play Kelly Slater, too. What is it about him that you don’t seem to see in me? Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak bad about him. I respect him to the max.

I know what you are trying to do. But I don’t think it will work. I know deep down, there must be a part of you that respects me. That you are just not ready to commit to. But maybe some day. And I just want you to know, if that day ever comes, I’ll be waiting for you. Here in the East Village. Looking crisp as hell in my Workaday Fatigues and my navy Bedford.

Your kōhai Bryan

✳ Japan ✳ Engineered Garments ✳ Papier Labo ✳ Katsu ✳ Sushi ✳ Daiki Suzuki ✳ Angelo Urrutia ✳ Kelly Slater ✳ Xbox ✳ East Village ✳ New York City ✳ Free & Easy ✳ Workaday ✳ Pitti ✳ creepy ✳ stalking ✳ stalker ✳ Vancouver ✳ Canada ✳ Chambray 

Oh my god, you guys — last Friday night, I had the craziest dream. One of those dreams where you wake up shaking from excitement and wonder, “was that just real?”, and then your brain kicks in and you realise you were dreaming, but you can’t stop thinking about that dream for the next couple of days because it was so detailed and felt so real, and you can’t help but think that it wasn’t a dream but some kind of foreshadowing of your future. Even at the risk of making myself vulnerable to the haters again, I just have to share this with you, if just to get it out of my system.
Okay, so we’re, like, inside the dream now. I’m sitting at my desk in our space, putting the finishing touches on a piece I wrote about this new exciting brand from Japan named “Corona”. Daily routine sort of work. It’s about six p.m. and I’m getting ready to leave for soccer practice. Chad and Tony are busy combing Tumblr for interesting bits on architecture, photography, exhibitions, and other cultural stuff that’ll serve nicely with our recent “embracing of the higher brow” as I like to call it.
I save the document and shut down my trusty old MacBook. I wait for the screen to turn black. Wow. Who’s that guy on screen now? Oh, it’s my own reflection. I look at myself for a while. I smile. This new look I adopted recently really works for me. I grew a messy beard and got this 19th century style felt hat which I haven’t taken off for weeks now. I know what you’re thinking: “Bryan has turned Hipster now,” but of course it’s not at all a Hipster look. I’d like to think it’s more of an “Angelo Urrutia gone Amish” kind of vibe. Amish and heartthrob. He he he.
I really got to get going, but I keep studying my face. It’s just too interesting. A few minutes must have passed, when I suddenly snap back into reality by these people yelling in front of our building. They sound American. And black. “Yo it’s here,” I can hear a guy shout. Car doors are slammed. I get up and run over to window facing the street, as do Chad and Tony. What the hell is happening out there? As I look out the window, I see him. Kanye West. He’s walking towards our building. Holy shit. I instantly feel it — he’s coming to see me.
The door bell rings. I feel like I’m in a dream. Well, maybe because I am, but even inside the dream, I feel like it’s a dream, not real. Some Leo DiCaprio type of shit, know what I’m saying? Anyway, I see Chad walk, or better, float towards the door and push the buzzer. We hear a couple of men running up the staircase in heavy boots, probably custom made Vibergs. But I’m not afraid. Not at all.
The door opens and the room fills with this beautiful, angelic light. Then he enters. It’s supernatural. I feel like I’m on the set of a movie scene.
“Yo B, you ready?” Kanye says.
“Yes.” I answer.
“Let’s go!” he says.
“What about my crew?” I ask him, nodding in the general direction where Chad and Tony are standing.
“They can’t come. The clock’s ticking. Are you ready or no?”
Damn. What to do now? I have to look out for my crew. I wouldn’t be a good Principal Director of Curation if I didn’t. But then, I can’t let this chance pass me by. Chad and Tony give me a look like beaten dogs. Is this a test? A test from…God?
“Sir, time is running out,” one of Kanye’s guys says.
“What is your decision, B? It’s either you or none of you. I need to know now.”
I grab my navy EG Bedford and nod towards Kanye. He heads out the door, and I follow, never looking back.

Next thing I know is I’m at 35000 feet, flying over the ocean. I’m sitting in the most comfortable chair I have ever sat in, gobbling down the best Tempura I’ve ever had outside of Shibuya. It’s Kanye’s private jet. He’s nowhere in sight, but in the seat next to me, and you won’t believe this, sits Drake. It kind of makes sense as we’re both Canadian. I think I know what this is about. Kanye is like Nick Fury and he’s assembling the Avengers of Curation for an epic battle against…well, I don’t know. The haters, maybe?
I turn my head towards Drake. He’s playing Letterpress on his custom-made platinum iPad mini.
“Hey man, so we finally meet.”
“Yo B, good to have you with us,” he says.
He knows my name. Cool. I try to keep the conversation going.
“Do you happen to know where we’re headed?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Can you tell me?”
“I could but I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“So it’s going to be exciting, right? Oh man, if I had known I’d have dressed up a little more.”
Drake chuckles.
“Where we’re going, you won’t need no fancy clothes, B. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Oh, okay, sure, and sorry to bother you,” I say, but Drake doesn’t seem to listen anymore.
I lean back into my seat and look out the window. Day has broke so we seem to be going East.
I’m shaken awake when the plane touches down on the runway. I must have dozed off. Where am I? I look out the window. The weather is miserable. It’s raining. Hard. A black van approaches our plane. It has “Frankfurt Airport VIP shuttle” written on its side. What the hell, I’m in Germany now?
“Okay guys, let’s roll. Go, go, go,” one of Kanye’s bodyguards shouts. I exit the plane and enter the van from the side. Kanye’s already in there, talking on his phone. Wow, this is so cool. I really need to know what’s going on. Kanye sees me and holds up his hand, mouthing something towards me while listening to the phone conversation. I think he either said, “it’s cool” or “you’re cool”. We’re now moving again. I try to get an idea where we’re going, but all I see is rain and the occasional vehicle.
Finally, he gets off the phone, sees my puzzled face and goes, “Yo B, sorry for taking you hostage like this, but I had no other choice. Time is running out.”
“That’s cool. If you need me to help you with something, I’m all ready.”
“Just relax B. Everything will be explained to you soon.”
“I am the reason we’re in Germany, right?”
“Your services have been requested. Is all I can say.”
After what feels like eternity, the van finally comes to a stop. Man, I need to piss. Bad. I was too shy to ask for a stop. After all it’s Kanye West. He isn’t known to make stops on the Autobahn, I know that much.
We step out onto the pavement. The van has brought us to some kind of suburb. There’s a forest nearby, and a couple of bungalows. I look at my vintage Audemars-Piquet. It’s 11 a.m. and freezing cold. I pull the collar of my EG Bedford all the way up, and even button the little throat tab. I contemplate the fact that I never had to button it up before.
Kanye and his posse are walking towards the entrance of one of the bungalows. I follow behind them. Kanye knocks on the door. After a little while, the door opens. Holy mother of God. I can’t believe my eyes. It is Dieter Rams. He doesn’t seem surprised at all.

“Da ist ja mein Junge!” he says, hugging Kanye. I’m standing a couple of feet behind Yeezy, and as Dieter Rams hugs him, he glances over his shoulder, directly into my eyes. I’m usually cool in situations like this, but this time I can’t hold eye contact.
He says, in English now, “I see you kept your promise.”
“That is how I do,” Kanye says.
“Very well. He’s a bit shorter than I expected, but it won’t be an issue. Please, please, come in!”
We go inside. I’ve never seen such perfection in my life. The whole place is decked out in Vitsœ furniture. The walls are lined end to end with 606 shelves, brimming with coffee table books. Boy, if Tony saw this he’d have a fit. There’s a couple of leather 601 chairs grouped in one corner. But the real eye-catcher is the absolutely mint looking Braun RT 20 Table radio sitting on a 2007-ish SDR table. I would kill to own a beat up one of these, but this thing looks brand new.
Dieter Rams approaches me, his right hand extended for the shake. He looks extremely young for an eighty year old. I shake his hand. His grip is too tight. I squirm a bit. He fixates me from behind his round horn glasses. His hair is even whiter than on the photos I’ve seen.
“Tja, mein lieber Bryan, du fragst dich sicherlich, warum du hier bist,” he says.
I don’t understand one word. I’ve only recently started with my German lessons.
“Come again?” I say.
“Ha ha ha. Your German needs some work, still.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess…”
“I will need to speak English then, yes?” Fine. I didn’t expect otherwise. Please follow me.”
I’m not sure where this is going. Something about this place creeps me out. Sure, I’m excited to meet my number one idol in the world, well, actually he’s tied at first place with Daiki, but still, something just doesn’t feel right. I follow him anyway. What choice do I have. Yeezy’s crew looks really intimidating in their Louis Vuitton coats.
We walk upstairs on this super-German-looking spiral staircase. Kanye and his crew have sat down in the 601 chairs and are watching some breakfast programme on Dieter Rams’ old Braun black and white TV set. I still need to piss harder than an Albanian boxer, but I don’t dare to ask for the loo.

We enter a room, which has another SDR desk, and a couple of 606 shelves on the wall. There’s also this other piece of furniture I’ve never seen before. It reminds me of an examination bench, like one you’d find at a doctor’s office, but this one is clearly designed by Dieter Rams. It fits perfectly with the desk and shelves. Dieter Rams sits down behind the desk, and waves at me to sit down on the chair in front of it. I think he wants to interview me for a job. Wow.
“So Ryan, I hope you had a good flight. Did you catch some sleep?”
“Uh. Yes…?”
“Good. I will now tell you why I needed you to come here today.”
“Yeah, uh I wanted to ask you that.”
“For now, I need you to just listen and speak only when spoken to.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Bryan, you will be surprised to hear that I have followed your career from the very beginning.”
Holy shit. This guy knows who I am. The undisputed Kaiser of design knows my work. I struggle to suppress a grin.
“I have read your first, how do you say, blog, about Nike sports shoes, when was that, five years ago?”
“Actually more like two years,” I say, in a sudden outburst of honesty.
“I have furthermore followed your next endeavour, and the one after it.”
“Uh, Herr Rams, what can I say…I am very flattered to hear your kind words about my work. Thank you very much, I mean…”
“No need to thank me. Let me be very frank, if you don’t mind. Don’t get me wrong. I think you are an imbecile hack. But you are an imbecile hack who, by some lusus naturae has been gifted with an exceptional talent.”
I don’t know whether to get mad or not, because I don’t speak Latin. So I swallow my pride and listen. Dieter Rams continues.
“Just this week, I have finally gotten proof that the singularity has manifested itself in you.”
“The singularity?” I ask.
“There is no time to explain everything. All these years, I have thought that Jonathan Ive would be the one. But I was wrong.”
He leans forward. I feel he’s becoming tense. He looks me straight in the eyes again.
“Bryan, there is no doubt. The man with the best taste in the whole world…is you.”
I let the words zap around my head for a moment. Did he just say I’m bigger than Jonathan Ive? He stopped talking and studies my reaction. I just sit there, my mouth open, unable to speak.
“I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you Herr Braun, um, Rams. Thank you very much.”
“You are the chosen one, Bryan.”
“Well, I kinda had a good run with STOCK ITEMS in the last couple of months, I guess.”
“I haven’t told you why I had my friend Kanye bring you to my house today.”
“Uh, like, yeah, it’s all a bit much, given that I’ve never been to Germany and stuff.”
“Is that so? Then I’ll clarify. Bryan, look at me. I don’t have much time left on this planet.”
“Ah, come on Herr Rams, you look pretty trim to me,” I try to console him.
“Please be quiet and just listen. My body is already in advanced decay. My empire is fading. I have only a daughter, but she has been infecund so far. Do you understand what this means? It means I will not live to see my heir born. There is nobody in the Dieter Rams bloodline to take the reins.”
“Wow, that’s…like, bad,” I mumble.
“Bad doesn’t even begin to describe it. It is a tragedy for the future of aesthetics.”
He stops speaking. I think he’s trying to keep his countenance. Is he crying?
“So…where exactly do I fit in your plans? Like, I’m not a designer myself. I curate design. Sure, if you absolutely want me to, I could take over your job with some basic training. That’d be awesome.”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” he says.
He pushes a button on the vintage Braun speakerphone in front of him.
“Katrin, kommst du bitte,” he goes. Or something to that extent.
The door swing opens. A woman in a long olive drab gown enters. She must be in her forties. Very German looking. Not ugly, just below average.
“Das ist er,” Dieter Rams says.
She walks around the desk and they both look at me for what feels like ages. I’m getting uncomfortable here.
“Er wirkt nervös. Denkst du, er schafft das?” she says.
“Er ist der Auserwählte. Wenn nicht er, dann schafft es niemand.”
He switches back to English.
“Bryan. I am fully aware this is an, how do I put it, unusual request, and I had wished it wouldn’t have come to this. The reason I brought you here today is to have sexual intercourse with my daughter. I want you to conceive my heir.”
I immediately freak.
“Whaaaat? No! Mr Rams, you are joking, right? This is not real. Hell no!”
“Siehste Papa, er hat’s nicht drauf,” his daughter says.
“Listen to me,” Dieter Rams says, “this is bigger than you, or me, or Kanye, or Daiki, or any other human being. When I die, the Samsungs and Daewoos of this world will take over, and everything I worked for, everything you worked for, will be lost forever. But if you allow our genes to fuse, we can give hope to the next generations. A hybrid of your impeccable taste and my design philosophy would be exactly the guiding light humankind is going to need in the dark times ahead.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to impregnate your daughter? What, you want me to do it here, on this bench? Today?”
He looks me in the eyes, excited.
“Can you do it?”
“No, I mean yes of course, I’m always ready to get it on, but I don’t get why it has to happen today. Can I maybe get to know your daughter first, see how we get along, you know, foreplay and stuff?”
“Believe me, if there was any other way, we wouldn’t have let it come to this situation. But as you can see, my daughter isn’t in her prime anymore. The search for the chosen one has taken longer than expected. Like I said, it was just this week that I got the green light from the people who were checking into you and we brought you here immediately. It has to be today.”
“What if I say no?” I ask him. For some reason, my jaw moves like I’m chewing gum, but I’m not.
“Well, then we would part ways forever and I would have to take another, desperate shot at getting Jonathan Ive. But it would be only the second best solution.”
He looks sad now. I don’t say anything and just pretend to be pondering my options.
“But if you say yes,” Dieter Rams continues, “I can ensure you that you will have absolutely no responsibilities, or rights, related to the child. My lawyers have already prepared all the documentation.”
“Hmm. I guess I could consider it,” I mumble, trying to win time.
“I saw you looking at the RT 20 downstairs,” Dieter Rams suddenly says.
“Aww, hell yeah, that’s so awesome. I mean, you did a lot of great designs for Braun, but to me it’s the RT 20 that’s the stand-out piece of the collection.”
“Well, if you can bring yourself to say yes, I could…”
“Give me the RT 20? No way! Sure I’ll do it! Where do I sign?”, I interrupt him.
“I fear that is impossible. But I do have left a few vintage posters from the ad campaign back when it came out.”
“Oh okay. Yeah, I guess could do her for a poster.”
“I regret to say those are numbered so you cannot take one home. But I could let you look at them, maybe you’d like to take a photo for your website?”
This old geezer is a really tough negotiator. He knows exactly where my weak spot is. I guess I have no choice. Hey, I get to tell the world I fathered Dieter Rams’ heir and get an exclusive shot of a vintage Braun RT 20 poster. Not a bad deal.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Very well. Let’s not waste anymore time then.”
Dieter Rams gets up, and leaves the room, his face all lit up and beaming.

I’m alone with his daughter now. She looks bored. A bored forty-something German not-really-milf. This isn’t going to be easy. I’m not the type of guy who’s into spontaneous sex, usually. I remember one time back in the day, I was going to this Hip-Hop show in Portland with the boys, and after the show Cameron had us all come along to meet these hookers he knew. He said he’d pay for us all to get laid, but I wasn’t able to get it up because I had been smoking. That girl worked the better part of an hour on me before throwing the towel. That was fucking embarrassing.
Dieter Rams’ daughter walks over to the SDR examination bench and leans against it, her behind facing me.
“Komm, mach schnell,” she says. I think that means she thinks I’m hot.
I reluctantly get up and start to unbutton my OrSlow fatigue pants. She better be clean. I’d hate to catch a STD for doing a service to humankind. I stand behind her. This won’t work. She’s too tall. I see it now. She must be over 5’5” easily. She notices I’m not sure what to do and points to the corner of the room. I walk over, and find this small Vitsœ stepladder. I carry it over to the bench and place it behind her. She gives me a thumbs up, without even turning her head. I take a deep breath, step on the ladder, and let my pants slide down to my ankles.
I’m surprised at myself, because I didn’t feel it, but I have a raging boner. What the hell? Oh I know…it’s because I need to piss since we boarded the plane back in Vancouver. You know how when you really need to go to the toilet but for some reason can’t, your dick tries to help you out by bloating up like a turtle on cortisone? I think it knows that this will block the connection from your bladder, so you can make it through the movie or bus ride or whatever restroom-prohibitive situation you’re in. Pretty convenient if you ask me.

I lift up her gown. It’s made of olive reverse sateen. What a nice touch. I use my Russell the Love Muscle to probe around for the entry. There it is. My Silver Surfer effortlessly enters the Fantastic Four’s headquarters. A few swift pumps, from the hip, and she’s already in seventh heaven. That’s the effect I have on women, so I’m not surprised.
“Ja ja, komm, mach,” she goes. I guess she’s talking dirty, but my German fails me again. I look around the room for something to turn me on. But all I see is rounded corners and aluminium rails. Wherever I look. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dieter Rams’ work and would die to live in a house decked out in 606s like this, but at the end of the day, it’s a bit sterile, especially if you’re looking for sexy inspiration. I close my eyes, and grind away at that German ass. But I’ve already seen too much. Instead of boobies, the formal language of Dieter Rams’ office furniture is dancing around before my inner eye.
“Fick mich härter, du Kanadischer Elch,” she goes.
I make a last ditch effort and try to think of a really hot girl. Kim Kardashian. No, not her. Not with Yeezy waiting for me downstairs. That stewardess on Kanye’s jet was pretty hot when she served the Tempura. Yeah, she’ll do. I thrust forward really hard. Uschi Obermaier here is screaming at the top of her lungs now. Tempura, Bryan, Tempura. Damn. The shelves are back before my inner eye. Walls lined with SDR 606 series shelves. They are everywhere. Closing in on me. Come on Bryan, release your soldiers into the black forest. And that’s when I wake up. What the hell. I didn’t come yet.

✳ Apple ✳ Audemars Piquet ✳ Bedford jacket ✳ Braun ✳ Canada ✳ Corona ✳ Daewoo ✳ Daiki Suzuki ✳ Dieter Rams ✳ Drake ✳ Engineered Garments ✳ Frankfurt ✳ Germany ✳ Japan ✳ Leonardo DiCaprio ✳ Letterpress ✳ Louis Vuitton ✳ MacBook ✳ Mercedes ✳ SDR ✳ Samsung ✳ Sartorial ✳ Shibuya ✳ Tempura ✳ Tokyo ✳ Vancouver ✳ Vitsoe ✳ iPad mini ✳ kanye west ✳ soccer 

It seems this great shirt jacket from the Sassafras FW 2012 collection sees itself combining three of my favourite commodities - the colour navy, a brand that’s not available in the Western hemisphere much, and of course, pockets. Loads of pockets. More than you’ll ever need. More than whatever the limit is for a piece of clothing to cross the border into ridiculousness.

The thick, strato-combed flannel lends itself nicely to the utilitarian nature of this design, and I can see myself wearing this to the after party of our soccer team, for my German lessons at the local evening school, or whenever my dad wants me to assist him in his vertical garden and the natural lighting around his house calls for a dark navy colour.

One other great thing about these Japanese-market brands that doesn’t get enough praise is the short sleeve length. If you’re an average height Western guy, the sleeves will stop about 2 inches above your wrists, which of course means your vintage Audizzle-Piquezzles will get the exposure they deserve, and also that dreaded “sweaty wrist” ailment so many of us suffer under will resolve itself, come Fall.

Available at Chicken Shack

✳ Sassafras ✳ Engineered Garments ✳ Japan ✳ Tokyo ✳ Shirts ✳ Audemars Piquet ✳ Shirt 

I know this choice might shock some of you. But hear me out. Both candidates, Obama and Romney, are really interesting options, but this season it’s the Republican one that seems especially nice. I will give you my top three reasons why I see myself swinging this way:

1. Like myself, Mitt is a real entrepreneur. He’s rich, and Obama is not. Sure, the haters will say Mitt was born with a golden spoon in his mouth. But let me tell you out of experience: That doesn’t make any difference. He still made all the money he made. It doesn’t matter where he started. And it doesn’t matter if I pay for my endeavours in the world of premium retail with family money.

2. If you have followed this blog, you know that I feel a special connection with Japanese culture, to a point where I sometimes can’t help to think I might be a reborn Samurai warrior in the body of a rugged Canadian jock. I think Japanese, I feel Japanese, and I probably am Japanese. As a result, I have started to feel slightly uneasy in the presence of black people. It’s not racism. Not at all. I just prefer to be around my own folks. Now, Mitt isn’t actually Japanese either, but at least he’s white. If I squint really hard, I could probably mistake him for an East Asian. With Obama, that will never work.

3. The most important factor of course is style. Both candidates are Ivy Leaguers. But we all have seen the pictures and if we’re honest with ourselves, we have to admit that Ivy Style really only works on white people. While Obama can rock a suit like a boss, his casual game is pretty whack — maybe he shouldn’t have burned bridges with Kanye, but rather brought him in as his personal curator. But that window of opportunity has closed. Who’s the jackass now, B? Mitt Romney on the other hand, just oozes Ivy Style. This is exactly how I hope to look when I’m his age. It is really time for both parties to get over their partisan bickering and agree that Mitt is the most Presidential dressed candidate since, heck, I like to say JFK. He simply looks money. True WASM style.

Let me elaborate. It seems the popularity of this Tumblr has reached a level where we, the curators behind it, can’t go on like we exist solely in the awesome, ever-exciting world of rugged casual clothing, coffee table books, and overpriced German shelving systems. In the last few weeks, we have received a tremendous, overwhelming amount of E-Mails asking us about our opinion on today’s US Presidential election. Despite not being US citizens ourselves, we have many friends south of the border, and with our new store in New York opening any day now, it is a no-brainer that an opinion about who we would like to win this nice election saw itself formed in our minds. Now, I know this is a slippery slope. By making our endorsement public, I make myself a target for partisan bullying from the haters, and risk losing a percentage of my loyal followers. But it is time for me to take a stand. Whoever said my curating powers should be limited to clothing, art, and design?

✳ Mitt Romney ✳ Barack Obama ✳ Vitsoe ✳ Dieter Rams ✳ USA ✳ Elections ✳ Ivy Style ✳ Japan ✳ Tokyo ✳ Daikanyama