There’s been some speculation that I’ve reigned in my fuzziness. That my low-country tractor pull sprezzatura has lost momentum. I’m here to tell you that nothing could be more inaccurate. I can’t modulate my tackiness. It courses through my veins like a dose of salts through a widow woman. It’s my raison d’fuzzy. Shut up.
Recent evidence supports my inextricable tackiness. I “Marcoliani’d” this recent rig, much to the tisk tisking of those who got a glimpse of my ankles.
Marcoliani socks are a fuzzy extravagance that I’d suggest you try…if you dare. I blame the procurement of my two pairs of over the calf Marcolianiesqueness to Will over at A Suitable Wardrobe.
Purple. Deep. With double monks. Not sure that Max Beerbohm would approve but what the hell.
Absurdly spread collar and equally suspect Thurston braces…polka dots…gut ends…don’t even try to find them for sale…they don’t make ‘em anymore.
I’ve already posited on the durability of high quality bespoke…Flusser 1993
Fuzzy at the ankles begs some level of restraint in the breast pocket…white linen. Three-two roll...peak. Double vent. Ticket pocket. Call me. We'll have lunch.
Yellow and pink. Even I wouldn't buy a used car from this man.
Onward. Fuzzy as ever.
ADG II
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