The First Annual Boy Bloggers' Spring Fashion Show, Part 1

THE CLOTHES TRULY DO MAKE THE MAN.

And so, as we spring into spring here in the Great White North, we set out to offer a variety of tips over the next two posts to answer what every Blogger Boy worth their salt is wondering.

WHAT TO WEAR? HOW TO BE HIP?

CAN WITHIN WITHOUT HELP ME GET WITH IT?

The answer most definitely is yes. We've scoured the earth for the latest in men's wear, we've sent our fashion floozies far and wide to answer one simple question.

How can the discerning male make his way as he sheds his long underwear for his bermuda shorts and knee-high socks? The answers await below.

AROUND THE HOUSE

No true man of the world can consider himself "in" if he doesn't have Perry Como slippers. The ones shown above are typical, comfortable and can be worn with or without socks.

Note the professional stance of the model below, showing the versatility and comfort factor, this time with socks (anklet socks, mind you; more on that later). These cost about $10. They're a steal.


Staying with home loungewear, it's a little known fact: plaid is back in.

And while it may be true that most males such as Homo Escapeons blog in their underwear, there are few out there who don't wander around the house in flannel PJ bottoms.

Here are two examples of what to look for.








If you can get little signs put on them for color contrast (as above; Toba is short for Manitoba), you'll be one of the swinginest guys on your block.

OUT AND ABOUT

If Perry Como slippers are indispensable to the fashion-conscious male, runners -- the older and uglier the better -- are an absolute must. And if they have Nike swooshes on them, all the better.

Nike swooshes and other free advertising for massive corporations impress women and they show you are cool and have enough money to spend the extra cash to advertise free for the company.

This same rule applies to a staple of any spring wardrobe, the ultra-hip athletic shorts, whether you're a pro sportsman or a wussy weinie who couldn't catch or throw if your life depended on it.

You should have as many of these in your repertoire as possible.

With as many Nike swooshes as you can find.

NEXT: Sandal do's and don'ts, wearing baseball caps, going to work, how to pretend you're an athlete and more on socks

Hormone Hair Hell (how my teenaged son lost his tiny mind over a girl)

SON SLEEPS IN.

Son starts homework later than promised on Sunday, watches TV, talks about how he might do something later, watches TV, plays computer games, watches TV.

GIRLFRIEND CALLS AT 1:30 P.M.

He can go over at 2:30 p.m. and spend some hours with her after not seeing her all weekend. He's walking on air, instructing dad how teenagers work the women nowadays, details his plans for amour.

In a manner of speaking, of course.

Then plans start to go awry.

1:35 p.m.: Son realizes his favourite shirt he's been wearing all weekend stinks. Asks if it can be washed and will it be dry for planned departure time by bike at 2:30 p.m. Dad says he'll try.

1:40 p.m.: Son hops into shower.

1:50 p.m.: Son leaves towels all over the place, as previously instructed not to. Gets hell from dad.

1:52 p.m.: Son asks if shirt is ready yet. Receives evil eye from dad that always means "That's a stupid question." Does not take news that shirt is still in washer very well. Dad snickers.

1:58 p.m.: Son dries hair somewhat with newly purchased hair dryer, which he (alert the media) actually likes.

1:59 p.m.: Son applies newly purchased mousse to new hairdo, tries to fix hair in steamed up mirror. Panic starts to REALLY set in. Hair is "too puffy," son says. Dad laughs.

2:02 p.m.: Son asks if shirt ready yet. Dad says he'll put it in dryer now but can't promise anything. Son harumphs.

2:03 p.m.: Son starts falling apart.

Now that he's a full-blown 15-year-old singer in a rock n' roll band of no repute and is on his third girlfriend, he's decided to drive his dad nuts (and himself crazy) with a new doo...

2:35 p.m.: Son is whining about his hair, has wet it several more times, has been lectured by dad that girlfriend won't even notice difference and his hair will be blown all over during bike ride anyway.

2:40 p.m.: Son has now cleaned up room, packed things for dad to take to his place later. Son quietly admits he forgot to use sister's hair straightener on particularly crucial lick of hair.

2:43 p.m.: Dad removes son's favourite shirt from dryer, hands it to him. He puts it on. His hair has been repaired. His shirt is dry. The sky has not fallen. He allows me to take pictures.

Isn't he just the happy camper now? And all for a girl...wonder how that happens...

Spring cleaning for the single male

CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, SINGLE MALES ACTUALLY TAKE SPRING CLEANING VERY SERIOUSLY.

I know this, because I am a single male, at least currently, sort of, in body. And so as spring gets sprung, I must pay heed to my hormonal seasonal requirement to throw out the old and bring in the new.

Or something like that.

Besides, my lease is due and I have to take stock of my surroundings and find whatever dead bodies are around, what repairs need to be made, what I'm going to insist they fix.

Before I sign on the bottom line for yet another unsubstantiated increase in rent.

So I am not going to show you the dark space behind my washer-dryer, behind my fridge, behind my couch, behind whatever I own, that may be harboring dead creatures or decaying food.

No, my focus is on my dreaded storage room, which houses my water heater, my tools that I have not had any reason to use since I've been in this apartment, and the dreaded "space."

That is, the "space" that is the "crawlspace," that is the hatch that I have not lifted for months, save for perhaps the time that I threw my goofy son's body in there after yet another failed test at school.

There is no point showing you the moribund spring cleaning that I go through...the sweeping of the kitchen floor, the wiping of the toilet, and other such things that I do once or twice a year.

No, to be precise, my main focus is on the trap door in my storage room, that crawl space that I hear sounds coming from all winter. It's a space I can never really be sure I haven't thrown my son into.

But, according to the following pictures taken today, I haven't. Or at least there are no bones there to reveal that I have. Which is a good thing.


Above, the trap door.

Above, the cluttered storage room it's in...

Below, the trap door is lifted...pretty boring, just a bunch of sand, mostly....

I took pictures in all directions...I see no dead bodies of sons or Homo Escapeons or other bad things...although this pic directly below, with a spider web, is positive...at least a sign of life...

As you can see, it's pretty boring...so what am I going to complain about now? The sticking bedroom door, I suppose, or the noisy air conditioner, or the lousy snow-clearing following a winter storm.

But that all seems so far away now. No, damn it, I'm just going to sign the lease and stay here one more year. And wonder what ugly things are hiding behind the fridge, the couch, the washer-dryer...you know.

Next: Spring fashions for the single male