Suit yourself

There are several ways to tell it’s not me in the picture. Let’s see if we can name them all.

First, the suit isn’t black. Complete giveaway. Next, the model is thin. Shut up. Then, my hair, although once that color, isn’t anymore (my dad went gray at 25 - I never had a chance). Finally, it's been a while since I stood in a spaceship, Frank Gehry building, stage or wherever the hell he is with a 50 Shades Of You Know What Happens Next look on my face. But in my rich fantasy life, that’s exactly how I look in a nicely tailored suit.

Which brings me to my next point: I need a suit. A real suit. A grown up suit.

I don’t have much occasion to wear one, although I have been going to more funerals than I’d like the past few years. Part of the problem is I work in advertising, an industry which lets me dress like a fifteen-year boy old most of the time. On the rare occasion I have a reason to dress up at work, it just means tucking my shirt in my jeans, and wearing the black New Balance sneakers instead of the yellow ones.

However, besides the funerals, there've also been some weddings as of late. Or as I like to call them, a waste of a perfectly good Saturday. Plus, I’m also a member of the Magic Castle, which, in its quaint, throwback ways still maintains a dress code. And while I’ve managed to get away with wearing an old suit I have, it’s so long out of style I may as well be dressed for my bar mitzvah.

By the way, the jacket I wore to my bar mitzvah was blue. At the age of thirteen, I hadn’t developed my affinity for a black wardrobe yet. I also hadn’t developed any affinity for Hebrew school, but did that stop my parents from sending me there? No it did not.

Anyway, the point is I can’t keep wearing the same out-of-style suit to functions and venues that require one. I need a new suit.

The ones I’ve always liked are made by Hugo Boss. I remember years ago, there used to be an advertising awards show in Southern California called the Beldings, and early on they used to be black-tie. I’d go out, rent a tuxedo and show up looking quite snazzy while I was losing in every category.

Nothing feels quite as good as losing in rented clothes.

This one time, as I was trying on my tux at Gary’s Tuxedo in Santa Monica, I noticed one of the mannequins wearing a Hugo Boss tuxedo. You know you’re in trouble when the mannequin looks better in a tux than you do. Why not – he had the nicer tux.

I asked how much it was, and at the time it was around $1700. So I did some cypherin’ and figured out if I rented a tux at a hundred bucks a shot seventeen times, I could own that Hugo Boss (alright, so the math wasn’t that hard).

Well, you know how this story ends. At the time I didn’t have the foresight to see how I’d ever have seventeen occasions to dress up, so I didn’t pull the trigger on the purchase. Of course I’ve needed one many more times than that in the intervening years.

Which brings me back to my point: I need a suit. My strategy is to lose a little weight first (which has been my strategy since 1985), then go out and buy myself a stylish little Hugo Boss number.

Can you guess what color I'll get?

My second career

I own a black car. Do I own it because I think it looks sleek and stealthy?

Of course.

Because it matches my limited wardrobe on most days?

Absolutely.

The statement it makes about me those other colors can't?

Definitely. Although I do think it'd be a better statement if it were a black Porsche instead of a black Lexus.

Which reminds me, I have to raise my day rate. These agencies have no idea what a bargain they're getting. Recession my ass. They're whining like babies "waaa waaaa our budgets.." "waaaa waaaa client won't let us..." "waaa waaaa you know if it was up to me...." all while they grind freelancers so they can pad their bottom line. Don't get me started.

I feel I may have wandered off point.

What I was going to say is that the main reason I own a black car is because I'm a glutton for punishment. If you've ever owned one - and I've owned five of them, in a row - you know it's nothing short of a second career keeping it clean.

I don't know what percentage of cars that go through car washes are black, but I'm going to guess it's disproportionally high (not unlike some agency people I work with - BAM! Thank you, I'll be here all week).

And really, why even bother washing it? As the car is drying, you can actually see the dust settling on the hood, laughing at you on its way down.

But for that minute and a half they're actually clean, they do look, dare I say, sexy (again, Porsche not Lexus).

Every once in awhile I try to convince myself I could be fine with another color. That's right up until I see my car on the road in Champagne, or Desert Sand or Dusty Rose or whatever the hell that color is. Right then is when it hits me: I don't have any choice. I'll keep buying black cars.

Perhaps this story sums it up best. A few years ago my wife and were in Seattle. We were going to have dinner with Jim Walker, a creative director I used to work for. My wife called to tell him we were running a little late, to which Jim replied, "How come? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"