Iron man



Our eyes slowly creak open. We drag ourselves out of bed, pour a cup of piping hot coffee, and try to bring ourselves back to life one more time. Every morning it’s the same. We are lost in our emails before our eyes adjust to the golden morning light. We are shocked by the digital realm.

Wake up!

Ironing is certainly not some great feat of strength, but you are altering the physical world, even if only in a very small way. You are flattening the wrinkles.

Our eyes are still foggy as we scroll through notifications. From that point on, it’s a race to the end of the day, when we finally collapse exhausted into our beds. In the ancient days, we set aside time for morning prayer. We would orient ourselves spiritually before we went out into the world. Any day could be our last, after all.

But not any more. In our age we are thrust into the gears of the great machine without any pause to enter the spiritual realm. Our minds are clogged before we even start the day. No moments of reflection. No breath of peace. No chance for quiet. We are plugged in even before we realize what day it is.

There is, however, a morning ritual that allows us some respite, a few moments that draw us away from the digital realm and back into the actual. A brief experience that forces us to focus on only that which is in front of our face. It directs us toward the small and the mundane, which, in turn, frees our mind to wander aimlessly and, sometimes, even introspectively.

For modern man, ironing is a secular rite that takes place every morning.

In our day and age, many men don’t ever iron their clothes. They don’t wear clothes that need to be ironed. Many don’t even own an iron. They take their clothes from the washer to the dryer, then from the dryer to the dresser, and that’s it. The sweatshirt and jeans aren’t ever pressed. They are tumbled. And, of course, the clothing suffers aesthetically.

But it isn’t only that. Something else is lost. It’s not just the aesthetics. It’s the ritual of ironing that’s lost.

In my daily routine, ironing comes after a shower. My eyes are still wet and my hair is freshly slicked back. I am working on my second cup of coffee at this point. I have an addiction; yes, it’s true.

I stand in front of the closet and choose my pants and my shirt. I toss them onto a chair, open the ironing board, pour some water into the iron, and wait a few minutes as it heats up. The morning light breaks through the window. The trees outside are tossed by the morning breeze. The shadows flicker across the plain fabric of the ironing board. I wait in silence.

A few minutes later the iron is warm and I begin. It’s a boring task, ironing the crease in my pants. Making sure the front, back, and sides of each leg are all tended to. Taking time to iron in between every button on my OCBD. Giving the collar copious amounts of steam. Going after the sleeve plackets even when no one really sees them.

It’s tedious. It really is. But I can’t do anything else when I am doing it. I can’t text or respond to emails. I have to be fully immersed in the process. And in this strange way, it is peaceful. It is a few moments that are only mine.

The physicality of it is important. Ironing is certainly not some great feat of strength, but you are altering the physical world, even if only in a very small way. You are flattening the wrinkles. Creasing the cotton. You are making a decision to beautify your clothing. You are taking care to do something with clear intention. You are carefully crafting your aesthetic in a way that you aren’t if you simply take the sweatshirt out of the dresser and throw it on at the last minute before you race out the door.

And, in a sense, this intention leads to a feeling of ownership. When we care about something, we take time to prepare it. And when we prepare something, we start to care about it. It’s a cycle, a chicken-or-egg situation. Ironing leads to care and care leads to ironing.

Those moments of care and intention each and every morning set our minds in a different place and direct our actions down a different path. They orient us toward the world with a certain kind of certitude and direction. We start our day making a conscious effort, and that leads to more conscious effort. We have something special in these few moments of modern meditation and conscious effort.

It’s peculiar, isn’t it? It’s so small. It’s so mundane. It’s so uninspiring. And yet we are forced out of the matrix when we iron. We have a chance to be quiet and manipulate the world with our hands.

That might sound strange to a peasant from 1400 — all he did was work with his hands — but to a modern man who is perpetually engaged in the digital world, drawing back into the actual is a brief retreat into something refreshing. It’s a breath of fresh air.

That mundane routine every morning might be small, but it gives us a chance to just be quiet. It gives us a chance to just be. And that’s something we need.

Crocs prove it: 'Idiocracy' was a documentary



What are Crocs?

They are shoes, kind of. But these hideous objects that remind you of some kind of toxic nuclear waste aren’t merely shoes.

They are something more. Or they represent something more.

Crocs are an abolishment of standard. A signal of the bottom rung as the standard rung. Degeneration in the form of a squishy synthetic mold littered with holes designed to let your smelly feet breathe.

Crocs are, to no small degree, a physical representation of a much larger phenomenon, a darker phenomenon. Crocs are the physical embodiment of a culture and society turning away from form and distinction and instead mutating into formless matter.

Crocs represent a society that has stopped developing and evolving and has settled into regression as its trajectory for the time being. Crocs are the quintessential example of our current cultural degeneration in the form of footwear. Crocs prove that "Idiocracy" (2006) was a documentary.

Defenders of Crocs claim that they are comfortable. I am sure they are. That’s the point. Crocs are part of the comfort worship that appears to be a core value in America 2024.

Comfort at any cost is not a sign of ascent. It’s not a sign of development. It’s not a sign of aesthetic taste, determination, or refined dignity. It’s a sign of giving up. It’s a sign of a culture that has reached an end point and decided to sit back and relax while everything crumbles. As long as we are comfortable and entertained, nothing else matters.

If, at the height of the 20th century, we saw men in suits and ties, slicked hair, and clean-shaven faces, at the (hopefully) low point of the 21st century, we see men in sweatpants, sweatshirts, and clown-like shoes.

The trajectory here is clear. It is one of descent. In the world of Crocs, man is shrinking. Man is no longer severe and capable, outward-facing and determined. He is relaxed and comfortable, well-fed and entertained, stupid and goofy. Degenerating.

If you described a pair of Crocs to your grandparents half a century ago, they would, undoubtably, laugh. If you told them that people would be wearing these in public in 50 years, they would stop laughing. They would start worrying.

What is the difference between the oxblood loafer and the neon-red Croc? Everything. One is a shoe made of natural materials. The other is some unholy synthetic creation. One is a shoe of dignity. The other is the shoe of a clown.

Crocs are, simply put, shoes for clowns. They are shoes that don’t demand to be taken seriously. They are shoes to be laughed at. They are so accepted today that it is easy to forget just how preposterous they are. It’s easy to forget how degrading degeneration can be.

There is no sexy heel in the world of Crocs. There is no woman who puts on lime-green Crocs because they make her feel beautiful. Crocs don’t make her legs look appealing or her stance alluring. There is no man who puts on a yellow pair of Crocs because they make him feel strong. They don’t make him appear serious or reveal a sense of intention in his approach to the world.

Crocs add nothing of value and only detract. Crocs exacerbate and accelerate a world of androgyny. They lessen the beauty of woman and the strength of man. Crocs play a small role in making the world a less romantically charged place.

“I look like an idiot.” That’s what your great-grandfather might say if you traveled back in time and put a pair of Crocs on his feet.

Is there any place for this phrase in 2024? Is it possible to look like an idiot? Can you really look like an idiot if everyone else looks like an idiot? Being concerned about looking like an idiot is a fear that only exists in a society that demands that you don’t. That only exists in a society with some standard and expectation.

Crocs are an abolishment of standard. A signal of the bottom rung as the standard rung. Degeneration in the form of a squishy synthetic mold littered with holes designed to let your smelly feet breathe.

The Croc makes no effort to be anything at all. It’s formless matter. It possesses no aesthetic value. It is comfort and ease. That is it. It has no history, no cultural continuity, no story. It requires (and assumes) no thinking or consideration.

There is no thought given to how it will pair with your belt or your shirt. It is not a part of a well-put-together outfit. It is a shoe for an unthinking populace with no higher value than comfort.

When "Idiocracy" was being produced, the costume department decided on Crocs for the standard footwear due to their affordability and the absurd aesthetic that suited the degraded state of society portrayed in the film.

Allegedly, the team assumed that these idiotic shoes would never become popular. They thought they were simply too stupid. Whether these details are all true is somewhat irrelevant. They were wrong in the end. Crocs did become popular.

America of 2024 is eerily similar to the scene in "Idiocracy" where Luke Wilson, wearing a sweatsuit and Crocs, wanders into a Costco the size of a small city. He is greeted by a worker who repeats over and over again: “Welcome to Costco, I love you.”

Sweatpants, sweatshirt, Crocs, and Costco. "Idiocracy" was a documentary.

Man or mannequin: Dressing to live instead of living to dress



There is man, and there is mannequin.

A mannequin is stiff and still. Motionless. Without face and without personality. Without story and without will. He stands quietly in the store window. His clothes are pressed. The tags are attached. All through the night, in the dark of the empty showroom, he remains alone.

He shouldn’t worry about wrinkles; they are natural. He should’t worry about stains; they will come out. Bumps and bruises are a sign of life lived. Rips and tears mean action.

All day, when the world comes alive again, he stands frozen. People walk by, stop and stare, and then go on their way. His clothes are perfect and without wrinkles. No stains and no blemishes. His appearance is pristine and his posture immaculate.

The people get close; they aren’t afraid. They could smack his face and he won’t retaliate. He is powerless. He’s a mannequin.

Purple noon

Man is different. He acts in the world. He exerts his will. He moves from place to place. He lives and breathes. He works and plays. He travels across the sea and writes his story for himself. He builds a world around him.

Man isn’t here just for looking. He isn’t a doll. He isn’t waiting behind the glass. He loves and fights. He creates and destroys. He is action incarnate.

Man must never become mannequin. The day he does, he becomes useless.

Avoiding the fate of the mannequin is a struggle for the man who cares about his style and personal aesthetic.

It’s easy to see how a man becomes a mannequin. One day, he decides that he wants to dress better. He starts to care about his clothes. He starts to develop his eye. He starts to stake out opinions about what he likes and what he doesn’t.

He likes jeans of a certain shade. He likes chinos with a certain rise. He likes a certain kind of balanced stripe. He doesn’t like checks. He develops his taste, and he becomes more particular. He cares more about his clothes. He spends more money on his clothes. And this all means that he takes greater care of his clothes.

La Piscine

And this is a good thing, right? Yes and no. A man should care about his clothing. He should take care to cultivate his personal aesthetic. He should appear strong in his clothes. He should dress with intention. It is good that he cares.

Yet this care can mutate into something toxic. It can turn into something unhealthy and unbecoming. Less man and more something else. He becomes like a collector. He becomes too fastidious and neurotic.

It’s possible for him to care too much about keeping his clothes perfect. He can care so much about his clothes that they become an idol that he worships. He can become so attached to his precious shirts and favorite pants that he ends up retreating from the world because he doesn’t want to put them in danger.

He can’t go lay in the grass because he is concerned about grass stains. He worships perfection. He can’t go out in the rain because he is worried about his jacket. He can’t go for a walk in the back because he doesn’t want to hurt his nice shoes. He can’t relax because he is too worried about his clothes.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

He becomes less engaged with the world because he doesn’t want to damage his wonderful clothes. He no longer wears the clothes. They are now wearing him. They don’t serve him. He serves them.

He becomes stiffer in his movements. He is wearing clothes that he loves, but he doesn’t seem at home in them. He looks great, but he doesn’t look comfortable.

You know him when you see him. You can feel that something is off. He is always adjusting his sleeves, his collar, his tie, his pants. He isn’t present and living; he is always thinking about how he looks in his clothes. He secretly longs to be a mannequin. If only he could just stay still. If only he didn’t have to move about like a living and breathing man.

Le Samouraï

A man should care about his personal aesthetic. He should know what looks good and what doesn’t. He should embody an aesthetic that is natural and true. He should realize that his clothing is part of his culture and it matters a great deal.

He should put a great fit together in the morning, but then he should forget all about it. He should never forgo some activity out of fear of hurting some precious garment. His clothing should never hold him back. It should accompany him on his journey through life.

He shouldn’t worry about wrinkles; they are natural. He should’t worry about stains; they will come out. Bumps and bruises are a sign of life lived. Rips and tears mean action. He should live naturally and aesthetically.

Men must dress well, but not as mannequins. Men are not dolls. Men are meant to act in the world. A man dressed with intention exerting his will on the world is living aesthetics. It is vitalistic.

It is man, not mannequin.

MAN Models Women’s Swimsuit for Adidas 🤢

MAN Models Women’s Swimsuit for Adidas 🤢