Men's Second Style

You’re wondering if you read that right, huh? That’s right, period wear. One of those things on the spinning wheel that no one has landed on — yet. My opponent this week, Prad Prathivi, picked out 1930s period wear.

I’m not sure that Prad needs an introduction. Blogger, artist, dj, businessman… it’s tough to find a hat Prad can’t put on his head. He’s even been named one of SL’s hottest male avatars of 2008. With 2500L to find himself 1930s period wear, now is his chance to add fashionisto to his hat stand.

Express Zenovka – Fields of Gold

They say it all started on Black Tuesday. All those fancy economists and politicians in New York and Washington. For us though, it started a year later with the drought. In 1930, the fields were dry and the crops just didn’t grow. Then the storms started. Black rollers, we called em, they’d come in and go for miles and miles all the way to New York.

Our crops failed, and we just couldn’t support ourselves. After another year, Father took us to California, leaving Pop-pop alone with the dusty fields, to see if we could better ourselves and come back eventually. In California, we didn’t even have a house anymore. We lived in a shanty town, riding a bus to fields every day to make just enough to eat. The farmers called us Okies, as if we were a different people, and would cheat us at every turn.

When I was 16, after two years in the fields, I had enough. I needed out. I ran away one night, down to Los Angeles. I found menial work on the sets of Hollywood, building and constructing. “Why buy union men when you can get a non-union guy for half the price?” they told me. I just wanted to save up enough to take my family home to the farm. I feared the worst, though, when I heard of “Black Sunday” — twenty storms in a single day, destroying land everywhere. Though it took a few years, I eventually managed to scrape up enough. I bought a suit and head up North, hoping to find them again. The family had fallen apart — one day Father just up and left.

Slowly but surely, though, I managed to find my brothers and sisters and send them back to the farm. In 1939, I finally found my last little sister, all the way up in San Francisco. I pooled the last of my money and sent her home to Pop-pop. I didn’t have enough for myself, but that was okay. The farm had a telephone now, so I could keep in touch with them all. Later that fall, it rained again, and in the spring I received an excited telegram that the fields finally returned a full yield. I had enough to come home too, but I didn’t let them know just yet.

I figured it’d be a surprise for the day I walk through those fields of gold again.

Prad Prathivi – 1930s Gangster

Ahhh.. The 1930s. I remember it well.. it was an age when the Brits still had an empire, music was played by people and not computers, and wars were fought against countries, not abstract nouns. It was a time when recessions meant you walked 25 miles for a sack of potatoes, and of course, the age when gangsters were respectable.

Think of a world where Prohibition meant everyone was constantly drunk and people actually used to trust their politicians when they talked about financially bailing out industry. Ol’ Ally C used to call the shots in the Windy City, and he and his cronies had to look the part to pull it off!

Style was the name of the game back then – no trashy wifebeaters or blingin’ silver. It was about sophistication and respect. Capone would deck out in no less than a custom, top of the line suit complete with a silk tie, swanky pair of shoes and of course, topped off with a tilted Fedora.

The man favoured a nice dark suit in light fabrics – no heavy wools or tweed thank you very much! Pinstripes say you mean buisness, and solid colours (particularly dark) will tell people you demand their respect. Or else.

So as we hold the violin case (instrument or Tommy?) and walk down the streets we own, stopping outside the theatre to enjoy a show, let it be known that this is Al Capone’s city. And it starts with the suit – dress to impress, dress to demand, dress to kill.

Voting Time

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