You know that feeling of joy when you are reunited with best friends who always greet with you a warm, bear-like slap on the back followed by a quick rub to diffuse the gentle sting? That’s how I feel when the Midwestyle reunites.
We got together in St. Louis for our good man Patrick’s wedding. If you’re from Missouri or have Missouri friends, you know Kansas City hates St. Louis. And that St. Louis hates Kansas City right back. Or maybe it’s just our friends have this thing with their hometown pride.
Either way, Patrick, a Kansas City boy, met Emmy, a St. Louis girl, and forged peace between the Montagues and Capulets of KC-STL—at least for the time being. Naturally, we brought our favorite Kansas City goods with us to this
Actually, we just found all of these belongings in our car. Let’s be honest: You need to take some hometown swag with you wherever you go. We chose Boulevard Pale Ale, KC Baldwin hat and a throwback “Wizards” jersey.
But really “St. Louis” people, do you actually live in St. Louis? Nope, you live in Chesterfield, West County or Kirkwood. We, on the other hand, actually have mailing addresses that say “Kansas City” not “Lee’s Summit” or “Overland Park.” Represent.
The Three Madras Amigos showing our St. Louis denizens how we feel. Everyone loves a meaningless, mildly offensive middle-school gesture.
Noteworthy details: My no-break chinos and “Lexington” wingtips by Florsheim.
Noteworthy detail: Seth’s thrifted woven and stitched loafers by Giorgio Brutini.
Noteworthy detail: The “KC” welt and felt hat by Baldwin Denim.
On Cameron: pink, fuchsia and orange
Photography by Jarred Donalson.
Seth will do anything once for money that doesn’t land him in jail.
Seth will do anything once for money that involves ingesting something.
After a hours on end of driving my ass around during one of our increasingly frequent Mo.-Kan.-Ill. roadtrips (which he wouldn’t have to do if I just learned how to drive a stick), we sought refuge at the Stipo compound in St. Louis. After lounging in the pool to one of the best party playlists ever, it became clear that Missouri has a cicada problem. A wager was mentioned. Seth ate one.
For how much? Emily and Katie threw out $15 and the
We’ve been a little busy lately, thus why we’ve haven’t posted as much.
See you after the weekend with plenty of photographs, stories and posts to come. Enjoy your weekend.
But really, what have you been up to this week/end?
What you don’t know is that Seth and Jeff fight…often. Yes, yes. It’s true, dear readers. Jeff and Seth, although former roommates in college and former couch residents, get in fights. We don’t always see eye-to-eye on everything. Topics and past arguments have included but are not limited to:
We debate these pressing issues week in and week out at The Midwestyle office. Our boy Anthony decided to help us handle these issues on the street.
I really loved playing Mortal Kombat growing up. This image brings back flashbacks. FIGHT!
So the fight begins. FINISH HIM.
Pause for a shot of my fresh kicks.
On Jeff: Chambray-lined, blue-and-white striped button down by J.Crew, small; broken-in orange striped tee by J.Crew, small; straight-leg front-pocket green cargo pants (sale $19.99) by Levi’s, 31×34; classic white “Authentics” courtesy of Vans Shoes, size 11, vintage Clubmasters (Seek Vintage, $12); jersey slub cardigan by J.Crew, small; canvas green unzippered tote (thrifted on eBay, $50) by Filson.
On Seth: Navy cotton, shawl-collar pull-over by Nonnie Threads; light blue button-down (hand-me-down from brother) by Arrow; paisley tie (hand-me-down from grandfather); khaki chinos (retail, $40) by Gap, size 31×30; knock-off Persol wanna-be sunglasses (Seek Vintage, $12); brown suede “Moc” courtesy of Vans Shoes, size 7.5.
With the big man finally coaching his last NBA game just a few short weeks ago, there comes an end to perhaps the most dominating professional coaching career in sports history. And with the beginning of the NBA finals at our fingertips, it seems fitting to look back on the man that is Phil Jackson.
As a fan of professional basketball, I’ll always remember Phil Jackson as the most prolific, yet backhanded, trash-talker the game has ever seen. Phil always had something to say. A few words to the media to stir the pot for their upcoming series or a pointedly subtle insult aimed at his opponent’s best player. Basketball may have been Phil’s trade, but mind games were his specialty. Phil’s trash talk wasn’t a product of anger or intimidation as it so often is with others. Jackson opened his mouth to the media with a premeditated purpose to distract his opponents, to get in their head and throw their psyche off balance. Half of the fun of the NBA playoffs was checking SportsCenter to see what the Zen Master was going to comment on or even go on a rant about next. In a world where every player in professional sports seems to want to be friends the guys on the other team (or even plan an elaborate free agent trade to their side of the fence), Phil wasn’t afraid to make a few enemies in pursuit of championship rings.
Ahem, eleven championship rings. The numbers speak for themselves. Eleven rings in just over twenty years. A 50 percent success rate for winning it all. And don’t feed me any BS about how he had Jordan, how he had Kobe. With great talent comes great expectations and, moreover, huge egos. If anything, the guy deserves an award as the best manager of personalities the league has ever seen. And he thrived on making his best players peak at playoff time, when it mattered. Fanning the flame of their confidence when they needed it, humbling them when their heads ballooned, as they so easily do when you’re busy three-peating all over the place. I’ll remember Phil less for the triangle offense and more for his relational approach to coaching—the approach that built him a dynasty of success that doesn’t look like it’ll be surpassed any time soon.
The league’s gonna miss you, Phil. And I will too.