Tall tales, small talk, and entirely useless tangents inspired by the daily wardrobe rotation

Camus will tell you that absurdity is defined by the conflict between man's desire for reason and the cold indifference of the universe. I’m paraphrasing somewhat, but you might well consider the absurd to be the philosophical equivalent of joyously and eternally pissing into the wind. Anyone looking for a more relatable, less graphic illustration of man’s ceaseless love affair with urinating headlong into the incoming breeze need only watch someone attempt to keep a white denim jacket as clean as the day they bought it.

It’s impossible. Wearing a white denim jacket makes every cup of coffee, every glass of red wine, and every welcome home wrestling match with your dog an act of absurdity; an outright affront to rule and reason. I already knew this when I saw the easy, breezy little blank canvas that was 3sixteen’s ecru denim trucker jacket and I damn well bought it anyway. Why would I not? It’s an un-dyed and unadulterated rendition of exactly what the brand does best.

Now, there are those who might deem that reason enough to wear the freshly-purchased white denim more wisely, but I don’t count myself among them. I’ve never found the pretty, the precious, or the well preserved to be much fun at all. Far better to take all 12 ounces of that natural, Kuroki Mill denim and head out on a fortnight-long stomp around New York City in the dog days of summer. Far better to just throw the thing on, hop on a plane, and have myself a broadside slide of a ball abroad.

And I have to say, as well as the jacket sits atop a pair of beat up and blown-out jeans and the dad-chic, comfy-and-I-know-it flex that is the suede moccasin, it sits a damn sight better with the forkfuls of freshly-made pasta that miss my eager mouth at the Lower East Side’s Spaghetti Incident. Same goes for the pint of Guinness I spill over at The Dead Rabbit, the cocktail I cack-handedly rack up and knock back at Attaboy, and the glass of René Rostaing that stains cuff and collar alike down at The Four Horsemen. It doubles as a mighty fine napkin for the entirely impolite lashings of barbecue sauce that I rain down upon the pound-for-pound meat offerings Fette Sau, too. Ditto for the salt and brine of the heirloom oysters that I double up on during Maison Premiere’s happy hour.

Folk will (quite rightly) wax lyrical on indigo-dyed denim’s storytelling potential, but ecru is the true tabula rasa. We’re now neck deep in the rain and hail of winter here in the UK, but that 3sixteen jacket remains in regular rotation. Its pockets still house the odd dollar bill, ticket stub and wayward bottle cap. That once-white denim now stands as a memento of the moments of clumsiness, drunkenness, elation, celebration and outright, unapologetic, stupidity that ought to punctuate a summer well spent.

If I’m getting at anything here then it might as well be this: There are few things more fun than putting miles on a brand-new jacket, and if those miles make for an interesting mark or two then hell, the more the merrier. As Camus would say: it’s far better to turn up to the party with stains, stories, and a pocket full of bottle caps than to rock up windswept and covered in your own piss. Okay you got me; I’m paraphrasing again.