My uncle moved to Australia and all I got was this lousy tie. Actually, eleven ties, and not the slightest bit lousy: Italian, silk, that sort of thing, likely nicer than all the neckties I’ve collected over the years. The thing is, I just don’t wear ties very often. You could make a strong argument that I have specifically lived my life in such a way to avoid wearing ties. And it’s worked out pretty well for me.
I explained as much to my Uncle Gene, in the New York apartment he’d shared with his partner John for more than 30 years. They were soon departing for Sydney—better year-round weather—and were eager to get rid of as many belongings as possible. Visiting the week before, I’d come home with an iPod docking station, a ream of office paper, and a batch of family photos. And now did I also want some ties? Sure, I’ll take some ties. Even though these days I tend to only wear them at weddings and funerals.
I picked one up from a substantial pile and examined it closely. Gene, with his decades in the textiles industry, quickly told me I was doing it wrong. “In fashion, you see if it immediately catches your eye,” he said. “If you have to think about it, you don’t want it.” Gene told me to make two piles: yes and no. I negotiated for a third “maybe” pile. (This despite some wise advice Gene had given me years earlier when I told him things were on shaky ground with the girlfriend. “Yes means yes; no means no,” Gene said, then added, “…and maybe means no.”)
The first ties I have any memory of were clip-ons. This is a genius concept and I have no idea why it’s frowned upon. But it is, so in my tween years—perhaps around a spate of bar mitzvahs—I decided to teach myself how to tie a tie. I opened up my trusty old Cub Scout handbook, which contained a bevy of useful information, and carefully followed the instructions within. Been tying a tie the same way ever since.
In college, after seeing the cover of Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love album, I decided I wanted a bolo tie. That, to me, looked extremely cool. My dad brought one back for me from a trip out west. Not exactly the style I was looking for—a polished stone instead of shiny metal, brown strands instead of black—but still, totally nice of him.
In the summer of 1990, I was lucky to get an internship at a prominent children’s publishing company in New York. I was nervous about going to a corporate office in the big city; wasn’t sure I’d fit in. But I quickly learned an important lesson: Editorial don’t dress fancy. People on other floors—sales, finance, executives—they were all suits-and-ties. But down in the magazine group, well, you’ve heard of Casual Friday? Meet Casual Monday through Thursday. Jeez, there was a guy wearing a t-shirt to work!
But the person who really made an impact on me was Bruce Weber of Coach magazine. What a huge thrill to meet him, the author of All-Pro Baseball Stars 1979, one of my very favorite books from childhood. And now we were, like, co-workers and stuff. Bruce would have a tie hanging on the back of his office door. And sometimes there would be an untied tie around his neck. But he wouldn’t tie it until he absolutely had to; called into an important meeting or something. Oh wow I respected that. Because who wants to wear a tie? Nobody.
Two years later, I landed my first real job at a crummy little marketing firm in central Jersey. There were only four of us in the office, but I was told to wear a tie every day. This was some bullshit power move on the boss’s part. I had very little contact with the outside world—the UPS guy, my friends at Mailboxes Etc., a guy in Pennsylvania named Ed who made slides for us—and that was about it. And yet I had to sit there with a damn tie around my neck. Now, at the time, I favored those knit ties, tapered and straight at the bottom. Kind of what Michael J. Fox would wear on Family Ties (no pun intended). Well, one day the boss called me in. I should really be wearing nice ties. Oh man I was pissed. How about paying me more than $18,000 a year, you cocksucker? Maybe then I could dress a little more fashionably. I left that shithole as soon as I could.
And since then, yeah, not so much tie-wearing. The aforementioned weddings and funerals. (For two wedding parties I was in, I received a tie to wear, so we’d match. For a third wedding party, I got a tie as a thank-you gift.) At the teacher conferences I’d attend for work, I wore a suit. Some years there was a red smock to wear in the corporate booth. Then with a dress shirt, rolled-up sleeves, and a tie, I’d look like the assistant manager at Ralph’s. Once a year, teachers would visit our offices for a dog-and-pony show, so we’d put on suits. Same for the annual awards banquet in DC. For the holiday party I also liked to get dressed up. As the economy collapsed and parties got much less fancy, attire suffered as well.
And over the years I’ve slowly acquired a relatively substantial collection of ties, though I’m not 100% sure where they’ve come from. I know when you buy a suit, there’s usually a person who can suggest a tie that will match. So that’s been very helpful. In my closet there are a couple of “joke” ties that I certainly didn’t purchase (one with tiny beer mugs and “TGIF” underneath). I remember a business trip to San Antonio and I’d forgotten to pack a tie; I bought a standard blue one at a downtown department store. I have a bow tie for the red tuxedo jacket I occasionally wear when emceeing. That one isn’t a clip-on, but, well, it’s pretty close.
It can be fun to dress up. I will readily admit that it’s great to hear “Nice suit!” or “Nice tie!” When people don’t expect you to be in a suit, the compliments flow much more freely. The usual assumption is that you’ve got a job interview, but I always like to say I’m meeting with my parole officer.
Regardless of the praise, it’s always such a relief when the event is over. Loosen that tie, unbutton that top button. Ahhhhh….
The day after I visited my uncle, I got an e-mail from a good friend. His father had passed away; there was a funeral tomorrow.
Well, I’d be wearing one of those new ties after all.
Jack Silbert, curator