A Little Early For A Ghoulish Appearance By The Spectre Of An SPT, Don't You Think, Brian Williams?

Solid Purple Tie. The raw silk's nubbly texture is nice, but...you know.

I'd Much Rather Have The Martini, Actually

Oh, this tie! The colours are off-putting enough--vivid thistle with ultramarine blue stripes--but it has such an odd habit of furring and blurring at the left edge. It's like when I put my bifocal contacts in wrong--the left in my right eye, the right in my left--and the world is suddenly wonky. I can see pretty well, but things have a surreal quality, like I've had one too many martinis but no accompanying jollity, just the feeling of being a bit squinty and not-nice.

In Which I Become Lost In A Fictional Reverie

Reporting from Los Angeles, Brian Williams is sophisticated in his silk cravat of stormcloud crossed with burgundy diagonals snugged by a slim platinum pinstripe. The dashing young valet offers his arm to the guest. She is dressed, shockingly, in a ruby red gown for this sombre occasion. The short veil on her hat lends her some discretion, but it is clear that she is not mourning the loss of her fiance. Demurely, she smiles up at him, her even white teeth looking almost vulpine in the dim light of the funeral parlor. He is caught unaware, smiles self-consciously, and all is observed under the watchful eye of Lord Felton-Hayes nearby.

Nightscape

It's a stripe of ebony and orchid this evening from Brian Williams. As Night draws her coverlet ever closer over the city skyline, the last wisps of Twilight's purple glow disappear beneath its folds. The landscape blinks awake slowly, comes alive, and glimmers in the dark.

It's Retro Night At The Nightly Lounge

Tonight Brian knots up a classy silk of plum with a subtle black pattern of stripes that, at a distance, can double as a sort of nouveau tweed. It's very Rat Pack, very snazzy, kind of "microphone in one hand and highball in the other with a lot of piano riffs while I sip and nod knowingly during the bridge." Order me a sidecar, Bri, while I visit the little girls' room to powder my nose.

Winter On Erie

Stripes of slate and frigid white array themselves in marked contrast on this cravat. An icy wind whips the lake into a jagged chop. The waves batter the rocks, each time leaving behind a frosty welt. Sleet pelts the shore birds and the lone ore boat hunkers down for a long night.

Usually, I Applaud A Pink Cravat, But This One Is A Misbegotten Choice From The Underbelly Of Fashion

Brian bends to select from the Lower Tier Of Taste this evening. A background of raspberry sherbet showcases stripes of black? jet navy? intersected with white, and the result is...well, let's just say that I was imagining a scenario in which a small-town diva from Steersbelly, Arkansas, or maybe Bullnose, Tennessee, was wandering around WalMart, doting mother in tow, her homecoming gown frothing in her hand saying, "Well, his tie has to match my dress. IT. HAS. TO. So just keep looking for a tie this color. Period. I don't care what it has on it."