He's On A Mission

We did not even have time to miss this cravat since Brian Williams just wore it Tuesday last.  It is so obviously his Go To Tie, this stripe of cream and nightsky.  "Oh, le sigh," we can imagine Monsieur Williams uttering petulantly whilst surveying the wealth of neckwear inside l'armoire des cravates.  "I'm so very bored by it all.  My first priority is The News.  This--" and here he indicates the contents with an impatient, sweeping gesture, "--all of this is mere falderal.  The people who care about such things are mere dilettantes. Here; here is the tie for today.  It is perfectly fine.  Now," he says as he carelessly knots it up expertly, "now I must go.  News is happening. News is occurring in every corner of the globe, and I must bring it to the American people."

Too Cool

Brian's tie tonight is a cool graphite silk patterned with little ash-coloured amoebae with black centres.  It's interesting and stylish, suave and cosmopolitan.  She checked the address again and frowned.  Why would he send her here to meet the client?  Where in this building would they meet?  It was gallery space, lofts under construction, and a couple of random businesses.  The elevator opened at the top floor and as the doors opened, she gasped.  Behind two massive smoked glass and chrome doors was one of the most sophisticated bars (clubs?) she had ever seen.  As far as she could see, glass, chrome, black walnut, and Chinese silk met her eye in some combination.  Frank Sinatra sang softly, and the only other sound was the occasional clink of ice and glasses and the murmur of voices, mostly male.  She saw him almost immediately, lounging at a booth and talking to a few people.  At the same moment, he lifted his eyes to her, instinctively sensing her presence.  His body never moved; his voice continued without a pause.  She gestured toward an open booth, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.  Annoyed, she sat down and took out her materials, preparing for the meeting.  He probably owned the building and wanted to impress her and the firm.  Big deal.  She was tired of his hipster posturing and hoped he'd approve the latest changes, sign off, and let her go get something to eat.  Sushi, maybe, or a kalamata flatbread at Nicco's. Her stomach rumbled, and she sighed.

Clouded Vision

This evening Brian Williams wears a cravat of dusky violet with widely spaced charcoal stripes.  She caught the last ferry out even though that wasn't the plan, originally.  Nothing, actually, had been according to plan, and she fought to discern exactly what she was feeling.  Anger, yes, plenty of anger, but the choking desire to cry betrayed her sadness.  And shame?  Or was it self-loathing--no, not that strong--but simple embarrassment.  She had been stupid and blind and naive and vulnerable.  Staring mutely at the skyline, she watched as the sun abdicated its dominion to night's purple shadow, the darkening clouds shrouding the light.

Slip-Slidin' Away

Brian decided upon a rather daring stripe of violet blue with narrow raspberry diagonals, the latter being so dramatically pitched that they were almost fully vertical.  So odd they were that I could not stop looking at that tie, almost believing that each time the camera came back to Brian after a segment helmed by, say, the handsome Miguel, that the stripes had skewed a little more downward.  It would not have surprised me at all if, by the end of The Nightly, they had completely righted themselves straight or fallen off the tie entirely.

Too Much Of A Good Thing...

Hello again, striped tie of creamy white and nightsky.  And ho hum.  You are a lovely tie, to be sure, but part of Beauty's cache is Rarity.  Would we appreciate and covet a sight of the Northern Lights so greatly if we could see them every night?  Would the rainbow be such a gasp should it come after each and every rain?  If lobster were as common as chicken on my dinner table, would I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and have A Private Joy with each mouthful?  I think not, and I hope I have made my point.

Not Worth It

Brian cannot lay off this particular tie lately, the shiny one bedecked with teensy purple and light something-or-other polka dots? houndstooth? checks? patterning.  Each time I am confronted with this cravat I think of something else; this time it is some cheap doll luggage, made of heavy pasteboard with a thin leather-look veneer glued to it in some ungodly shade of purple.  The lining would be rough sateen that looked like this tie, with globs of glue here and there, puckered, here and there a thread poking out.  It would be on one of those cards with plastic bubbles holding the luggage on, and it would be on a rack on an end-of-aisle clearance display, marked 50% OFF!.  Still no bargain.

Point Of Order

Several Readers of The Report have thoughtfully written emails and asked, "Why have there been no Tie Reports during the Sochi Games?"  Our answer is that as long as Brian's ties are A) playing peek-a-boo under an admittedly quite attractive outdoor jacket; and B) nothing new or interesting to justify a Report, we will simply take a hiatus.  If another newsperson were to wear an interesting/wretched/breathtakingly stylish cravat, we may be moved to report it here.  Otherwise, we are committed to being riveted by the curling uniforms and wondering if elementary school teachers' Christmas sweaters were the inspiration for the Team USA cardigans.

The Untold Story

The striped tie for tonight is deep blue with slim white diagonals.  "You're being very brave!" she told the little boy sitting on the gurney in front of her.  She was wrapping his arm in plaster bandages now, forming a cast. Now that the pain and fear were mostly gone, he regarded her with interest, and was watching everything she did.  "Once we get all the white gooey part on, you can pick any color for your cast.  See those rolls over there?  Those are all the colors you have to choose from."  She stepped aside, working deftly and expertly, while the child surveyed the rainbow hues before him.  As she was tucking some soft cotton pads around the bicep, there came a small tap on her shoulder.  "Blue," said his tiny voice in her ear.  "Please.  I want a blue one this time."  Her heart clenched, and her eyes filled with tears.

Secrets At The Altar

Mr. Williams' choice of cravat this evening is a stripe of Carolina blue against a navy field.  He stood at the altar and sweated.  He could feel the perspiration rolling down his back and his underwear sticking to every surface it touched, damp and strangling.  Last night's send-off had been a huge mistake, and now, standing here in a tuxedo-clad row with the rest of the wedding party, sun beating down on them all from a relentlessly blue and cloudless sky with no hope of shade or breeze or any respite at all, he was paying dearly for it.  The sweat broke out on his hairline in small beads that began to trickle down his face.  His wife, looking like a Disney princess among other Disney princesses in blue taffeta, glanced at him worriedly.  His stomach was roiling and he knew his face was grey or green or, at best, white.  He tried a wan smile and hoped the wedding wasn't going to last much longer.

Why, Yes, You May Call It A Threat

As we here at The Report try to thaw from yet another Polar Vortex Visitation, it hardly seems worth our while to apply our benumbed and frosty fingers to the keyboard to report on another manifestation of That Tie.  You know the one.  It keeps violating our Fashion Space with its lurid Purply Gleam, its confusing pattern of impossibly small somethings that pulsate and flitter about and defy us at every angle.  Today its dimple is, we begrudgingly admit, quite nice, but not enough to save it.  If it appears once more this month--nay, once more before the first week of February is spent--we are relegating it to The Axis Of Evil.  That is how badly this tie has been used.

A Flash Of Brilliance

Looking very dapper, Brian puts together an enviable ensemble featuring a striped tie of charcoal with diagonals of ultramarine blue snugged by slim bands of white.  This cravat is sleek and stylish, a perfect balance of color and brilliance.  He scanned the room full of impeccably dressed elites, trying to find her.  It was almost impossible in this bevy of black.  If only he hadn't had to work so late!  If only she weren't so very petite! If only women weren't so damned slavish to their Little Black Dresses for every single evening function.  Struck by a brief moment of inspiration, he looked down.  In a clutch of cocktail smalltalkers he found a pair of bright blue heels.  He strode toward them, and there she was, martini (three olives) in hand.

A Detour In The Running Of The Purples

Imagine our relief when we tuned in this evening and, instead of PurplePurplePurplePurple, we saw pearl grey and nightsky stripes.  Is this tie a wondrous Fashion Accessory?  No. But in comparison to its predecessors, however, it is a Sartorial Life Vest.

Les Faux Pas

Quelle horreur!  This has to be the worst Cycle de Répétition ever in The History Of The Report.  Not only did Monsieur Brian wear this very tie the day before yesterday, but we are certainly having a Running Of The Purples.  This, the shiny purply dotted tie of 15 January and 20 January, makes the third Purple in a row.  Et, malheureusement, it had duelling dimples.  Is something terribly amiss dans chez Williams?

Don't Look Back--Just RUN!

SPT.  Heaven help us all.  We may be in for a Running Of The Purples.

In Which We Acknowledge Our Disillusionment And Loll A Bit

Sigh.  Do us a favour, would you?  Just grab a strong drink and read Wednesday, 15 January's report.  If Brian Williams can be Fashion Lazy, we can be Report Lazy.  (With a heaping side of Great Dismay.)

The Gypsy Heart

Tonight's tie is like the gypsy cousin of Monday's tie.  The cabled stripes are brilliant magenta on a field of dusky lavender, and the entire cravat has a sheen and shimmer like satin.  "Impossible!" said Grandmamma when she saw the bolts of cloth lying like a bright rainbow across the bed.  "She is still in mourning.  These are completely unsuitable, not to mention scandalous.  The entire county will talk.  Madame Clarens has forgotten herself.  Richmond is not Paris."  Aunt Caroline deftly stepped in front of the fabrics with a cup of tea and nodded.  "Of course, of course.  But it has been almost a year now.  And Susannah is only sixteen.  The Lady's Book allows for mauve or lavender, and this silk here can be suitable," she said, indicating a soft lilac.  "Certainly a plain dress with a modest neckline is fine.  And no adornment, save some fresh roses?"  Susannah thought of the months of black crepe and dim veils that darkened her visage.  Hope bloomed within her.

Old Wives' Tale

Slate blue and creamy white stripes comprise this evening's cravat.  Barely awake, he drank a quick cup of black tea, good Irish tea, and pulled on his clothes and boots.  It was chilly, but not resolutely cold, so he tugged a wool sweater over his head and wound his scarf around his neck.  After a quick breakfast, his horse was ready, and they went out on the road.  As the sun struggled to light the sky, they made their way in the gloom to the cheesemaker's.  Today was the day he would salt-wash the cheeses, giving each white round a good briny dunk in order to help them develop a tough rind.  He opened the door to the drying room, and on their shelves, they looked like moons shining against the lightening sky.

Bad Trip, Man

Remember all those terrible movies you had to watch in seventh grade health class during the unit on Drugs?  Some kid would get tired of being yelled at by his mom and dad, and he'd be out walking to The Big Dance or The Freshman Rally, thinking about it and muttering to himself, hands jammed into his pockets, grimace on his face.  A car would pull up and an Unsavory Kid from P.E. class would lean out and say, "Hey, dude!  Ain't you in my gym class?  Wanna ride?"  And the Decent Kid would have a moment of indecision, then hear his mother nagging, and climb into the car as an act of defiance.  They'd end up at a Party full of Drugs, with kids Getting High and acting weird all over the place.  Decent Kid would drink something or take something or smoke something and all of a sudden, there would be a scene of blurry faces, weird lights, flashing colours, and disco effects.  Freaky.  That's all I could think about with tonight's tie of teeny tiny shiny magenta-purple dots? checks? who knows?  Every time he moved even a scintilla, that tie pulsed alive and those two dimples threatened to swallow us up.

But We're Making The Call

SPT.  This tie is technically not a Solid Purple, I know.  But its pattern is so minuscule that it has become another Purlap cravat.  That chasm of a dimple is quite formidable, I must say.

The Novice

This evening's cravat is a lovely offering of Wegwood and egg custard stripes, the latter in a rope pattern.  She cowered in her apron, wishing she could hide behind the huge stainless steel counters.  At the front of the room, she could hear Madame's sharp voice denouncing the failures.  "Non!  Non!  Rien!  Rien!  Quelle horreur!  Qu'est-ce que c'est?"  A moment later, it was her turn.  The knotty and flawlessly manicured finger lifted the meringue off the crust, revealing a small puddle.  "Non!," Madame cried.  She then stuck her finger into the soft golden filling, scraping the crust below.  Her finger came up with raw dough.  "Rien!  Rien!" she said, shaking it at her before moving on.  The cook buried her face in her novice's blue apron and silently wept.