The 12-Year Dress Code

For 12 years, my wife dressed me. She banned cargo pants the way the Vatican bans fun. No cargo shorts. No pockets.

I became a walking Pinterest board. Polos the color of Easter eggs. Boring dockers that needed a belt and an apology.

I was old enough to know better, and I had never felt comfortable in my own skin — because technically, it wasn't my skin. It was hers. Tailored. Approved and Neutered.

The Night the Penguin Showed Up

I poured three fingers of whiskey, opened the freezer for ice, and found a penguin. Small. Tuxedoed. Judging me.

My son Tino, age 9, walked in and said: "Dad. Why do you look like my friends grandfather.”

The McFly Moment

I ordered the McFly because it was inspired by Back to the Future and it sounded like a time machine I could actually afford.

I put it on. It wasn't a shirt. It was an origin event. Tino walked in and whispered, "Whoa." I looked in the mirror. I wasn't Giovanni anymore. I was Flannel Daddy.

Our Flannel Arsenal