I look good in my pork pie hat. I do. People see me walking towards them on the sidewalk and they judge how much longer they will have to wait before they can compliment me in a voice that isn’t a yell.
Some days I borrow one of my dad’s fly-fishing flies and put it in the band and it adds color and flare and my girlfriend compliments it. Yes, I look good in my pork pie hat.
I look good in other hats too: baseball, fedora, driver’s, tweed, beanie. But the standby is my pork pie hat, which launches me into the upper crust of the crowd anywhere from concerts for very cool bands to dive bars to covertly drinking on public beaches.
Say, for instance, I’m at my friend’s underground restaurant. I’ll start to compliment him on his cooking and he’ll cut me off and say, “Dude, that hat. You look good in that.”
I’ll accept the compliment gracefully and play it off like I was unsure about wearing it or not. But really, I know I look phenomenal in it. I’ve always looked phenomenal in it. There was never any warm-up period for me and my pork pie hat.
“Are you in a band?” asks the grocer at my local bodega.
“Are you a poet?” asks the cute barista at my neighborhood café.
“Are you from New York?” asks the clerk at the pop-up store selling quirky T-shirts and boutique chewing gum.
“No,” I say. “Why do you ask?” Just pretending like I don’t know that it is my trusty pork pie hat that gives these people the impression that I am an urban artist who lives on rice and beans and passion for his creative pursuits, instead of on his father’s bank account and his grandfather’s clothing.
I see my pictures on Facebook: sepia-toned Instagrams of me at a backyard barbecue, at the park on a weekday afternoon, drinking cans of beer on my friend’s buddy’s sister’s porch. Yes. I look good in my pork pie hat.
I remember that day on the porch. It was chill and dope and rad. Two police officers walked by at some point. One gave me this long look that I knew meant, “Get a job, lazy ass. But damn, what a hat.”
This is not a passing trend. This is not my bow tie, or my duct tape shoes, or my mustache. This pork pie hat – my pork pie hat – is here to stay atop my slightly balding head, perched as a beacon of coolness and charm and uniqueness for many, many years to come.
Some days I borrow one of my dad’s fly-fishing flies and put it in the band and it adds color and flare and my girlfriend compliments it. Yes, I look good in my pork pie hat.
I look good in other hats too: baseball, fedora, driver’s, tweed, beanie. But the standby is my pork pie hat, which launches me into the upper crust of the crowd anywhere from concerts for very cool bands to dive bars to covertly drinking on public beaches.Say, for instance, I’m at my friend’s underground restaurant. I’ll start to compliment him on his cooking and he’ll cut me off and say, “Dude, that hat. You look good in that.”
I’ll accept the compliment gracefully and play it off like I was unsure about wearing it or not. But really, I know I look phenomenal in it. I’ve always looked phenomenal in it. There was never any warm-up period for me and my pork pie hat.
“Are you in a band?” asks the grocer at my local bodega.
“Are you a poet?” asks the cute barista at my neighborhood café.
“Are you from New York?” asks the clerk at the pop-up store selling quirky T-shirts and boutique chewing gum.
“No,” I say. “Why do you ask?” Just pretending like I don’t know that it is my trusty pork pie hat that gives these people the impression that I am an urban artist who lives on rice and beans and passion for his creative pursuits, instead of on his father’s bank account and his grandfather’s clothing.
I see my pictures on Facebook: sepia-toned Instagrams of me at a backyard barbecue, at the park on a weekday afternoon, drinking cans of beer on my friend’s buddy’s sister’s porch. Yes. I look good in my pork pie hat.
I remember that day on the porch. It was chill and dope and rad. Two police officers walked by at some point. One gave me this long look that I knew meant, “Get a job, lazy ass. But damn, what a hat.”
This is not a passing trend. This is not my bow tie, or my duct tape shoes, or my mustache. This pork pie hat – my pork pie hat – is here to stay atop my slightly balding head, perched as a beacon of coolness and charm and uniqueness for many, many years to come.
by Ryan O'Neill, McSweeneys | Read more:
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