How did you use your gear today?

[Jonanah]

I had this idea for a thread while working this morning (it's still morning here, but I'm taking a break inside to warm up and dry off). We have a thread for what jacket we wore, but we don't have a thread—at least not that I could find—for what we actually did with our gear. Did you ride through the Swiss Alps in an old cafe racer and some heavy denim? Did you build a cabin in the forest out of reclaimed driftwood from a shipwreck to sit in and worship the god of solitude? Did you sit in a public park wearing a moss green Carhartt J97 detroit jacket that you bought on Grailed for $475 (but it had free shipping!), waiting for a beautiful woman to notice and tell you how cool it is and ask you if you're single?

So far today I've been starting habitat piles from my pruned material in the public garden where I work, in an effort to keep more organic matter onsite and provide additional shelter for wildlife.

I've been kitted up in my trusty filson shelter cloth jacket with zip-in mackinaw wool vest liner, work-supplied carhartt insulated bib overalls, swanndri wool sweater, filson tin cloth packer hat, and frost river waxed choppers with dachstein wool mittens lining the inside. With me I have my trusty ARS hand pruners and Silky "Pocket Boy" handsaw, both made in Japan (also work-supplied).

Please go ahead and share what you got up to in your gear today!

 

[Khilij]

I walked my dog.

 

[photo2u]

Changed the transfer case fluid in my 4x4 GMC truck. Later I will repair the front motion sensor lights. Tomorrow I will install a NVR security system on my house. Coyotes are jumping my rear wall, trying to eat some of the rats that trying to get into my house. LOL. That is another constant problem in my city.

 

[Jonanah]

At least you have something battling the rats! Here in NYC the rats rule over us all and we serve at their leisure

 

[Bennarion]

It will be interesting here

 

[Nykwil]

**Monologue:**

5:15 AM. The alarm doesn’t beep—it *hisses*, like the release valve on a pressure cooker. My eyes snap open. Vertical. No dreams, only objectives. The room is icebox-crisp, 62°F exactly, calibrated to keep the pores tight, the mind sharper. I glide past the Bang & Olufsen stereo—no music yet, just the arrhythmic tap of fingernails on mahogany.

First, the shower. *Aesop* body cleanser, *Malin+Goetz* exfoliant. The water is 104°F, a scalding baptism. I scrub until the skin blushes raw, pink as a fresh cut. Towel off with Japanese linen, unscented, because fragrance is a confession of filth. The mirror fogs, but I don’t need to see. I *know* the angles.

The denim. *Momotaro 0405SP*, laid out on the bed like a flattened corpse. Twenty-one ounces of indigo, unsanforized, unwashed, unyielding. I step into them like suturing a wound—left leg first, teeth clenched. The waistband bites into my hips, a lover’s spite. They’ll soften. *I* won’t. I fasten the copper rivets with surgical precision. *Flat Head* belt, double-pronged buckle. The leather is stiff, unbroken. Like me.

The jacket. *Schott Perfecto*, 618 steerhide. I don’t slip into it—I *assemble* it. The zipper snarls up the left side, asymmetrical, militaristic. Nickel hardware, cold as a tax audit. The collar sits high, a guillotine blade against the jugular. I check the seams in the mirror. Flawless. No puckering, no give. Across the street, some intern stumbles out in a *Zara* knockoff, seams puckered like a cheap wound. I almost pity him. Almost.

The boots. *Red Wing 2268 Engineers*. Chromexcel leather, oiled to a muted gunmetal sheen. I lace them clockwise, each pull a noose for mediocrity. The Vibram soles add half an inch—enough to loom, not enough to seem *trying*. I flex my toes. The steel cap could crack a rib. *Will* crack a rib. Later.

I pause at the door. *D.R. Harris* cologne, two spritzes—one for the carotid, one for the wrist. Not for scent. For punctuation.

The city breathes outside, rancid and wheezing. I walk. The denim creaks like a gallows rope. The jacket’s shoulders cut through the crowd, parting suits and pleats like a prow. I count the stares. Seven. Eight. Nine. None of them see the jacket, the denim, the boots. They see a *syllogism*. A theorem. A thing that cannot be argued.

At the corner, a broker in *Levi’s Premium* tries to catch my eye. His denim is stonewashed, pre-faded, *pre-digested*. His boots squeak. I smile, all molars. He looks away.

I don’t wear clothes. I *curate* consequences.

By 8:30 AM, I’m ready to begin the day.
Or end someone else’s.

*(Adjusts collar. Exits. Leaves no fingerprints.)*

-Courtesy of Bluesky written in the vein of Patrick Bateman’s morning routine in American Psycho.

 

[Will Zach]

**Monologue:**

5:15 AM. The alarm doesn’t beep—it *hisses*, like the release valve on a pressure cooker. My eyes snap open. Vertical. No dreams, only objectives. The room is icebox-crisp, 62°F exactly, calibrated to keep the pores tight, the mind sharper. I glide past the Bang & Olufsen stereo—no music yet, just the arrhythmic tap of fingernails on mahogany.

First, the shower. *Aesop* body cleanser, *Malin+Goetz* exfoliant. The water is 104°F, a scalding baptism. I scrub until the skin blushes raw, pink as a fresh cut. Towel off with Japanese linen, unscented, because fragrance is a confession of filth. The mirror fogs, but I don’t need to see. I *know* the angles.

The denim. *Momotaro 0405SP*, laid out on the bed like a flattened corpse. Twenty-one ounces of indigo, unsanforized, unwashed, unyielding. I step into them like suturing a wound—left leg first, teeth clenched. The waistband bites into my hips, a lover’s spite. They’ll soften. *I* won’t. I fasten the copper rivets with surgical precision. *Flat Head* belt, double-pronged buckle. The leather is stiff, unbroken. Like me.

The jacket. *Schott Perfecto*, 618 steerhide. I don’t slip into it—I *assemble* it. The zipper snarls up the left side, asymmetrical, militaristic. Nickel hardware, cold as a tax audit. The collar sits high, a guillotine blade against the jugular. I check the seams in the mirror. Flawless. No puckering, no give. Across the street, some intern stumbles out in a *Zara* knockoff, seams puckered like a cheap wound. I almost pity him. Almost.

The boots. *Red Wing 2268 Engineers*. Chromexcel leather, oiled to a muted gunmetal sheen. I lace them clockwise, each pull a noose for mediocrity. The Vibram soles add half an inch—enough to loom, not enough to seem *trying*. I flex my toes. The steel cap could crack a rib. *Will* crack a rib. Later.

I pause at the door. *D.R. Harris* cologne, two spritzes—one for the carotid, one for the wrist. Not for scent. For punctuation.

The city breathes outside, rancid and wheezing. I walk. The denim creaks like a gallows rope. The jacket’s shoulders cut through the crowd, parting suits and pleats like a prow. I count the stares. Seven. Eight. Nine. None of them see the jacket, the denim, the boots. They see a *syllogism*. A theorem. A thing that cannot be argued.

At the corner, a broker in *Levi’s Premium* tries to catch my eye. His denim is stonewashed, pre-faded, *pre-digested*. His boots squeak. I smile, all molars. He looks away.

I don’t wear clothes. I *curate* consequences.

By 8:30 AM, I’m ready to begin the day.
Or end someone else’s.

*(Adjusts collar. Exits. Leaves no fingerprints.)*

-Courtesy of Bluesky written in the vein of Patrick Bateman’s morning routine in American Psycho.

Nice writing. I just re-potted these pygmy date palms. My Carhartt Detroit actually came in handy because these suckers have spikes!

 

[Jonanah]

**Monologue:**

5:15 AM. The alarm doesn’t beep—it *hisses*, like the release valve on a pressure cooker. My eyes snap open. Vertical. No dreams, only objectives. The room is icebox-crisp, 62°F exactly, calibrated to keep the pores tight, the mind sharper. I glide past the Bang & Olufsen stereo—no music yet, just the arrhythmic tap of fingernails on mahogany.

First, the shower. *Aesop* body cleanser, *Malin+Goetz* exfoliant. The water is 104°F, a scalding baptism. I scrub until the skin blushes raw, pink as a fresh cut. Towel off with Japanese linen, unscented, because fragrance is a confession of filth. The mirror fogs, but I don’t need to see. I *know* the angles.

The denim. *Momotaro 0405SP*, laid out on the bed like a flattened corpse. Twenty-one ounces of indigo, unsanforized, unwashed, unyielding. I step into them like suturing a wound—left leg first, teeth clenched. The waistband bites into my hips, a lover’s spite. They’ll soften. *I* won’t. I fasten the copper rivets with surgical precision. *Flat Head* belt, double-pronged buckle. The leather is stiff, unbroken. Like me.

The jacket. *Schott Perfecto*, 618 steerhide. I don’t slip into it—I *assemble* it. The zipper snarls up the left side, asymmetrical, militaristic. Nickel hardware, cold as a tax audit. The collar sits high, a guillotine blade against the jugular. I check the seams in the mirror. Flawless. No puckering, no give. Across the street, some intern stumbles out in a *Zara* knockoff, seams puckered like a cheap wound. I almost pity him. Almost.

The boots. *Red Wing 2268 Engineers*. Chromexcel leather, oiled to a muted gunmetal sheen. I lace them clockwise, each pull a noose for mediocrity. The Vibram soles add half an inch—enough to loom, not enough to seem *trying*. I flex my toes. The steel cap could crack a rib. *Will* crack a rib. Later.

I pause at the door. *D.R. Harris* cologne, two spritzes—one for the carotid, one for the wrist. Not for scent. For punctuation.

The city breathes outside, rancid and wheezing. I walk. The denim creaks like a gallows rope. The jacket’s shoulders cut through the crowd, parting suits and pleats like a prow. I count the stares. Seven. Eight. Nine. None of them see the jacket, the denim, the boots. They see a *syllogism*. A theorem. A thing that cannot be argued.

At the corner, a broker in *Levi’s Premium* tries to catch my eye. His denim is stonewashed, pre-faded, *pre-digested*. His boots squeak. I smile, all molars. He looks away.

I don’t wear clothes. I *curate* consequences.

By 8:30 AM, I’m ready to begin the day.
Or end someone else’s.

*(Adjusts collar. Exits. Leaves no fingerprints.)*

-Courtesy of Bluesky written in the vein of Patrick Bateman’s morning routine in American Psycho.

Jesus hahaha. This was the work of AI? Or did your tortured mind create this monstrosity