Wool Cap + Suit

Dissecting the Soul of the Creative Class

As the holiday approaches I’m taking this break from the scheduled thematic content to marinate on some PBR trivia. According to the Pabst Wikipedia page, PBR bottles were actually adorned with real blue ribbons from 1892-1916. Maybe bring the ribbon back for a year on the centennial of the last year it was seen? If you’re listening PBR, hit me up so I can tell you where to mail the check.

As the holiday approaches I’m taking this break from the scheduled thematic content to marinate on some PBR trivia. According to the Pabst Wikipedia page, PBR bottles were actually adorned with real blue ribbons from 1892-1916. Maybe bring the ribbon back for a year on the centennial of the last year it was seen? If you’re listening PBR, hit me up so I can tell you where to mail the check.

WoolCap+Suit is an insider’s view of the ‘Creative Class.’ The basic premise of this blog is that: sometime between The Year Punk Broke and the present Psychedelic Hip Hop era, the alt crowd took over Up In This Bitch (This Bitch being the propaganda arm of Amerian Kapital). And that with great urban real estate and farm-to-table dining options comes great responsibility.
As a group of arrivistes in the cool kid businesses of late-stage America, we the few, the privileged, send each other coded messages from our positions at W+K, from the storefronts where we sell our handcrafted wares all day. From our positions at the control panels of pop culture we transmit tinfoil winks and nods (is that Wilco?) to one another. 
But do we shirk our responsibilities to those with less expensive haircuts? In a recent time of Recession (is It over?), while our countryfolk faced a long grind we opened up mad skinny jeans parlors. Has our own success become a corollary to the continued decline of all we left behind? In the Thirties our counterparts would have gone into the Heartland — not the curated ‘Heartland,’ the real Joad family shit — returning to Civilization armed with rolls of heart-wrenching black-and-whites, or pages of scribbled notes, to lock ourselves in darkrooms or at typewriters determined to humanize the toothless dirtfarmers or coalminers with whom we broke bread. Now we sell Haitian-made jeans with staged moments of sun-washed petit bourgeois whimsy and slogans like “Go Forth” at our day jobs — at night check out a synth pop band for the opening of a new raw denim shop where the jeans are sewn by hand for three hundred dollars a pop. 
This blog is one man’s attempt to reintroduce some introspection to a group (a group I’m part of) that appears sometimes to have taken self-awareness full circle into total un-self-awareness. The Creative Class has its own scapegoats — Big Macs, Wal Mart, corn syrup. This blog isn’t a sneaky attempt to Supersize you, but back in the day being truly introspective meant holding your own flaws up to the light, not just those of the cornfed hicks in Middle America. It’s not about savaging “hipsters” either. It’s just an attempt to shine a light on our own clichés, insecurities, whatever’s in need of a little lume.  

WoolCap+Suit is an insider’s view of the ‘Creative Class.’ The basic premise of this blog is that: sometime between The Year Punk Broke and the present Psychedelic Hip Hop era, the alt crowd took over Up In This Bitch (This Bitch being the propaganda arm of Amerian Kapital). And that with great urban real estate and farm-to-table dining options comes great responsibility.

As a group of arrivistes in the cool kid businesses of late-stage America, we the few, the privileged, send each other coded messages from our positions at W+K, from the storefronts where we sell our handcrafted wares all day. From our positions at the control panels of pop culture we transmit tinfoil winks and nods (is that Wilco?) to one another. 

But do we shirk our responsibilities to those with less expensive haircuts? In a recent time of Recession (is It over?), while our countryfolk faced a long grind we opened up mad skinny jeans parlors. Has our own success become a corollary to the continued decline of all we left behind? In the Thirties our counterparts would have gone into the Heartland — not the curated ‘Heartland,’ the real Joad family shit — returning to Civilization armed with rolls of heart-wrenching black-and-whites, or pages of scribbled notes, to lock ourselves in darkrooms or at typewriters determined to humanize the toothless dirtfarmers or coalminers with whom we broke bread. Now we sell Haitian-made jeans with staged moments of sun-washed petit bourgeois whimsy and slogans like “Go Forth” at our day jobs — at night check out a synth pop band for the opening of a new raw denim shop where the jeans are sewn by hand for three hundred dollars a pop. 

This blog is one man’s attempt to reintroduce some introspection to a group (a group I’m part of) that appears sometimes to have taken self-awareness full circle into total un-self-awareness. The Creative Class has its own scapegoats — Big Macs, Wal Mart, corn syrup. This blog isn’t a sneaky attempt to Supersize you, but back in the day being truly introspective meant holding your own flaws up to the light, not just those of the cornfed hicks in Middle America. It’s not about savaging “hipsters” either. It’s just an attempt to shine a light on our own clichés, insecurities, whatever’s in need of a little lume.