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BiG FAll +

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AdAm driver

From Girls To stAr WArs AT LighT Speed tHe Best drinKinG City in AmeriCA (hinT: iT’S noT neW york) tHe 25 BiGGest sleAZeBAGs in sPorts

46 PAGes FuLL oF everyThing you need To FAce The cooL

issue

style

SpeciAL reporT

“son, men don’t Get rAPed”

The Shocking TruTh oF mALe SexuAL ASSAuLT in The miLiTAry

HoW to Be Polite to A WomAn WiThouT piSSing her oFF

A New Bia n n ual Ma gazi n e

What to Wear Now FALL + WINTER 2014

A step-by-step guide to getting dressed every morning and looking your best every day, including the 30 essential trends of the season (and how to pull them off)

GQSeptem page 1∕3

s Australian model Jessica Hart

192

Departments 82

Intelligence 161

Am I Too Old to Win the U.S. Open? ROSECRANS BALDWIN

TH E COVER

Letter from the Editor 84

The Most Stylish Designers of All Time They created some of the most iconic menswear ever, and they lived as they preached 171

The Reaction 99

Manual 133

didn’t start playing tennis till the age when most pros retire. That didn’t stop him from gunning for our native Grand Slam 204

The Style Guy 282

The 25 Biggest Sleazebags in Sports The realm of sports attracts men of astonishing talent and grace. These are not those men B Y D R E W M A G A R Y 210

Paola Kudacki On Adam Driver Three-piece suit ( jacket not shown), $4,295, and Henley, $550, by Burberry London. Vintage necklace from Melet Mercantile. Hair by David Cox for Kevin Murphy. Grooming by Jodie Boland for CK One Color Cosmetics. Prop stylist: Juliet Jernigan at CLM. Where to buy it Where are the items from this page to page 259 available? Go to GQ.com/go/fashiondirectories to find out. All prices quoted are approximate and subject to change.

Parting Shot Instagrams from Johnny Manziel’s (forthcoming) first season in the NFL TA N K TO P : M I C H A E L KO R S

The Punch List Our cheat sheet to everything you need to see, hear, and read this month, from the crusade to rename the Washington Redskins to novelist David Mitchell’s latest masterpiece 182

The Orthodox Hit Squad Are you a Jewish woman in need of a divorce your husband won’t grant? Leave it to a team of Orthodox kidnappers and their cattle prods B Y M AT T H E W S H A E R

How to Be Polite to Women Without Pissing Them Off LAUREN BANS

rewrites the rules of chivalry

DUSAN RELJIN

SEPTEMBER

2014

GQ.COM

GQSeptem page 2∕3 Jacket, $510, and shirt, $365, by Ami.

232

The Goldblum Standard

240

May we all age as gracefully, and with as much undeniably on-point awesomeness, as sexagenarian Jeff Goldblum BY LAUREN BANS

Handle with Flair

252

Fashion

The briefcase is back and— good news!—it no longer looks like a breadbox. These new styles and colors will match any office-worthy suit

Another Hard Day’s Night

On the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles’ silver-screen debut, up-and-comer Jake Bugg and his band pay homage to the British style of their mop-topped forebears

GQ.COM

SEPTEMBER

2014

PA O L A K U D A C K I

GQSeptem page 3∕3 q Jake Bugg and his band in Dalston, London.

Features 226

“Ain’t Nothing Shine Brighter Than That Bad Boy”: The Inside Story of Hip-Hop’s Most Notorious Label It’s the house that Puffy and Biggie launched twenty years ago with Ready to Die. This is the origin story from the people who lived it, Sean Combs included BY CRAIGH BARBOZA

244

“Son, Men Don’t Get Raped” Sexual assault is an epidemic in the U.S. military—tens of thousands of instances occur each year—and more than half the victims are men. Not enough is being done to stop it. Here, the stories of eighteen soldiers, in their own words B Y N AT H A N I E L P E N N

260

Da Bars! Chicago offers cocktails topped with dry ice, beer brewed within city limits, and everything in between. Raise a glass to the best city in the United States to get your drink on 268

Hart-Breaker Gap-toothed beauty Jessica Hart is the biggest Australian model since Miranda Kerr. Thank you, Oz BY SARAH BALL

270

The Strange & Curious Tale of the Last True Hermit For twenty-seven years, a ghost haunted the Maine woods. Food went missing from cabins. Canoes were mysteriously borrowed. Still, locals were never convinced he was real. Then, last year, they learned the truth BY MICHAEL FINKEL

GQ.COM

SEPTEMBER

2014

N AT H A N I E L G O L D B E R G

Letter from the Editor

The Coots Shall Inherit the Earth into some malevolent overdrive. Having already crushed the souls of book publishers and authors everywhere, the company is now looking to build its own microshopping universe so as to market to every neuron in your brain. This spring, when Amazon introduced the horribly named Fire TV, which re-imagines television as a closed-environment marketing tool (because doesn’t that feel fiery?), an analyst described the way it works to the Times: “Imagine I’m watching a Jason Bourne movie. He’s on the run through Europe. The movie pauses and lets you move into an interactive game with Bourne. Or maybe he goes through Vienna, and you always wanted to go there, so here’s how you could plan a trip or at least buy a book about it.” Boy, won’t it be exciting in the future when we can all buy books! Directly from the 2004 movie we are half-watching! That’s not an innovation or a convenience. It’s a domestic intrusion. (Dear Je≠ Bezos: I don’t want to move into an interactive game with Jason Bourne. I want to watch the f#%king Bourne movie. You are literally standing in the way of my watching Matt Damon throat-chop somebody in Goa.) But Amazon doesn’t care. As the analyst concluded, “Amazon has a vested interest in making sure it is present at every moment of possible consumption, which is all the time.” Wow. Am I the only consumeroid who thinks that sounds like some new form of hubris and human overreach? Ted Turner (whose empire has of course been swallowed up by Time Warner) once told the New Yorker writer Ken Auletta his philosophy about business: “You need to control everything. You need to be like Rockefeller with Standard Oil. He had the oil fields, and he had the filling stations, and he had the pipelines and the trucks and everything to get the gas to the stations. And they broke him up as a monopoly.… The game’s over when they break you up. But in the meantime, you play to win. And you know you’ve won when the government stops you.” Winning is what you do until you are legally forced to stop. Which brings me to the Hunger of Rupert (now a Warner Bros. motion picture!). That hunger is a thing to be awed by, to fear and salute and wet your pants to. It cannot be, will never be, sated. His is the Hunger of the Business Coot. Ninety-oneyear-old Sumner Redstone has it. So does the indomitable Donald Trump. Turner had it. But no one comes close to Rupert. He is 83 years old now and looks recently microwaved. I’ve noticed that in the past couple of years his head has moved closer to his shoulders, the way a grape starved for nutrition will move closer to the vine. But wait a minute! Wasn’t it just a few years ago—July 19, 2011, to be exact—that Rupert, testifying before a panel investigating the ugly British tabloid hacking scandal, told the world that he had been humbled? “This is the most humble day of my life,” he declared, which actually didn’t sound very humble. It sounded like he was bestowing an honor, like July 19 had won an international competition to be the most humble day of Rupert Murdoch’s life. So it’s a very, very humble $80 billion media grab. When he made his big Warner move, media columnists buzzed about all the business reasons—consolidation of assets! synergy! more content for China!—but there was really only one reason: The man does not want to die. Media coots are a special breed, blind to mortality. (Rupert to Auletta, when asked if he ever gets tired of The Game, of consummating bigger and bigger business deals: Huh? No comprendo. “You go on,” he said with an immortal flourish. “You are competing everywhere.… And I just enjoy it.”) Still, I cannot help but do the math. Rupert is almost two decades past retirement age. By most actuarial wisdom, he won’t be around very long to enjoy the consolidated fruits of the Time Warner Fox Cartoon Network TBS Brand-o-sphere. But by the rules of cootdom, that doesn’t matter. Winning is what you do until you are lethally forced to stop.

W H E N T H E H I S T O R Y and

mystery of the early twenty-ﬁrst century is written, preferably by me, there will be one massive supernova at the center of it, around which we all orbit mercilessly: Yes, I mean the engorged ego of Rupert Murdoch. As of this writing, and Because He Can, Rupert would very much like to devour the Time Warner media empire for $80 billion. As of this writing, that is insane—the price tag, which will surely go up; the wisdom of having All Human Entertainment under one roof; the prospect of the man who started Fox News getting his hands on every franchise from Adult Swim to HBO Latino. Somebody stop that man! Nobody can stop that man. Simple question. Why do all the Big Guys need to become Massive Guys? Is it just a rule of global capitalism that you must keep swallowing up things until you puke? And then it’s time for downsizing! It’s like an economic eating disorder, egged on by the mood swings of Wall Street and the mindless appetite to keep revenue streams ticking toward the satellites. Take Amazon, whose outsize hunger for empire building seems to have kicked 82 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

JIM NELSON E D I TO R- I N - C H I E F

SEBASTIAN KIM

The Reaction

The ever expanding GQ universe makes a mark all month long. We’ve got the most impactful moments, distilled.

Less Practice, More Posing I GQ.com’s post on the new class of stylish NBA rookies sparked controversy for Julius Randle: He was accused of skipping a Celtics workout to participate in our story, leading to rumors he wouldn’t end up in Boston. (Randle joined the Lakers instead.)

OUR VERY BEST CRIME STORIES I Readers devoured Devin Friedman’s story on the Ohio Craigslist killers in the July issue. So we’ve posted five of our best crime stories from the past five years. Go now to GQ.com /crime to read on. 1.”The Serial Killer Has Second Thoughts” by Chris Heath (Aug. ’13) Did this man lie about killing thirtyplus people? 2. “Is He Coming? Is He? Oh God, I Think He Is” by Sean Flynn (Aug. ’12) Dozens dead at an island youth camp in Norway. The survivors’ tales. 3.”The Whole True Story of the Dougherty Gang” by Kathy Dobie (Jan. ’12) The bizarre crime spree of three Florida siblings. 4.”Savior vs. Savior” by Devin Friedman (Feb. ’10) A re-creation of the murder of an abortion doc. 5.”The Chessboard Killer” by Peter Savodnik (June ’09) A Russian serial killer’s relentless attacks on dozens.

GQ Takes on Milan y In the midst of this year’s men’s shows, we threw a party (see the vibes below) to launch our July issue with bombshell Emily Ratajkowski. • Attendees (clockwise from bottom): GQ editor-in-chief Jim Nelson and Emily Ratajkowski; Gucci creative director Frida Giannini and GQ creative director Jim Moore; Vogue Nippon editor-at-large Anna Dello Russo; Bloomingdale’s men’s fashion director Josh Peskowitz and Michael Bastian; Trussardi creative director Gaia Trussardi; Nick Wooster.

• “Randle skipped a potential 2nd workout w/ Celtics today for this -> MT @J30_RANDLE: Meeting with @GQMagazine today to discuss style”—@chadfordinsider, ESPN • “While the decision to skip the workout doesn’t tell me anything about Randle’s character, it does hint at the fact that Boston might not be the place he ends up.” —Gary Dzen, Boston.com

GQ Instagram of the Month (Paris Fashion Week Edition) • “Lit at @lanvinofficial this morning. Love this show space (École des Beaux-Arts). #pfw”

Channing Tatum u GQ • Forget imitation: The sincerest form of flattery is slapping our creative director’s name on a badass T-shirt, like designer Mark McNairy did. Or posing in said shirt so excitedly your head might burst, like June cover Channing Tatum does here.

gq prefers that letters to the editor be sent to letters@gq.com. letters may be edited.

GQ.COM

SEPTEMBER

2014

TO P L E F T: J AC E L U M L E Y. B OT TO M L E F T: C O U R T E S Y O F M AT T H E W S E B R A . B OT TO M R I G H T: C O U R T E S Y O F J I M M O O R E . Ò G Q TA K E S O N M I L A N Ó : V I T TO R I O Z U N I N O C E LOT TO/G E T T Y I M AG E S F O R G Q ( 7 ) .

gentlemen’s quarterly ®

editor-in- chief

vice president & publisher

Jim Nelson deputy editor design director creative director

Chris Mitchell associate publisher associate publisher, integrated sales advertising director executive director, finance & operations executive director , marketing & brand strategy

Michael Hainey

Fred Woodward

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managing editor director of editorial projects

Ken Gawrych executive editor

Devin Friedman senior articles editor style editor articles editor senior editors senior associate editors associate editors staff writer assistant editors assistant to the editor-in-chief editorial associates editorial assistant

Brendan Vaughan Devin Gordon Will Welch Geoffrey Gagnon Sarah Ball, Jonathan Wilde Nojan Aminosharei, Freddie Campion, Daniel Riley Mark Byrne, Nick Marino Zach Baron Mark Anthony Green, Eric Sullivan Benjy Hansen-Bundy Jen Ortiz, Sam Schube Gillian Brassil

Alice McKown Edward Romaine Jenny Glassberg Janice Trichon Kristen Maloney Pagano

advertising executive director, integrated programs global fashion director advertising director, strategic partnerships international advertising director advertising director , fashion & luxury goods style & entertainment director fashion manager integrated business director

Karen Landrud Drechsler Lisa Fields Gina Gervino Daryl Bowman Jaime Aversa Libby Conover Julia Smith business director

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fashion fashion director fashion market director bookings director fashion editors paris editor credit & location coordinator fashion assistants bookings assistant

Madeline Weeks Ted Stafford Victoria Graham Kelly McCabe, Garrett Munce, Jon Tietz Muriel Mercier Nanette Bruhn Christopher Legaspi, Mina Yoo Monica Mendal

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Chelsea Cardinal Andre Jointe Benjamin Bours, John Muñoz Martin Salazar Jeffrey Kurtz Griffin Funk Jim Gomez Jennifer Gonzalez Hollis Yungbliut Timothy J. Meneely

photo director of photography senior photo editor photo editor associate photo editor

Fuaud Yasin Krista Boyd, Deb Lee Gregory Hall Liz Khan Kathleen Waugh Pamela Kaupinen Jade Ruzzo Darren McPherson Brett Fahlgren Elizabeth Johnson Brian Ellingwood, Nicole Spagnola Elisabeth Bundschuh Delisha Fields, Anna Hunter Reid Rutledge Hannah Hogensen

Krista Prestek Justin O’Neill Jolanta Bielat Michael Allin

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E.J. Samson Jessica Glavin Matthew Sebra John Jannuzzi Dennis Tang Jake Woolf Joon Kang c. Spencer Beggs

Syd Cooper Hersh Greg Barnes Sarah Jarvis Cindy Thieme Lewis Stafford Company, Inc. Peter Zuckerman, z - m e d i a Rula Al Amad

published by condé nast chairman chief executive officer president chief operating officer & chief financial officer president – condé nast media group & chief revenue officer chief administrative officer chief technology officer

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Drew Schutte managing director – real estate Robert Bennis svp – market research Scott McDonald svp – business development Julie Michalowski svp – human resources JoAnn Murray svp – corporate communications

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R E C Y

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P L E

M A G A Z

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evp – programming & content strategy , digital channels

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Michael Klein evp – alternative tv Joe LaBracio svp – business development & strategy Whitney Howard vp – technology Marvin Li vp – marketing Mei Lee vp – scripted tv Gina Marcheschi

evp – chief digital officer chief revenue officer

vp – digital video operations

Fred Santarpia Lisa Valentino Larry Baach vp – revenue operations Jason Baird vp – production Jed Weintrob vp – branded content & sales marketing Anissa E. Frey

T H

STYLISH PLAYER IN PRO FOOTBALL?

WHO IS THE MOST

TE! VO Starting September 4, vote for your favorite. Visit GQ.com/StyleWars

P E G G Y S I R OTA

Get the GQ Look L I K E W H AT YOU SEE I N T H E PA G E S OF GQ? NOW YOU CAN G E T I T— A N D W E A R I T— R I G H T A W AY

Page 255

Center: Officine Generale coat. Tod’s loafers. Far left: Burberry London coat.

>T O L E A R N more—and see what we have chosen for you this month—go to GQ.com/selects

Just a few of our picks from this issue...

Maison Martin Margiela shirt p. 128

Dolce & Gabbana briefcase p. 243

Gucci sports jacket p. 112

Ami jacket p. 76

C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P : N AT H A N I E L G O L D B E R G ; PAO L A K U DAC K I ; DAV I D R I N E L L A ; S E B A S T I A N M A D E R ; DAV I D R I N E L L A

>E A C H M O N T H , the editors of GQ will select a series of items from our pages available through our online retail partner, Mr Porter.com

G Q.COM What’s New on Women in Menswear Listen Up THE GQ HEADPHONE GUIDE Whether you’re a traveler, a student, or a runner, we’ve found the best earphones for you. L E F T: G O R D O N VO N S T E I N E R . TO P R I G H T: J O N AT H O N K A M B O U R I S . B OT TO M R I G H T: P E D E N + M U N K .

Find the best places to eat, drink, and shop on your mobile device with GQ City Guides.

Live Smart B LEARN HOW TO GRILL EVERYTHING (yes, even grapes) at gq.com/how-to

Did you know that boxers are essential to a good night’s sleep? Let model Kate Bock prove the point in a few of our favorites.

GQ Endorses

P R O P S T Y L I S T: B R I A N B Y R N E

The Saint Laurent Combat Boot We’re marching—not tiptoeing—into fall this year, thanks to these reinterpreted combat boots from Saint Laurent designer and menswear deity Hedi Slimane. They’re built on deceptively simple, utterly luxurious design: calfskin leather, hefty rubber soles, and side zippers that bring a subtle badass quality (while saving you the hassle of lacing up every morning). The boots are always standing at attention, ready to anchor a gray ﬂannel suit or your arsenal of cu≠ed slim jeans. Yes, Slimane’s stompers are a heftier investment than what’s sold at the army-navysupply store, but if you want to win the street-style war, sometimes you have to break out the big guns. —J I M M O O R E Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane $995 | Saint Laurent, 57th St., N.Y.C.| ysl.com PHOTOGRAPH BY JAMIE CHUNG SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 99

Best New Designers ’14 BROOKLYN TAILORS The Cooler Corduroy Suit • “This corduroy suit was actually inspired by one of my personal bespoke suits that I was wearing when we met with Gap’s design team. The cliché with corduroy is that it’s very professorial— when you think of a corduroy suit, you think of that camel shade. But doing one in this really cool muted-gray color with our signature superslim fit gives the suit a whole different spin that feels very modern and sharp.” —Daniel Lewis

Coming Soon to a Gap Near You: GQ Threads Next month marks the third annual capsule collection between Gap and GQ’s Best New Menswear Designers. Here’s a sneak peek at what this year’s crew has cooked up—and let’s just say you’re gonna like what’s on the menu

 

M.NII

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A Hoodie Worthy of Kanye • “The collection is all black, which adds a whole new dimension to that Gap guy. And the leather hoodie is the most expensive piece that Gap has ever sold, so that’s cool! But we didn’t want to do just an expensive hoodie; from our line we know how to design with leather really well, so we worked hard to perfectly dial in the fit and the feel of the hoodie. It’s pricey, but it’s a very clean, timeless piece you can wear yearround.”—Rob Garcia 104 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

EN NOIR

PHOTOGRAPHS

TOM

SCHIRMACHER

G R O O M I N G : J E S S I C A O R T I Z U S I N G M AC C O S M E T I C S . H E A D S : B J O R N I O O S S (4) .

Board Shorts for Beyond the Boardwalk • “The original M.Nii line began with a pair of swim trunks, and these shorts were built on that exact same model. The corduroy gives ’em a bit of an autumn feeling, and the pockets are key, too. You can wear these shorts with Vans and a T-shirt and carry what you need. It’s not just a pair of trunks; it’s a pair of trunks with street cred.”—John Moore

JOHN ELLIOTT + CO

Sweatpants That Sweat the Details • “I go down the rabbit hole of fabric selection for my own line, and I took that same approach with my Gap stuff. Like the sweatpants: They’re a signature for me, inspired by a late-1980s Colombian soccer pant that is really slim from ankle to knee. So the Gap version’s fit is basically identical to mine. It’s made from a thick French terry cloth that’s really similar to what I use. And Gap even sourced high-end zippers.” —John Elliott



Refresher Course > How to Buy a New Suit—Whether It’s Your First or Fifteenth

To kick off our new back-tobasics series, Refresher Course, we’ve nailed down the four foolproof steps between you and that elusive sartorial beast: a perfectfitting, trend-transcendent off-the-rack suit

1 GRAY BLUE BROWN BLACK

PICTURE IT FIRST Buying a new suit doesn’t start in the store, it starts in your head. Is the suit for work? Date night? A buddy’s wedding? All three? Know that and you can make the right choices, starting with color. • If this is your first suit, start here. A simple charcoal gray works with anything and goes anywhere. It’s the standard. Largely un-fuck-up-able. • Navy has the pedigree, but lately we’re into a slightly brighter shade we call heightened blue, ’cause it gives everything you’re wearing a little lift. • No, you won’t look like the UPS guy. But brown does deliver (sorry) an element of surprise. Great for rounding out a budding suit collection. • Not as foolproof as you think. You imagine the Strokes, but you might end up with security guard if you don’t bring serious rock-star style moves.

4 MAKE SURE THE DAMN THING FITS The perfect off-the-rack suit is mythical, like the yeti or a Miami Marlins fan. But you can get close if you know what has to fit in the fitting-room mirror and what the tailor can fix up.

A tailor can’t fix a bunk shoulder, so make sure the seam ends right at the outside of yours. Most guys overestimate their jacket size. Think you’re a 42? Try a 40.

shoulders › Can’t Tailor

With the jacket buttoned, the lapels should lie flat on your chest. Do they bow or leave a gap around your shirt collar? You need a different size or a different brand.

lapels › Can’t Tailor

arms › Tailor-Friendly

2 3 110

PICK YOUR ’TUDE You’ve got two choices. The all-American notch is like ordering roast chicken: a total fail-safe. The flashier, more formal peak lapel—it juts up and out, toward your shoulder—is a Euro-born power move. PEAK LAPEL

They should hug your actual arms and show a half-inch of cuff. But don’t worry too much about either: Any tailor can sort out both the length and any excess bagginess. With the jacket buttoned, slide your thumb between the button and your gut. If your thumb is snug, good. If it’s a little loose, you can tailor. If it’s crunched, try one size up.

torso › Tailor-Friendly

NOTCH LAPEL

waist › TailorFriendly

Fasten your pants at your natural waist (about an inch below your navel). Too loose? Call the tailor.

LEARN TO COUNT The two-button is the Wayfarer of suit jackets, because it looks great on everyone. The single-button is a fashiony choice that flatters beanpole types, while three-buttons can look dated. TWO-BUT TON THREE-BUT TON

ONE-BUT TON

ew The Nv a W e

The ner The Ris k y ai Move No Br SEPTEMBER 2014 ILLUSTRATIONS

Since most suits have unfinished hems, you can’t buy today and wear tomorrow. Get ’em tailored to hover just above your shoes. Better yet, ask if the store will do it gratis. BY PATRICK LEGER

hems › Must Tailor

GQ.COM

The Goods

1. Gucci $2,970 2. The Men’s Store at Bloomingdale’s $135 3. Black Fleece by Brooks Brothers $125 4. Acne Studios $130 5. Boss $50 6. The Tie Bar $10 7. Ovadia & Sons $105 8. Suigeneric (strap) $45

Daniel Wellington $195 (dial) 9. Mark McNairy for Generic Surplus $135 10 . Etro $3,905

Miles Davis had a thing. Nick Cave has a thing. Tom Wolfe owns a thing. The thing is the sartorial feint that separates you from the cast of extras. And if you’re currently hunting for your own thing, you can’t do better than checks, the suddenlyon-everything pattern with a blueblood pedigree. Want dressy? Grab a pocket square in houndstooth (really a check with more attitude). Want chill? Try a tweedy baseball cap. Or go big with a sport coat painted in checks. “They’re cool because you can take something historical and give it your own spin,” says designer Kean Etro. “I’ll wear my checked suits with flip-flops.” A high level of difficulty, no doubt, and most definitely a thing.

Where to buy it? Go to GQ.com/go/fashiondirectories P R O P S T Y L I S T ( 1 & 3 – 8 ) : S H A R O N R YA N AT H A L L E Y R E S O U R C E S . P R O P S T Y L I S T ( 2 , 9 & 1 0) : D O N N A C A S T R O AT M A R K E DWA R D I N C .

Checks, Please! There’s one thing that every designer with a retro streak agrees on right now: Checks belong everywhere, from your hat to your chukka-sneaker hybrid 9 5

6 8

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GQ.COM

SEPTEMBER

2014

PHOTOGRAPHS

DAVID

RINELLA

Candy Coated

Wait, a jacket… over another jacket? Exactly. Denim keeps the cold away while an eye-catching mackintosh keeps the rain at bay. And you’re only scratching the surface of this fall’s layering game.

GROOMING: JESSICA ORTIZ USING MAC COSMETICS

Special Section

Photographs by Tom Schirmacher

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The (Not So) Put-Together Man > Learn the New Rules of Layering Sure, you can get dressed by the old code again this season. But a lot of men are rethinking the way they layer up, from wearing two jackets at once (sounds wacky, looks awesome) to turning whole outfits inside out (we’ll explain). These are the five new style moves to add to your repertoire now

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Watch cap

Suit

Special Section

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Fall Layering

2. The Perfect Fall TwoPiece Isn’t a Suit A knit hat and wide-striped crewneck are your survivethe-commute secret weapons

• You know that factoid about how you lose half your body heat through your head? It’s a total lie, but who cares? A knit watch cap just looks rad— especially in Jacques Cousteau red. Neff $24

• The genius of a ﬂannel suit: It has your fall jacket already built in. Don’t be afraid to turn up the collar if the wind picks up. Haspel $895

Dress shirt Crewneck sweater

• A chunky, thickstriped sweater looks the business under a loosened-up business suit. Take it o≠ if the o∞ce is toasty. Levi’s Vintage Clothing $240

• An untucked shirt puts a suit at ease. But it only works with the sweater keeping things under control. Michael Bastian $325

Pocket square

We’re gonna miss summer’s beach parties and bikini watching, but man, is it easier to dress well when we’re not sweating through a T-shirt. In fall, a guy can wear more, go bigger, and—this year—get a little looser, too. See, right now it’s all about leaving buttons undone and shirts untucked. It’s about trading coats for hefty cardigans. (Really hefty. Like, thick-enough-tostop-a-bullet hefty.) It’s about wearing your favorite thing over your secondand third-favorite things, then acting as if it was all by accident. So how do you know if you’re wearing enough layers? Easy. If you’re warm enough to walk a few blocks, you’re golden. If not, keep on piling on. You make sure you don’t freeze to death, and we’ll make sure you look good. —M A R K AN T HONY GREEN

• Just because it’s forty degrees outside doesn’t mean you can ignore taking care of the details. RTH (bandanna) $25

Bag by Louis Vuitton

1. Invest in This Season’s Most Valuable Layer A dark suit vest adds a little bit of tailoring to your off-duty look

Vest

• Button every button except the top and bottom ones. Denim & Supply Ralph Lauren $125

Henley shirt

• Know how women go nuts for Ryan Gosling? A Henley is, like, 78 percent of the reason why. ATM Anthony Thomas Melillo $145

Button-front

• Unbuttoned and over the vest, as if you ran out the door and didn’t think twice. Opening page, orange jacket, $325, by Gant Rugger. Denim jacket, $775, by Dolce & Gabbana. Shirt, $380, by Bottega Veneta. Tie, $80, by J.Crew. Tie bar, $15, by The Tie Bar. Where to buy it? Go to GQ.com/go /fashiondirectories Denim & Supply Ralph Lauren $70

CPO Jacket

• Meet the shacket, the workwear-esque hybrid that’s far cooler than a Prius. Denim & Supply Ralph Lauren $198

Jeans, $239, by Closed. Boots, $120, by Clarks.

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Special Section

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Fall Layering

4. Get Dressed in the Wrong Order 2014 is all about putting the short layer on last

Down vest

• Yep, over the suit. It’ll get you through anything short of a storm with a name. Brunello Cucinelli $2,895

Tweed suit

• O.G. suit fabric plus slim cut equals a very 2014 CEO. Boss $895

Sneakers

• One summer staple that stays for fall: clean, simple sneaks. Adidas Originals $65

T-s hirt, $100 , by T by Alexander Wang. Watch by Montblanc.

5. Lazy Sunday? Sure. Sloppy? Never. This is how to kill it on a coffee run

3. “Cardigan” Is Now Spelled C-O-A-T Why have cardigans been bulking up like Dwayne Johnson all season? So they can be your outermost, always-on layer

Peacoat

• Its crisp military lines elevate your hangover look. Alexander Wang $1,095

Cardigan

• Nothing cozier than a chunky sweater. But remember: Chunky doesn’t mean baggy. It should ﬁt snug on the shoulders and chest. Polo Ralph Lauren $595

Vest, $375, by Polo Ralph Lauren. Watch by Omega. Sunglasses by Garrett Leight. Belt by Billykirk. Where to buy it? Go to GQ.com/go /fashiondirectories

Hoodie

• Best part? The built-in hat. T by Alexander Wang $495

Shirt + Tie

• Want to know a trick? Wear a shirt and tie under your sweater and watch it instantly transform into a blazer. Thom Browne New York $240 (shirt) | The Tie Bar $15 (tie)

Sweatpants

• Soft like a cloud, but slim like denim. Dsquared2 $585

Jeans

• They should be like a retired boxer: a bit roughed up, but still in trim ﬁghting shape. Simon Miller $345 126 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

T-s hirt, $100 , by Armor Lux. Sneakers, $435, by Common Projects.

Bite This Style > The Many Moods (and Fearless Moves) of David Bowie As a blockbuster career retrospective landing in Chicago this month proves, David Bowie’s mastery of a million personas included more than just interstellar geishas. He had at least as many stealable looks with just the right amount of stardust 1963 P R O P S T Y L I S T: D O N N A C A S T R O AT M A R K E DWA R D I N C . 1 9 6 3 : C O U R T E S Y O F R OY A I N S W O R T H / T H E DAV I D B O W I E A R C H I V E 2 0 1 2 . 1 9 6 5 : TO P F OTO/ T H E I M AG E W O R K S . 1 9 7 2 : M I C K R O C K . 1 9 7 3 : C O U R T E S Y O F M A S AYO S H I S U K I TA / T H E DAV I D B O W I E A R C H I V E 2 0 1 2 . 1 9 74 : G I J S B E R T H A N E K R O OT/ R E D F E R N S /G E T T Y I M AG E S . 1 9 7 7, F R O M L E F T: B A R R Y S C H U LT Z / S U N S H I N E / R E T N A LT D . ; C H R I S T I A N S I M O N P I E T R I / S YG M A /C O R B I S . 1 9 8 2 : J E A N - C L AU D E D E U T S C H / PA R I S M ATC H V I A G E T T Y I M AG E S . 1 9 8 7 : LO R N E R E S N I C K / R E D F E R N S /G E T T Y I M AG E S . 1 9 97 : K M A Z U R / W I R E I M AG E /G E T T Y I M AG E S .

Start Off Simple • The first thing you learn at the new show at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago? Early Bowie may not have been flashy, but he could turn mod staples like an overcoat and a pair of Chelsea boots into effortless cool. Tommy Hilfiger (boots) $329 | tommy.com

1965 THE SAXY SCHOOLBOY

THE TRIPPY NUTCRACKER

1972

1973

1974 THE COSMIC PIRATE

1977

Pick Your Moment • Can the average man pull off stackedheel shoes, highwater jeans, and electric-shock hair? Hell no. But you just need one rockin’ piece, like this shearling jacket, to steal the spotlight. Gucci $6,500 gucci.com

1982

THE GLAM MECHANIC

1987

Are You Sensing a Pattern? • Bowie knew when to take things down a notch. With the help of a quiet blazer and a simple scarf, you can—and should—wear a bold-print shirt. THE ‘MATRIX’ EXTRA

Maison Martin Margiela $410 | MrPorter.com

1997 Ziggy Cleans Up • Even when Bowie left the crazy in the closet, he still nailed the details. To get this vacay-in-Nice side part, use a quality comb and a dab of firm pomade. — E R I C S U L L I VA N Fellow Barber (pomade) $22 | fellowbarber.com Chicago Comb Co. (comb) $39 | chicagocomb.com STILL LIFES BY DAVID RINELLA

The Rebel’s Guide to Making a Splash • One big Bowie takeaway: Don’t fear color. A suit jacket in go-to-hell red (with just the right amount of shine) looks sharp anchored by a goes-with-anything blue chambray shirt. Dolce & Gabbana (jacket) $3,145 | dolcegabbana.com Levi’s Vintage Clothing (shirt) $198 | levi.com

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The Style Guy

Glenn O’Brien Solves Your Sartorial Conundrums

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appropriate only for farmers growing organic wasabi, wild-fennel pollen, and the like.

No Man Is Nantucket On Nantucket, that eponymous shade of faded brick red is everywhere. But when I see it worn o≠ the island, it seems kind of ridiculous. Is Nantucket red the only truly islandexclusive color? I have never been to Nantucket, so I don’t know what New England islanders really wear. I do know that “Nantucket reds” and those pants with whales on them are worn to indicate that you are a preppy, but like any uniform, it’s really a conformist thing. Now, whitewhale pants, I could get behind. Do you like my Moby-Dick pants? Do you want to see Moby?

Get Some Shorties What are the semiotics of the di≠erent bow-tie shapes? Diamond versus rectangle versus regular? Can they be worn interchangeably, or are they intended for speciﬁc types of events? Big butterﬂy bow ties, like those worn by David Hockney or Henry Geldzahler, are for big personalities and big faces. I like the fat-knot rectangular style with a tux, but sometimes I go for an old-school skinny bow, because I like the black-tie look Hef and Cy Coleman sported on Playboy’s Penthouse in 1959. Diamond or rectangular doesn’t matter, although the diamond style, with pointed ends, does have a bit more asymmetrical verve. GQ.COM 133

Vape ’Em If You Got ’Em A Hem I was at the beach all summer, feeling pretty nostalgic for the reign of the knee-length board shorts. Lots of pale dude thighs out there these days. Can I wear longer shorts to my Labor Day pool party, or will they look dated next to the more European cut? Surfer dudes and wannabes shouldn’t feel compelled to wear a James Bond/ Cary Grant–type shorter suit. Hang loose. Some guys wear their hair long, some wear it short. Vive la di≠érence! ILLUSTRATION BY

I’m trying to quit smoking, and e-cigarettes seem to help. Is it okay to sneak puffs in the office? I say vape in place. Why stand in front of the office building in the snow to get your fix? Vape that cubicle! If it were up to me, we’d still have smoking sections in restaurants, or at least vaping sections. When I see someone with a small flashlight in his mouth, I say go for it. Vape in the car, vape on the plane, vape at your desk. Vape anywhere you want—I can’t smell it. Anti-vape forces are killjoys, pure and simple. Who’s Counting? How many suits, minimum, should a stylish guy own? You’ve got to have enough suits to suit the climate. Some for the cool, some for the hot. You need a suit you can wear to a wedding or a funeral and a suit you can wear JEAN-PHILIPPE

when you’re in a lawsuit. Beyond that, it’s all about your life, your work, and your degree of need for ﬂyness and self-expression.

Agway Couture First I started seeing superfashionable girls wearing overalls. DELHOMME

Fine. Then, the other day, I saw a man in them. This wasn’t some hillbilly. They looked expensive. Overalls. Tell me this isn’t happening. I have a pair of overalls, but I’m a gardener and I only wear them in the garden. Generally overalls should be

worn by workers, blacksmiths, farmers, gardeners, and girls in bikini bras. I’ve seen men’s designer overalls from Junya Watanabe, and I assume they cost more than Carhartts (and they’re a lot slimmer), but I think even these are SEPTEMBER

2014

The Style Guy UNSOLICITED ADVICE FROM GLENN O’BRIEN

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Winning Ugly This magazine seems to hammer home that pro sports players are now more stylish than ever. I’ll grant that for basketball stars, and maybe select football players, but is there a single other sport where good style is the norm? Why is basketball so chic? Well, there’s croquet. And sailing, and amateur golf at clubs you’ll never get to play. Away from the action, the best dressers are probably Formula One drivers. I think that pro athletes dress much better today because they are ﬁlthy rich and their agents got them stylists. The NBA’s average salary is $4.5 million. MLB’s average is $3.4 million, the NHL’s $2.7 million, and the NFL’s about $2 million. Meaning that basketball players have an average of $1.8 million a year more to spend on clothes, cars, and girls. Also, basketball is cool. Also, there are no guys in the NBA who look like Richie Incognito

Where to Get Your Kicks

or Paul McQuistan. Why do you think NFL players get penalized for taking their helmets o≠ ? As for baseball players, guys who chew tobacco and/or dig Trace Adkins generally have no sense of chic.

Kicks for Route 66 I am looking for a pair of shoes I would use for driving, but I’ve only come across the loafer-like so-called driving shoes, which are really not my style, or racing shoes from Puma (and others), which all look ugly. I’m driving 3,000 miles a month, and it eats up the soles and the backs of my shoes. Could you suggest a few models with a casual/businesscasual look? I’ve found none. SEPTEMBER 2014

Keds $45 | keds.com 138 GQ.COM

I’ve never understood why we need driving shoes. Yes, “racing shoes” are o≠ered by Ferrari, BMW, and Mercedes, but we all know these are really to advertise that you’re a dick even when you’re not in your car. I know that the Tod’s moccasintype driving shoes are much safer for driving than flip-flops, cowboy boots, or clunky brogues, but regular shoes work for me. Someone sent me a nice red suede pair of Tod’s, but mostly I wear them around the house. Those little rubber nubs do make these moccasins surer on the stairs after cocktails, and they probably give better pedal traction than regular mocs, but I find them annoying when I’m trying to

step on an ant. If you want to save your shoes, drive an automatic, dude.

Declined! I recently came across a Coach iPhone case with credit card slots on the back. This would seem to eliminate the need for a card case, and I’d like to consolidate my daily burden. But is it tacky to have credit cards showing from the back of your phone? Yeah, that’s way too much info to be ﬂashing. Who wants to see your platinum card when you’re already annoying them by texting and talking too loud? The Style Guy welcomes your questions. E-mail him at styleguy@gq.com. Plus: Find Glenn O’Brien on Twitter at @lordrochester.

S T I L L L I F E : DAV I D R I N E L L A . P R O P S T Y L I S T: D O N N A C A S T R O AT M A R K E DWA R D I N C . TO P : VA N N I B A S S E T T I /G E T T Y I M AG E S .

I don’t want Air Jordans. It ain’t the shoes. Air Yeezy? Please! No running shoes inﬂuenced by Transformers or Alien vs. Predator. No megabuck limited-edition velvet or alligator kicks. I want cheap, cool, casual, unpretentious Everyman sneakers. I want casual, unpretentious sneakers that the Ramones would wear. Or Roy Scheider in All That Jazz. The best shoelike kicks are classic Keds, the kind I wore when I was 8. Tennies. They look even hipper now, totally above the fray, unlimited in edition. I’ve got white, brilliant green, and bright red. I paid little more than $100 for the lot (shipping included)! So cheap they’re practically disposable, and they look better with a suit than whatever designer hype you’ve got.

• Men’s fashion has graduated from boarding school to ninja academy.

Pre-Post-Prep? The past few years have been easy for me, style-wise. Everyone was dressing like a preppy! Khakis and oxfords were cool! Now I feel like the tide’s turning. Everything’s drapier and darker. There’s more denim. How much longer have I got before my natural preppy style is phased out completely (again)? Why change? Stay the same and you go from being cool to being suspicious and controversial to being avant-garde to being fashionable, and to being cool. But that’s in their heads. You’ve got to hold out for what you like.

The Panel of Hotness What Women Want You to Smell Like Roughly 99.9 percent of the reason you use cologne is to impress the sexier sex, so why rely on your nose alone? We asked three smart (and funny!) women to smell six new colognes and separate the good from the “douchey dad” LACOSTE L!VE

The Panel The Wisecracker All-American-blonde looks paired with viciously funny jokes make comedian Nikki Glaser the woman you can count on to tell you the truth—especially if it hurts. The Runway Regular “A scent on a man changes whether or not a woman wants to be approached,” says Aussie model Shanina Shaik, who bares (almost) all for Victoria’s Secret. The Tastemaker London-based Tank mag is the arbiter of cool for young Britannia. Fashion director Caroline Issa, with impeccable taste, is the reason why. P H A R R E LL W I LL I A M S G I R L BY COMME DES GARÇONS

what we think: Lime with a bit of woodsy smoke. Sounds like a great gin drink, actually. what women think: Lacoste was a ladykiller. “I’d follow a man wearing this,” said Issa. Shaik saw “a guy in a Hugo Boss suit,” and Glaser said, “It smells like a guy who trims his ball hair.” (Hint: That’s a good thing.) $69 | 3.3 oz. | lacoste.com

M A S C U L I N P LU R I E L BY MAISON FRANCIS KURKDJIAN

what we think: Don’t worry—this ﬂoral, cedary smell is for boys, too. (We swear.) what women think: This one scored a 1 out of 3. It reminded Glaser of “the lobby bathroom in an expensive hotel.” Issa, however, found it “light and insubstantial.” Shaik was more to the point: “No bueno.” $135 | 3.3 oz. | doverstreetmarket.com

what we think: We can’t pronounce it, but we know a spicy, manly scent when we smell it. what women think: “This is for a douchey dad,” said Glaser. The other two gals were all for going Continental. It reminded Shaik of “summer on a rooftop,” while Issa pictured “a Frenchman who takes care of himself.” $185 | 2.4 oz. | neimanmarcus.com

M I C H A E L KO R S F O R M E N

LU N A R O S S A E X T R E M E BY P R A DA

I N V I C T U S B Y PA C O R A B A N N E

what we think: If you look up “cologne” in the dictionary, it sprays you with Kors’s newest men’s scent, a bergamot-and-musk blend. what women think: Issa caught a sweet undertone she dubbed a “subtle Popsicle scent,” while Shaik whi≠ed manliness, saying, “It’s like an aftershave on a guy from the 1960s.” And Glaser? “It smells like an expensive baby.” $78 | 4 oz. | michaelkors.com 140 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

what we think: A classic sweet-spicy mix with a few twists: bergamot (as in Earl Grey tea), juniper (as in gin), leather (as in leather). what women think: “Smells like a tropical air freshener,” said Glaser. Issa dug its dirtier qualities—“Like a guy who rolled around in the earth”—and Shaik got a whi≠ of Florida, saying, “It’s like a sexy man on Miami Beach.” $86 | 3.4 oz. | macys.com

what we think: A patchouli-and-grapefruit blend sounds like Stevie Nicks’s lunch. Here, it makes for a sporty, lightweight scent. what women think: The sweetness got to Issa, who said, “It smells like cotton candy and little girls.” Glaser found it homey, saying, “It smells like fresh sheets,” and Shaik found her number one: “Deﬁnitely my favorite.” $82 | 3.4 oz. | macys.com BY LAUREN TAMAKI

ILLUSTRATIONS

Awkwardness

Don’t alter your plans. News ﬂash: Just because your friend doesn’t drink doesn’t mean you have to look for a bingo game in a church basement. Sober people go to bars! Parties! Ball games! Concerts! Have you seen the mocktails at restaurants these days? The other night at dinner, a friend got a Greyhound Soda, which involved grapefruit juice with some kind of pineapple syrup and juniper, and it was the most delicious thing on earth. Far more interesting than my American IPA, or whatever fermented swill I was drinking. Expect fun. Some teetotalers will always

be buzzkilling sti≠s, of course. But most of the nondrinkers I know don’t need spirits to loosen up, and if I can’t have fun with them, it’s more likely my hang-up than theirs. Years ago, I went on a date with a woman who didn’t drink. Once I got past the disappointment— nope, no sex tonight—I learned that a whole colony of mischievous traits lurked just beneath her surface and all it took was good conversation to unearth them. Freakiest, most spontaneous girl I ever dated. Still didn’t sleep with me, though. Treat him the same. Ask what he’s

drinking. Don’t make a face. Then buy him that seltzer and “cheers” the shit out of it. Don’t feel self-conscious about your drunkenness. You don’t need to change

The Drinker’s Guide to Hanging Out with Sober People For whatever reason, your buddy is taking a time-out from the sauce— but you’re the one who feels weird about it. You’re wondering: How much fun could the dry guy be? Will he enjoy being around a bunch of lushes? And am I allowed to get drunk? Jeff Ruby feels your pain 142 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

Your old college buddy came to town recently, a hilarious raging maniac you best remember for drinking jungle juice out of a dog bowl. And when you ﬁnd out he doesn’t drink anymore, you’re confused and curious, because: What the hell happened? Worse than that, you aren’t sure you want to see him, because your entire social life still revolves around alcohol. You hang out in bars. You grab drinks. What in the world will you do together? Go to the zoo? I’m a food writer, and I tend to drink a bit too often. But I know how to behave around nondrinkers, and I owe it all to my old friend Drue, a roommate in grad school. Drue was a chef and a bouncer, which means he spent his days and nights with the two lushiest subcultures on earth. But he did not drink. No, he wasn’t a Mormon or some kind of straight-edge ascetic. Just a quirky, decent man who’d made a decision about alcohol a long time ago and stuck with it. How or why remains a mystery. Drue and I managed to coexist— the Carville and Matalin of northeast Kansas—and our years together taught me a handful of lessons that have served me well in adulthood. Especially when I ﬁnd myself drinking for two.

your ways just because he did. And the thing is, if he’s not into what’s happening, it’s his call to leave. Unless you’re Keith Richards, you only get so many fun nights in this life—but you still have permission to enjoy yourself. If you want to drink until you pass out on a Foosball table, drink until you pass out on a Foosball table. After each drink, look at your sober friend.

If he’s starting to look less like a friend and more like a babysitter, it’s time to go home. When you wake with your throbbing nuclear headache the next morning, think of him. Did he have as much fun as you? Maybe. But who’s going to have a better time today? And never, ever ask why. Some people just don’t drink. Once you start in with the inquisition (“Are you pregnant?” “Taking antibiotics?” “Doing some kind of weird cleanse?”), you have already created a gap. Besides, the answer will inevitably disappoint or scare the hell out of you. Captain Sobriety’s reasons are not your concern. Let it go. That is, unless you want to start explaining why you drink.

jeff ruby is a Chicago-based writer.

EVERETT COLLECTION

Home Improvement

Your Momma’s Silverware Doesn’t Cut It Anymore Paper-towel “napkins”? Chipped dishes you inherited during college? Here’s how to upgrade your dinner-table situation from greasy spoon to four-star experience

1 Mix, Don’t Match • We checked, and there is no law that plates be white or glassware clear. Cobalt blue cups, acacia-wood salad bowls, and slate gray porcelain dishes? Now, that’s a manly-ass table. Mazama tumbler $32 | shopmazama.com Fog Linen bowl $18 | alderandcoshop.com Hasami plate $60 | umamimart.com

When you’re shoveling pad thai into your mouth while watching SportsCenter, you’re not worried about the state of your dinnerware. Then friends arrive—or worse, your date—and you see the situation through their eyes: janky plates, mismatched glasses, and forks that don’t look clean, even if they are. (They are, right?) But there’s no reason you can’t turn your dinner table into the most droolworthy part of your place. The secret: Skip Ikea and scope out design-centric stores—like Totokaelo in Seattle, the Umami Mart pop-up in San Francisco, Design Within Reach—and think outside the box set.—J O N WI LD E

2 No Brawny at Brunch • A lap-worthy napkin not only says “I am a functioning adult”; it’s a chance to exercise your style muscles beyond the closet. Related: Bandannas work nicely for dabbing up sauce. Kapital bandanna $35 | hickorees.com

3 Flat’s Where It’s At • A straight-blade knife will cut your grassfed New York strip steak more smoothly than a serrated blade, while Almoco’s matte (instead of mirrored) silverware is just enough of a twist to get respectful nods from dinner guests.

Almoco flatware $32 (set) | dwr.com Orchard steel knife $275 | orchardsteel.com

4 2 Take Some Ideas to Go • Your go-to restaurant has good food, but it’s the effortlessly chill details—like how a decanter doubles as a serve-yourself water bottle—that make you wish you could move in. So steal them. Metaphorically. Because a cooler dinner table isn’t worth jail time. Riedel decanter $59 | riedelusa.com

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P R O P S T Y L I S T: A N G H A R A D B A I L E Y

The Ninth in a Series

The 12-Month Body Tune-up

Following the fickle rules of sports nutrition can give a guy whiplash. One day you’re supposed to stop eating steak, and the next you’re supposed to eat nothing but steak. Still, a few things now seem clear: Fat isn’t all bad, protein bars aren’t all good, and eating a carb won’t instantly turn you into John Candy, may God rest his soul. So stop depriving yourself of everything that tastes delicious and start eating like the modern jock you are. pre - workout Eat the Rich

Just as you wouldn’t enter a Formula One race with an empty tank, you shouldn’t enter the gym without fueling your body. And contrary to the low-fat hypochondria of the 1990s, we now know that naturally occurring fats found in protein-rich whole foods (like eggs and avocados) are good for us—they stabilize our blood sugar and keep us full. Even saturated fat is okay. Trans fats, the artificial fats the FDA wants to eliminate—sadly, the ones in Häagen-Dazs—are the real enemy. When it comes to carbs, you want to swap highly processed carbohydrates (think: Wonder Bread) for complex carbohydrates (brown rice, sweet potatoes) that give you slow-release energy instead of the crash-and-burn kind. We fully cosign on whole-wheat breakfast burritos and brown-rice stir-fry lunches, but your body needs a few hours to digest all that before you start whaling on your pecs. Let that be a lesson to the after-work-exercise crowd. > What you don’t want: store-bought fruit juice at breakfast. It’s processed all to hell. In fact, Tropicana is currently being sued for falsely advertising its “100% pure and natural” OJ, which, the suit claims, is “pasteurized, deaerated, stripped of its flavor and aroma, stored for long periods of time before it ever reaches consumers,” and on and on. Just eat an orange for the fiber and drink a glass of water. during

Dump the Gatorade and Toast Your Workout with a Beer And while you’re at it, would you like some guacamole? New science shows that all the foods we try to avoid—fats and carbs and even brewskis—are exactly the workout fuel we need to get the most out of a sweat-slinging, pec-blasting gym session > What you don’t want: sports drinks. The worst part about those sweet antifreeze-colored Whatever-ades ﬁlled with artiﬁcial additives? They don’t even hydrate properly. “From a physiological standpoint, they’re too high in carbs to hydrate,” says Stanford exercise physiologist Stacy Sims. “They actually pull water out of the blood and into the intestines, which is the opposite of what you want.” after

Happily and sort of unbelievably, nutritionists have come to think of chocolate milk as a perfect post-workout elixir, packed with protein and carbs to rebuild the body you just tore down. After a hard run or heavy lift, the sugar helps replenish your depleted glycogen stores, speed up muscle recovery, and regain your energy levels. No wonder we always felt so refreshed after recess. > What you don’t want: protein bars. They’re not all bad, but most mainstream bars have replaced high-quality whey proteins with cheaper, artiﬁcially extracted soy-protein isolate. “You’re better off eating real food,” Sims says. Or, hell, have a beer. While light on protein, a dinnertime brew provides antioxidants that aid in workout recovery. Yes, the distance between a six-pack and six-pack abs might be closer than you ever dreamed possible.— B I LL B R AD LE Y ILLUSTRATION BY RAMI NIEMI

Drink Like a Little Boy (or a Frat Boy) Go Coco-nuts

Sweat makes you lose electrolytes such as potassium, which helps maintain your body’s sodium/water balance and keep you from cramping. Try coconut water: It has more potassium than a banana at less than half the calories. Tastes good, too. 150 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

Eventually, you’re gonna shower up and go have a nice balanced meal with lean protein and vegetables. In the meantime, you need nutrients now. “After your workout, your body is like an empty furnace,” says Virginia dietitian and gym owner Jim White. “It’s depleted and needs fuel from carbs to ignite it.”

3 4 1) CO U RT E S Y O F G O L D E N G O O S E D E LU X E B R A N D. 2) DAV E L AU R I DS E N . 3 ) M A R K H O R N /G A L L E RY S TO C K . 4) CO U RT E S Y O F G U CC I .

Special Section > Destinations

By Will Welch

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The Capital of Fashion Is Finally the Capital of Shopping Milan has gone from a gritty industrial hub where the fashion world does its day job to the city with the most cutting-edge men’s shopping scene in the world, with global flagships, indie boutiques, and a new breed of high-fashion superstores. (Also: crazy-good wine and risotto.) A few nights in Europe’s Most Improved Town won’t just revitalize your wardrobe—it’ll change the way you think about style 1 Vans? Bape? Nope, it’s the coolest sneaker brand in Italy, Golden Goose. 3 By “steal from him,” we mean you should imitate his look, not jack his bike. 152 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

2 Instead of marauding map-wielding tourists, it’s stylish locals on Vespas. 4 When your closet looks like Gucci’s men’s-only flagship, stop shopping.

“cloud-covered,” “ugly.” Skip Milan, the rap has always gone. It doesn’t have the heart-pumping romance of Tuscany or the gazing-acrossthe-ages ancientness of Rome. It’s always just been a place where globe-trotting fashionistas go to handle the humdrum 4

1 Sorry, we didn’t get her name or number. 2 Ceresio 7 is a poolside restaurant atop the Dsquared2 headquarters. business of making, marketing, and selling clothes— before jetting off to Portofino, or at least Paris. But that rap is not exactly accurate anymore. Who knows how it happened? Maybe it has something to do with the coming of Expo (a modern-day world’s fair) in 2015, or the Salone del Mobile (an epic furniture-anddesign fair), or the simple accrual of lots and lots of what you might call consumerfacing retail. You know: shopping. I’m talking seven-floor style temples (Excelsior), curated boutiques (Vintage 55), and flagships of global fashion brands

3 Do clerks at your mall dress like this? At Brian & Barry. 4 Bespoke suiting at the spanking-new Dolce & Gabbana Sartoria. 5 Vintage 55: exactly halfway between Cali and Japan. (Armani, Prada, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana). In fact, Milan’s rep as a place to skip may be the secret ingredient to its newfound allure. Rather than hordes of gelato-licking tourists in sensible sneakers, in Milan right now you’ll find sexed-up couples wandering luxury superstores like Brian & Barry; lanky and olive-skinned twentysomethings who dress like Euro Vampire Weekend, studying the chinos 5

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1) JULIEN CAPMEIL. 2) COURTESY OF RUY TEIXEIRA. 3 & 5) ANDREW GOBLE. 4) COURTESY OF DOLCE & GABBANA.

“If you see an open door, look inside,” says fashion designer Neil Barrett between sips of an Aperol spritz. The English-born, Italianbased Barrett looks bionic in jeans and a black flight jacket, sitting in a courtyard café attached to the motorcycle store Deus ex Machina. He’s generously twisting the fact that I couldn’t find the door here into a kind of lesson about the new Milan. I’d walked past this place several times until I finally tried the entrance of a nondescript apartment building and fell down a rabbit hole of stylishness: long-legged Italian women holding aperitifs and ignoring plates of salumi in the vine-walled piazza. It made me wonder what other Courtyards of Awesomeness I’d missed in this city. “Milan used to be all about who you know,” Barrett continues. “A very discreet city. But now it’s all opening up.” “Discreet” is the nicest way I’ve heard Milan described. “Industrial” is more likely. Or even “soot-soaked,”

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Dining alla Milanese Shop New-School, Eat Old-School The shopping in Milan might be cuttingedge, but the best food in town is the opposite. Here, you want to eat old and comfortable. It’s not about innovative cuisine, it’s about a bottle of Gavi di Gavi wine and veal milanese. Part of Milan’s charm is discovering jewels that have been doing it right for generations. On our most recent trip there for the men’s fashion shows, the GQ team discovered Antica Trattoria Monluè, hidden on a quiet road on the edge of town. Others not to miss: lunch at Torre di Pisa, where you’ll see gray-haired businessmen (and sometimes Tom Ford) eating insanely great spaghetti carbonara. For dinner, treat yourself to Da Giacomo. Oh, and if you want a glass or two and bar snacks, hit Cantine Isola, a wine bar that’s been around a century. It’s a place, like so many others here, that endures. — M I C H A E L H A I N E Y

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double-breasted emerald green blazer. Generally I’m not a double-breasted kind of guy. But being here made me wonder why I wasn’t more of a sartorial baller. Up on Corso Como, there’s an awesome, mostly vintage store called Eral 55 that could pass for Steve McQueen’s walk-in closet. That’s where I spotted the 5

Flirty Old Town

Yes, Milan Is a Club Town, But You Have to Google the Underground Milan is known as a club city, thanks to places with names like Glitter and Divina (think: fashionistas and footballers) and Tunnel (serious electronic-musicheads). But if you go out not to see and be seen but to dance, drink, and feel alive, try two weekly events, announced on Facebook: Punks Wear Prada and Roll Over Beethoven. When I was in Milan, the latter was at a closed-down restaurant. A jazz combo played inside, DJs took turns in the courtyard, and the crowd was so stylishly turned out it made New York look kinda frumpy. — W .W .

green DB. I never would’ve noticed it in N.Y.C., but here, in this city full of gents in splendiferous suits, I needed that jacket. The only problem was that they didn’t have my size. So after trying a million ways to make it work, I left empty-handed. When I got home a couple of days later, still thinking about that blazer, I called up my usual tailor and together we rebuilt the jacket from scratch. And that’s become the ballerest thing I picked up in Italy. Sure, I bought it at home, but the stones required to wear such a thing—that was 100 percent Milan.

1 The fortress-like Palazzo Armani in the Golden Triangle (shopping, hotel, and bookstore included). 2 Founded in 1991, 10 Corso Como is Milan’s original high-fashion department store. 3 Head-to-foot fetishes at Antonia. 4 Stay up late and dance your face off at Punks Wear Prada. 156 GQ.COM

5+6 For a look at the past and future of Milanese tailoring, head to Sartoria Campagna. Dad Gianni is a legendary suitmaker. Son Andrea, one of the only young guys of his generation to learn the trade, is carrying the family name forward. Each jacket is handmade by a single tailor on-site at the palazzo. 2014

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at Massimo Alba; slick businessmen fondling calfskin satchels at Prada. In other words, you will find insanely Italian-looking Italian people doing that most Italian of things (besides lunching for three hours): shopping for beautiful Italian-made stuff. But I’m still not going to call the four nights I spent in Milan recently a shopping trip. I’d rather say it was an education. Style School. It’s true that mostly what I did there was shop, crisscrossing the

city from the Rodeo Drive–like Golden Triangle ( Dolce & Gabbana basically has a city block) to the café-lined Brera (lots of design shops) to the grungy canalside neighborhood Navigli (meet all your fashion-goth needs at Antonioli). I got a verbal smackdown for taking iPhone photos of Visvim moccasins at Antonia, watched a video about horsebit loafers on the iPad of an Anna Kendrick look-alike employee at Gucci, and learned everything there is to know about

oud-based fragrances from a lab-coated woman named Mariella at 10 Corso Como. When I began to feel poor or my stomach growled, I stopped for pappardelle al telefono (when you lift a bite, strings of cheese trail down like telephone wires) and lots of espresso. But none of this was shopping. Instead, I was absorbing street-style lessons like: 248 Easy Ways to Wear a Blue Suit and How to Have Playboy Hair That’s Still BusinessAppropriate. The streets of Milan are full of men making risky style decisions without a selfconscious bone or a shit to give. And that’s how I eventually wound up trying on a too small

David Chang’s Kitchen

The multicourse tasting menu is the Serious Foodie’s favorite way to eat, but far too many are too rich, too long, and just too freakin’ much. Mercifully, that’s changing. Chef Chang celebrates the new wave of tasting menus that feel like pleasure—not punishment—all the way through that final dessert

P H OTO G R A P H : B E R N A R D A / D E M OT I X /C O R B I S . I L L U S T R AT I O N S , F R O M TO P : DA N I E L N YA R I ; M I C H A E L H O E W E L E R .

Tasting menus are chefs’ novels, their Big Ideas, their statements of purpose and intent. Sure, I need to eat them to keep current for my job, but I also find that when done right, a tasting menu—a parade of small courses chosen by the chef, not you—is the ideal way to dine. Successful tasting menus are a high-wire act performed under enormous pressure, and they’ve provided some of the best meals of my life. And some of the worst. There are a few old-guard tasting-menu places that I tend to avoid because I’ve been so overfed that I’ve vomited in the bathroom or outside when I took a break for some fresh air. I may be the only person in the world to throw up on purpose so I can eat and drink more. Mainly just to be polite! Call it the pride (and stupidity) of the chef, a professional obligation to be as gluttonous as the situation demands. Fortunately, this happens much less often these days. That’s because there are so many amazing young cooks out there creating tasting menus that are as enjoyable at the eighth course as they are at the first. These cooks

go light on starches, meats, breads, and butter. Much as I like to eat those things, they fill me up fast—a death sentence in a multi-hour meal. (And because sometimes my dining companion can’t finish and I know that the kitchen wants to see empty plates, I often wind up eating for two.) The new and improved tasting-menu dinner takes two hours, not four. I’m seeing lots of nine- or tencourse menus, not fifteen. And that’s the money: a two-hour meal that’s heavily edited so there are no superfluous dishes. The best modern tasting menus pay homage to kaiseki, a “chef’s choice” tradition of Japanese dining. Almost all of the tasting-menu

spots in America that interest me have a Japanese aesthetic. Not necessarily in taste, but in construct and sensibility: some raw fish, some very seasonal vegetables to keep things fresh. No surprise, lots of these places are in the Bay Area: Saison, Benu, and Coi in San Francisco, Commis in Oakland, Meadowood in Napa. But even at

some restaurants you might think would be heavier—Del Posto in New York, Oxheart in Houston—the kitchen turns out tasting menus that feel more like kaiseki than those meat-heavy ordeals that can make you shudder, not salivate. When I’m eating a tasting menu at a restaurant that’s on fire, I know that the cooks are the best

cooks, cooking their best in a crucible of pressure, hammering away on a wide array of techniques. There could be five different skills or tricks that go into your threebite salad! When I sit down for one of these meals, I’m always wondering, “Have they thought of something that hasn’t been done before?” Anytime I go

to Noma—chef René Redzepi’s massively influential restaurant in Copenhagen— I always leave thinking, “René did it again! With nothing but weeds and garbage. Fuck him.” And that’s why you order a tasting menu in the first place, right? Because eating well means feeding your mind, not just your gut.

The Best Way to Dine Out in 2014? Submit to the Chef

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Designer Roy Halston, 1960

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MODEST LOOK, MAD LIFESTYLE HALSTON His signature piece would become a serious-looking black turtleneck. By day, he wore it to dress Jackie O and Liza Minnelli. By night, he wore it while garnering a rep as one of the most excessive partyers in an excessive era at the most excessive of locales: Studio 54. (And for the record: His first name was Roy, but everyone just calls him Halston.)

AMERICAN ROYAL RALPH LAUREN The first 360-degree lifestyle brand and one of the biggest fashion empires in the world, all based on one man’s closet. Each of Ralph’s personas is a romantic American archetype: He’s the boardroom kingpin, the East Coast preppy, and the Wild West rancher rolled into one. And the clothes he sells are the clothes he needs to live out that fantasy. Except that for Ralph—thanks to the sheer force of his vision, his talent, and his will—it’s not a fantasy at all.

THE WEST COAST PREPSTER SCOTT STERNBERG OF BAND OF OUTSIDERS

When he founded Band in 2004, Scott Sternberg threw 1960s prep into the dryer and emerged with his signature look: a mess of sized-down oxford shirts, skinny collegiate ties with twenty-firstcentury proportions and a prankster attitude, and a corduroy suit straight out of a Wes Anderson movie.

1967 GREAT MOMENTS IN THE HISTORY O F E X T R E M E LY STYLISH MEN An empire is born: Ralph Lauren starts selling ties.

1980 Giorgio Armani crafts all of Gere’s suits in ‘American Gigolo.’ A nation of women go nuts.

T H E S E PAG E S , L A U R E N : L E S L I E G O L D B E R G . S T E R N B E R G : K AVA G O R N A . E T R O : H E N R Y L E U T W Y L E R /C O N TO U R B Y G E T T Y I M AG E S ( 3 ) . YA M A M OTO : N I C O L A S G U E R I N /C O N TO U R B Y G E T T Y I M AG E S . J AC O B S : S T E V E N K L E I N . T I M E L I N E , F R O M L E F T: C O U R T E S Y O F P I E R R E S C H E R M A N N A N D P I E R R E V E N A N T/C O N D É N A S T A R C H I V E ; E V E R E T T C O L L E C T I O N ; J U R G E N S C H A D E B E R G /G E T T Y I M AG E S ; V I C TO R V I R G I L E /G A M M A - R A P H O/G E T T Y I M AG E S .

S U R E , T H E C LOT H E S T H E Y C R E AT E A R E I CO N I C, B U T W H AT A B O U T T H E S T U F F T H A T H E D I S L I M A N E A N D TO M F O R D A C T U A L LY W E A R ? A N D H O W D O Y O U N G GUNS LIKE RICCARDO TISCI AND M A R C JACO B S S TAC K U P AGA I N S T GO DH EADS LIKE RALPH L AUREN AN D GIORGIO ARMANI? THIS IS OUR IRONCL AD LI ST OF THE BEST- DRESSED M E N I N M E N S W E A R — A N D W H AT YO U C A N L E A R N F R O M T H E M

THE MAN, NOT THE MONOGRAM YVES SAINT LAURENT He was real, and he always dressed for the occasion: a white lab coat in the atelier, dark suits at a party, structured safari jackets for the urban jungle. And always the specs—those big plastic frames— remained front and center.

HABERDASHERY’S WILD CHILD KEAN ETRO When Kean took over the Italian sprezzatura factory from Papa Etro, he wasn’t tapped in spite of his everything-goes style but because of it. At any given moment, if Etro looks like he’s having more fun than everyone else in the room—brash suits, paisley everywhere, that long mane—it’s probably because he is.

BAD BOY MARC JACOBS Before the eight-pack abs and the megaempire, Jacobs was a brooding young gun with long hair, grungy clothes, and a grungier attitude. Throughout his transformations, the looks have changed, but the same rebel spirit remains.

HOW THE WEST WAS WON OVER YOHJI YAMAMOTO Drapey silhouettes, deconstructed garments, an air of smoke and mystery... What people call new today looks an awful lot like what Yamamoto’s been doing since he first arrived Stateside in the early ’80s.

1984 Karl Lagerfeld admires his first namesake collection.

1990 Kean Etro takes the reins, and as his 2014 runway proves, he hasn’t missed a beat.

THE MOST STYLISH DESIGNERS OF ALL TIME

THE THIN WHITE DUDE HEDI SLIMANE OF SAINT LAURENT

A MAN IN UNIFORM THOM BROWNE His shrunken gray flannel suit is “repressed 1950s American businessman” taken to cartoonish (some might say fetishistic) extremes. He started wearing it religiously, and people began to take notice. First it launched his career; eventually it changed the look of modern suiting. (No exaggeration.)

GLITZ IS GOOD GIANNI VERSACE You could concoct a name for Versace’s singular style: Gleaming aristocrat-playboy? Silken rococo cowboy? But it’s so much easier to point at the high-flying lifestyle he created and just say: that.

THE FIGUREHEAD KARL LAGERFELD OF CHANEL

You know him now for his emblematic style— that white-ponytail-and-gangster-shades silhouette has a Q rating as high as the Bat Signal. But even back when Lagerfeld took over Chanel, perma-clad in a jacket and tie that he wore like a suit of armor, he understood the power of both designing for a brand and being one.

1992 Calvin Klein hires Marky Mark’s package to front his now legendary underwear campaign.

1992 Marc Jacobs’s Perry Ellis grunge collection gets him fired; makes him more buzzworthy.

1993 Dolce & Gabbana design all the sextastic costumes for Madonna’s Girlie Show tour.

SLIMANE: NAN GOLDIN. BROWNE: CHIUN-K AI SHIH/CONTOUR BY GETT Y IMAGES. VERSACE: RICHARD YOUNG/REX USA . L AGERFELD: COURTESY OF THOMAS IANNACCONE/CONDÉ NAST ARCHIVE. T I M E L I N E , F R O M L E F T: C O U R T E S Y O F C A LV I N K L E I N ; C O U R T E S Y O F K Y L E E R I C K S E N /C O N D É N A S T A R C H I V E ; S T E V E E I C H N E R / W I R E I M AG E /G E T T Y I M AG E S .

As both a designer and a photographer, Hedi Slimane has always been drawn to the street urchin, the gutter punk, the whippet-thin rock star. Those looks describe his personal style, too: drainpipe jeans, a secondskin leather jacket, and a tie that (like Slimane) seems to have been on a crash diet. He’s easily mistaken for one of his subjects— and that’s just how he likes it.

THE MOST STYLISH DESIGNERS OF ALL TIME A R M A N I : © 2 0 1 4 T H E A N DY WA R H O L F O U N DAT I O N F O R T H E V I S UA L A R T S , I N C . /A R T I S T S R I G H T S S O C I E T Y (A R S ) , N E W YO R K . K L E I N : R O N G A L E L L A / W I R E I M AG E /G E T T Y I M AG E S . T I S C I : S T E P H A N E F E U G E R E . T I M E L I N E , F R O M L E F T: B E R T R A N D R I N D O F F P E T R O F F/G E T T Y I M AG E S ; CO U R T E S Y O F TO M S C H I E R L I T Z /C O N D É N A S T; CO U R T E S Y O F B A N D O F O U T S I D E R S ; M I C H E L D U FO U R / W I R E I M AG E ; CO U RT E S Y O F D E L P H I N E AC H A R D A N D G I OVA N N I G I A N N O N I /CO N D É N A S T.

THE MAESTRO GIORGIO ARMANI He set men free from the confines of their own suits. First, he took a scalpel to his own jacket, leaving just the essentials: Armani scrapped the shoulder pads and switched to softer fabrics. (See: Richard Gere preening in American Gigolo to get the idea.) He’s since adopted blue T-shirts (and at 80 years old, the guy still has a crazytaut physique underneath), but the idea remains the same: A man’s clothes serve him best when he’s comfortable wearing them.

LIVING THE BRAND CALVIN KLEIN He practically invented the tee-under-a-suit look that the rest of us are all wearing now more than ever. Before Kate and Marky Mark, Klein was his own brand ambassador and proved that all-American style doesn’t have to be nostalgic— it can be forward thinking and modern. Also, he’s always had really good hair.

HANDSOME DEVIL RICCARDO TISCI OF GIVENCHY

He’s an Italian designer at a French house with a psychic link to the U.S. streets. All respect to Jay, Ye, and the NBA, but no one wears Tisci’s designs— from tuxes to graphic tees— with as much “fuck you” as the man himself.

2001 Yves Saint Laurent causes a stir when he shows up at a young Hedi SlimaneÕs first Dior show.

2003 Adidas sees the future and gives Yohji Yamamoto his own subbrand, Y-3.

2005 Scott SternbergÕs Polaroid hobby becomes a signature part of his line’s DNA as he shoots celeb-laden lookbooks.

ITALIAN STALLIONS DOMENICO DOLCE & STEFANO GABBANA Behind the scenes, Stefano (the tall one) brings the inspiration and energy while Domenico brings the expert tailoring and craftsmanship. But in public, the two present a united front: white dress shirts and skinny ties at their shows, tank tops and tiny swimsuits while sunning on vacation with supermodels.

THE QUIET ONE RAF SIMONS Simons went to school for industrial design, and it shows in his pared-down style— dark crewneck, dark trousers, white sneakers, forever and always. He’s proof that repetition isn’t boring when it’s part of a quest for streamlined perfection.

LEADING MAN TOM FORD Meet the women: Naomi Campbell with Dolce and Gabbana, model Natalia Vodianova with Tisci, and Bianca Jagger on Calvin K l e i n ’s a r m .

D O LC E & G A B B A N A : S I M O N WAT S O N / T R U N K A R C H I V E . S I M O N S : R I N E K E D I J K S T R A . F O R D : S I M O N P E R RY.

He’s not so much a man as The Man, a self-made archetype of what masculinity could be if we all tried a bit harder and elevated our taste a level (or seven). From the impeccable black suit to the flawless stubble to his intense disdain for the top five buttons on a dress shirt, he makes looking godlike seem way easier than it actually is.

2011 Kanye and Jay get Riccardo Tisci to design the cover (and threads) for ‘ Watch the Throne.’

2012 Mad genius Thom Browne blows minds with his monster punk runway show.

2014 An expanded version of our Most Stylish Designers list goes live on GQ.com.

T H E R E ’ S T O O M U C H C U LT U R E O U T T H E R E ,

SO JUST DO THESE 22 THINGS A N D Y O U ’ L L H AV E T H E E N T I R E M O N T H C O V E R E D

Punch List The

GQ INTELLIGENCE

September 2014

1 Sing “Hail to the Washington TBDs” ✒ DREW MAGARY ○ Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall of an offensive line!

F E A R N O T , weary NFL fans: I’m not going to be the billionth person to whine about the Washington Redskins’ obviously odious name, or propose my own inane alternative—one conservative commenter earnestly ﬂoated the Washington Reagans, and we couldn’t resist imagining what that ZOHAR LAZAR

would look like—or even do that thing where media people tell you it’s only a matter of time before the ’Skins cave and change their name because media people want it to be a matter of time. I won’t be doing any of that because I know Redskins owner Dan Snyder is a man of his word SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 171

2014 NFL PREVIEW

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when he says he’ll never change the name. Oh, how he loves telling you he won’t change that name. I bet it gives him an erection you could do a cannonball o≠ of. This isn’t simply a matter of money, which is a new thing for Dan Snyder. Yes, this is America, and only in America can a corporate brand become so entrenched that it must remain that way even when it no longer makes sense socially (the Redskins) or numerically (hi, Big Ten Conference That Now Has Twenty-seven Teams!). But even more than the sentimental value of the Redskins name, Dan Snyder cherishes this—what’s happening on this page right here, and on ESPN, and on Twitter: Without the nickname Redskins, Snyder can’t paint himself as a victim of the big liberal-media conspiracy. He can’t mount his horse (presumably a miniature horse, given his size) and throw on a Napoleon costume and charge saber-ﬁrst into the culture war as its fearless general. He can’t send out byline-free press releases standing by the ’Skins name and telling Congress that its priorities are out of whack. Don’t we have better things to do, America? Why is Dan Snyder the only one who cares about what truly matters? That addiction to persecution is the reason Snyder is still clinging to the Redskins name. The more the furor builds to change it, the more it fuels his grand illusion of moral resolve. When they came for his mascot, by God, this brave man (who buys up media outlets that would otherwise mock him) stood his ground! So go ahead and take away his trademark on the team name. Tell him the momentum is turning against him. Debunk every arbitrary poll number the ’Skins pull out of their ass. Rip on the guy for trying to make the problem go away by setting up a charity to throw a bunch of coats at actual Native Americans. DO YOUR WORST. You are only giving this man—this awful, horrible man—another reason to isolate himself in a soundproof cocoon of bullshit pride and heritage. Because now you know what the term “Redskin” really means. It means FUCK YOU. No. 4

A Humble Suggestion for the ’Skins

Go with the Throwback! I The NFL is throwback-jerseyobsessed—so obsessed that once or twice a year it needlessly mucks with one of the great badass uniforms in its arsenal, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ classic yellow-andblack, and makes the players clown

around in a loud, stripy concoction that singes the eyes and probably induces seizures. But weirdly there’s one throwback uni in the vault that the league never trots out, even though it could be the solution to one of its most pressing PR crises: the old ’Skins helmet and jersey from the Sonny Jurgensen– era late 1960s, when the team stank almost as much as it does now but looked way sharper in the

○ The ’Skins, back when they were cool. And still bad at football.

process. The uniform colors, garnet and gold, were the same but deployed more tastefully, and the helmet insignia—a spear—was, let’s be honest, miles cooler than a dude’s face. Look, Redskins traditionalists are going to lose their shit over any

change—but at least dumping the offensive “injun” for the spear logo would represent a way to honor Native American tradition without trampling the franchise’s. Two birds with carved stone! The tougher challenge is fixing the team’s name, but the same theory should apply: Find a spiritual cousin, not a full-on facelift. Our suggestion: the Washington Warriors. History shows that clean, simple names age better than too specific, too cutesy ones. (Right, Toronto Raptors fans?) And we’re only gonna get one shot at this. At least we hope we do.— D E V I N G O R D O N

...Or One of These Sixteen Other Idiotic Options

! ?

I Yeah, we just said we’d suppress the urge to rattle off a bunch of goofy alternative names for the ’Skins. But in that grand Washingtonian tradition, we’ve flipflopped. Presenting the worst ideas that we could think of—but ones probably still better than whatever they actually wind up with.

Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington Washington

Pork Thought Leaders Pleated Khakis Bidens Humidity Swamp Rats Libel Suits Benghazis Majority Whips Uncomfortably Hot Interns Snobs Presented by Tor y Burch Model-U.N. Virgins Desperate Social Climbers Quorums Annoying Overachievers Bullets

Handicap the Rookie QB Class Using Only Their Names I You don’t need college-game footage. You don’t need the scouting combine. You don’t need the Wonderlic test. We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again: All you need to predict a college quarterback’s NFL fortune is his name. Joe Montana. Tom Brady. Andrew Luck. Crisp. Pithy. All-American. Got it? QB Class of 2014: Your fate is revealed here.— D .G .

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GQ INTELLIGENCE

2014 NFL PREVIEW

The Punch List

12 Predict the Number of Beast Quakes in the Pacific Northwest This Fall CenturyLink Field’s concourses. The catch? It wasn’t all the running back’s fault. Seismologists registered minor tremors after other plays, and even between them— cheering, no matter how thunderous, can’t hold a candle to 67,000 fans jumping up and down to “Seven Nation Army.” And the Seahawks might not even be the most earthshaking team in town. Former PNSN director Steve Malone says that fans of Sounders FC—Seattle’s other, uh, football team—may be capable of generating even more good vibrations. — SA M S C H U B E

Blow $12,500 on the Stupidest New Stadium Feature

Watch Jim HarbaughÕs Blood Boil

I The 49ersÕ Jim Harbaugh is pretty great at meltdowns. He flails. He stomps. HeÕs been captured on film physically foaming at the mouth. Will he lose his shit this year?! ItÕs more a question of how oftenÑand why.— D R E W M AG A RY

@#%*

I From the Truth in Advertising Department: The Beast Quake— seismic activity caused by Seattle Seahawks fans celebrating another touchdown run by Marshawn “Beast Mode” Lynch—is a legitimate scientific phenomenon. In

2011, scientists at the University of Washington’s Pacific Northwest Seismic Network noticed an uptick in signals that correlated to Lynch’s gamebreaking playoff run against the Saints. Last season, they confirmed the link by placing sensors on

Official spots ball half a millimeter too short.

Nos. 6Ð11 F O OT B A L L P L AY E R S !

Brother John beats him in Ping-Pong.

Learn Strange Stuff About NFL Players!

They’re just as daffy as Zooey Deschanel. Match the ineffably weird (and totally true) biographical quirk to the pro. — P E T E R S C H R AG E R

I The race for the NFL’s most luxe fan “experience”: now possibly parodying itself. Witness the $12,500 “spa cabana” package at the Jacksonville Jaguars’ EverBank Field, where you (and forty-nine friends) can steep in an end-zone pool. Make that one of two pools—complete with buxom blonde lifeguard. Before you write off this Vegasification of football, remember the average temperature of early-fall Jacksonville is approximately 1,000 degrees. (Add a surfeit of drunk, smushed-together Jags fans and you get lots more degrees.) Plus, you get a lot for...a lot.

Besides dunking privileges, $250-ahead gets you some cruise-ship-ian eating and drinking arrangements, “relaxing lounge furniture,” and a view—mostly of the team’s video scoreboards, which “will each measure the length of two Boeing 757s end to end,” says team president Mark Lamping. “In all, we will have 55,000 square feet of video boards.” With screens you can basically see from space, couldn’t you just drag a kiddie pool and a keg to the parking lot? Please—don’t call us heroes. Because at the end of the day, you’re still watching the Jags.

No. 14 1. He is afraid of horses. When he plays at home and his team’s sprightly brown mascot, Warpaint, takes the field, he loses his mind. 2. This guy eats Skittles before and during games. 3. Off-season, he owns and operates a convenience store outside Columbus, Ohio, called the Smart Stop Drive-Thru. 4. He calls himself the Black Unicorn. 5. One of Silicon Valley’s contemporary-art galleries, Gallery 85, is owned by this Pro Bowler. 6. His dad goes by the name Road Warrior Animal—one half of the legendary wrestling tag team the Road Warriors. A. B R I A N H A RT L I N E W i d e R e c e i ve r MIAMI DOLPHINS B. M A R S H AW N LY N C H Running Back S E AT T L E S E A H AW K S C. E R I C B E R RY Safety K A N SA S C I T Y C H I E F S D. JA M E S L AU R I N A I T I S L i n e b a c ke r ST. LO U I S R A M S E. V E R N O N DAV I S Tight End SA N F R A N C I S C O 4 9 E R S F. M A RT E L L U S BENNETT Tight End C H I C AG O B E A R S ANSWERS: 1) C. 2) B. 3 ) A . 4 ) F. 5 ) E . 6 ) D .

38–0 halftime lead.

Ask Richard Sherman: When Will the NFL Be the Most Stylish League in Sports?

P ro All-o th Mu Trapped behind cyclist on country road.

“HOW CAN YOU FUCKING CALL THAT PASS INTERFERENCE? I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL ALL OF YOU!”

“Never. It’s tough—NBA players get a lot more time to think about their outﬁts. That’s the reason why. [laughs] People are always checking out their players’ style at the press conferences, and the NBA just has great style in general—Russell Westbrook, Kevin Durant, Dwyane Wade. [Seahawks safety] Earl Thomas tries for us, but nobody else does, because we already get a bad rep. Dress too crazy and it’ ll just get worse.” —A S TO L D TO M A R K A N T H O N Y G R E E N

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5 ) F R O M L E F T: J O S H U A W E I S B E R G / I C O N S M I /C O R B I S ; M S A / I C O N S M I /C O R B I S ; T R OY WAY R Y N E N / N E W S P O R T/C O R B I S . 1 2 ) F R O M TO P : R O N A L D M A R T I N E Z /G E T T Y I M A G E S ; C H R I S T I A N P E T E R S E N /G E T T Y I M A G E S ; G R A N T H A LV E R S O N / G E T T Y I M AG E S ; A L M E S S E R S C H M I DT/G E T T Y I M AG E S ; J O E B A R R E N T I N E / TAC O M A N E W S T R I B U N E / M C T V I A G E T T Y I M AG E S . 1 3 ) C O U R T E S Y O F T H E J AC K S O N V I L L E J AG UA R S . 1 4) E T H A N M I L L E R /G E T T Y I M AG E S .

No.

GQ INTELLIGENCE

Nos.

The Punch List

Hear Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy Jam with His 18-Year-Old Son

18-20 Crack Open the Three Big Novels of the Month place that’s still “conceptual...a fantastic actual and/ or soon-to-be city, an abracadabrapolis.” In his follow-up to Netherland, O’Neill has a nameless hero roaming the ennuisoaked topography, the Gulf resembling nothing so much as Bret Easton Ellis’s Los Angeles of the mid-’80s. It’s a dazzling landscape of desolate anonymity, a hell packaged so prettily it can be billed as paradise and maintain a waiting list miles long.— K I R A H E N E H A N

Wonder What the Hell Is Up with

SNL Alums in Indie Dramas

17 I This month Jeff Tweedy finally releases a solo record—of sorts. The Wilco guitarist teams up with his drummer son, Spencer, as the duo Tweedy. We crashed their loft to talk family business. —J E S S I C A H O P P E R

I Let’s throw it to Stefon here—film’s hottest club is a group of longtime Saturday Night Live vets going dramatic, thanks to arty “It’s a departure!” roles. Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig are up this month with The Skeleton Twins, in which they play squabbling siblings. Here’s the (tragi-) comic company they keep.— SA R A H B A L L Adam Sandler Punch-Drunk Love, 2002 Acclaimed Oscar-y director? Paul Thomas Anderson. Five-word plot: Lonely man phones sex hotline. Festival pedigree? Cannes. Indie Twee Index™: Sandler sells toilet plungers.

Maya Rudolph Away We Go, 2009 Acclaimed Oscar-y director? Sam Mendes. Five-word plot: Lonely expectant parents seek nest. Festival pedigree? Edinburgh. Indie Twee Index™: Married, DaveEggers-inclusive screenwriters. Will Ferrell Everything Must Go, 2010 Is somebody an alcoholic? Will Ferrell is an alcoholic. Five-word plot: Lonely drunk holds yard sale. Festival pedigree? Rocked Toronto. Indie Twee Index™: Based on a Raymond Carver short story. Dern alert! Laura.

Will Forte Nebraska, 2013 Acclaimed Oscar-y director? Alexander Payne. Five-word plot: Lonely duo make lottery hajj. Festival pedigree? Palme d’Or finalist at Cannes. Indie Twee Index™: Retro black and white. Dern alert! Bruce. Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig The Skeleton Twins, 2014 Acclaimed Oscar-y director? No! But Black Swan’s Mark Heyman wrote it. Five-word plot: Lonely siblings cheat death, reunite! Festival pedigree? Stefon and Target Lady took Sundance. Indie Twee Index™: Oh hey, Mark Duplass produces!

The Dog by Joseph O’Neill I In Joseph O’Neill’s skewering of modern-day Dubai, the new Middle East is a slick surface across which beautiful flotsam drifts but never quite coalesces—a

So have you been grooming Spencer to become your drummer since birth? J: Yes. Growing him— S: Like a sea monkey. J: I had no grand design. S: I play the same kit I started on in the basement of [my mom’s club] at age 2. That’s what I wrote my college essay about—that I grew up in a nightclub. And the reception? S: There has been overwhelming positivity about it on the Internet. J: I just feel very lucky that at 18 he has any interest in being around me. When was the last time your dad embarrassed you? S: On Austin City Limits, when you did that fake accent. J: What fake accent? S: That fake British accent. It was just terrible. J: I don’t think I can play in a band with you. S: Sorry, Dad.

The Children Act by Ian McEwan I Ian McEwan: nothing if not (freakishly) consistent. Since 2000 alone, he’s had Atonement, Saturday, and On Chesil Beach,

a trifecta of hypersmart, crazyreadable literary novels hard to match even by the best of his peers. And still, every two years or so, he churns out a new one. In The Children Act, he gets behind the eyes of a High Court judge in London whose messy, childless marriage is echoed in a messier, more complicated trial. We’d point out that it’s great, but you know what to expect.— M A R K BY R N E

No. 16

GE T YO UR LAST V I OLE N T GLI MPS E OF JAMES G A N DOL FIN I

• The Drop is James

Gandolfini’s final film credit, which is reason enough to see it: the departed actor, slowmoving and unkempt, playing the kind of mortally cracked, blustering tough guy he’d long since mastered. But The Drop is more than just Gandolfini’s farewell—it’s also a thoroughly vicious crime drama that features a script by Dennis Lehane, Tom Hardy as a mumbling Brooklyn bartender, and an aura of exquisite, bloody menace. Also: a really cute puppy. —Z AC H B A R O N

Wolf in White Van by John Darnielle I It’d be a different thing for Nikki Sixx to write a novel than it is for John Darnielle—a master lyricist whose fourteen albums with the Mountain Goats have plotted

and boomed around and backstitched like the most skillful, imaginative fiction. Still, Wolf in White Van—about a disfigured narrator and the play-bysnail-mail game (sort of like Myst meets The Road) he creates to maintain contact with the world—will back you onto your heels with its capacity for inventiveness in structure, story, and line-writing. Which, come to think of it, is probably the least surprising surprise of all.— DA N I E L R I L E Y

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1 5 ) F R O M L E F T: C O L U M B I A / E V E R E T T C O L L E C T I O N ; F R A N C O I S D U H A M E L / F O C U S F E AT U R E S / E V E R E T T C O L L E C T I O N ; J O H N E S T E S / R OA D S I D E AT T R AC T I O N S / E V E R E T T C O L L E C T I O N ; M E R I E W. WA L L AC E / PA R A M O U N T P I C T U R E S / E V E R E T T C O L L E C T I O N ; C O U R T E S Y O F R OA D S I D E AT T R AC T I O N S . 1 6 ) C O U R T E S Y O F F OX S E A R C H L I G H T. 1 7 ) C O U R T E S Y O F ZO R A N O R L I C .

GQ INTELLIGENCE

The Punch List

21 Make Time for the Time-Bending New David Mitchell Novel LEVON BISS

I A couple of years ago, David Mitchell

Could you translate that into American? What’s an American foodstuff that either you love it or you hate it? Okay, I got it. I really like what they did with it. In The Bone Clocks, one memorable character is a bad-boy British novelist. He’s a bit adrift, and at one point he’s got thirty pages to show for himself after a number of years. I have to ask if you were having some fun with someone real. Of course you have to ask, and of course I have to deny it. There are some rather specific things that sound familiar. I’ll tell you what I mean. No! [covers his ears and sings to himself ] It’s basically me. It’s more of a self-caricature of my repressed bad-boy traits. Sometimes you seem to almost be writing in verse. One description in The Bone Clocks, of a pub in 1991, even rhymes: “high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond; on Gilmour and Waters and Syd; on hyperreality; dollar-pound parity; Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths.’ ” Do you think there’s

You really have to go hunting for people who have been critical of your work, but if you did... Oh, you can ﬁnd a few. You might find people saying, “He monkeys with structure, he monkeys with dialect. There’s the whizbang of futuristic scenarios. Is this all a lot of smoke and mirrors?” And what’s wrong with smoke and mirrors? What I mean is, is your work a bit about showing off? If it is, I’m failing. The principle is you create a character the reader cares about, and then you taunt the reader with the fear that bad things will be happening to this character. Then you can hear your iPhone buzzing in the background when you’re turning the pages and you’re going to ignore it. When I was a kid reading A Wizard of Earthsea, by Ursula Le Guin, I thought, “What’s going to happen to this wizard guy? I have to know.” I got to the end of it thinking, “Christ, I want to do that. I want to do that to other people.” And I still do.

GQ: You’ve described seeing Cloud Atlas become a film as such a harmonious process. I almost don’t believe it. Mitchell: I’m not just saying this out of loyalty for the check that was involved. I’m really grateful to the ﬁlmmakers, that they approached the project with absolute 178 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

P R O D U C E R : S WA N N P R O D U C T I O N . S T Y L I S T: C O L M C O R R I G A N . G R O O M I N G : J E N Q U I N N . B L A Z E R : C O S . S H I R T: R I V E R I S L A N D .

found himself mobbed in the streets of Shanghai by a crowd of fans sticking posters in his face for autographs. Literary novelists encounter that kind of attention approximately never. Middleaged Englishmen who live in rural Ireland don’t regularly make Chinese people lose their minds, either. Mitchell told a reporter on the scene, “I have no idea why the book is so popular. If you find out, can you let me know?” The book in question was Cloud Atlas, his third, which appeared in 2004 and evolved from a dog-eared cult favorite to a widely acknowledged landmark of the decade. The 2012 film adaptation polarized audiences but brought Mitchell a mob-scene level of fame that still leaves him flustered. Now Mitchell is back to try to shoot the moon again in a sweeping epic, The Bone Clocks, that, like Cloud Atlas, spans the ages and tinkers with the hidden gears of human history. It reads as if it were dreamed up whole and plotted out in a huge unlined notebook packed with drawings, charts, explosions of scribbles. Mitchell climbs into the minds of an array of characters, among them a spunky 15-year-old runaway girl, a clever ladies’ man studying at Cambridge, and a cranky aging novelist on the downslope. He claims there’s some autobiography in that last one, but that seems a stretch.—EVAN HUGHES

integrity. It’s certainly the most unfilmable thing I’ve ever written. Either I could have a film that was pretty much a carbon copy and that would never be made, or I could have a film that had some alterations and that would be made. Which would you go for? It’s a bit of a Marmite film.

a connection between the musicality in your writing and the stammer you’ve struggled with since childhood? With a stammer, you do need high-speed access to synonyms, you need a faculty and a knack for reconﬁguring sentences, all before the other person catches on, so you can avoid the problem words. But then you can’t use a word like erudite when you’re talking with a bunch of kids and they’re 13 years old, because you’ll get beaten up.

GQ INTELLIGENCE

The Punch List

22 Hear L.A. Shredder Ty Segall Become a One-Man Band l I “It’s funny to me that people think I have this insanely prolific output. I don’t see it,” says rocker Ty Segall. We’re gonna humbly disagree: Since 2008, the 27-year-old has whipped up six solo albums ranging from scuzzy punk to acoustic jams, three collaborative LPs, one album as the Ty Segall Band, and one as the drummer in a stoner metal band called Fuzz. What’s actually surprising is the oneyear gap between his last album and his latest one, Manipulator—and it’s because of a newfound perfectionism. He spent hours tinkering each day: “I kept using the word ‘professional’ as a joke,” he says. “But there’s more truth to it than I care to admit.” Did we mention he plays every instrument on the album? The result is the most accomplished release of his career and one of the best this year; his evolving musical maturity shines through on each track. “Turns out you have to breathe a lot differently when you’re singing than when you’re screaming.” — E R I C S U L L I VA N CANDY KENNEDY

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S T Y L I S T: VA N E S S A S H O K R I A N F O R C E L E S T I N E AG E N C Y. G R O O M I N G : H E E S O O K W O N F O R DAV I N E S .

How to Be Polite to Women Without Pissing Them Off B

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Manners Yes, chivalry is alive and well—thing is, you’re doing it wrong. That ye olde code of conduct that taught guys how to be nice to damsels in distress isn’t, well, up to code. First, they’re not in distress: Today women can open their own doors, sometimes to their own offices, where they sign your paychecks. And second, that behavior just makes you look silly. That’s why we had L A U R E N B A N S come up with the new rules of chivalry

○ Important: Keep hands (and lips and teeth) to yourself unless otherwise specified.

D O N ’ T L I S T E N T O T H E N A Y S A Y E R S : Chivalry isn’t dead. It just has one of those really bad, impossible-not-tonotice skin diseases that make everyone around it feel slightly uncomfortable and unsure how to behave. The truth is, chivalry is a weird ﬁt in the modern world. It is, after all, a code of conduct passed down from a time when ladies wore metal underwear to protect the integrity of their vaginas. It presupposes the “fairer sex” needs a gentlemanly aide to do just about everything. That’s simply not true. We are not adult-sized toddlers. Though I can see how medieval men might have been confused, considering that we were probably pooping our chastity diapers all the time.

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GQ INTELLIGENCE

SOMETIMES IT IS NICE TO BE TREATED NICELY, JUST FOR, LIKE, THE NICENESS OF IT. THERE IS A PLACE FOR MODERN CHIVALRY— OR AS I LIKE TO CALL IT, COMMON COURTESY. skirts sometimes! We could get leather burn on our derrieres! If you would be so kind, please clumsily hurl your pantsprotected body in ﬁrst, and we will follow you gracefully, dignity intact. The man always pays. If she asks, she pays. q Under no circumstances should you pay for every meal, movie, and whale-watching expedition. That makes us feel uncomfortable. Seriously. I know we always freak out when Pretty Woman is on TBS, but no one actually wants to be a high-class prostitute. If you ask us out to dinner, pay for that dinner. If we ask you out to dinner, we’ll pay for dinner. (But don’t order anything too expensive, okay? We still earn eighty-one cents to your dollar. Fuckin’ patriarchy.) A note on that latter situation: If we take care of the bill, don’t freak out. It doesn’t mean we’re not interested in you, as if we’re politely buying our way out of seeing your penis later. And it doesn’t mean that we’re showing o≠ how we’re so much more successful than you. I wish I didn’t even have to issue this disclaimer, but I’ve dealt with more than a few men who’ve balked when I took the lead come bill-payin’ time. We’re just being nice! Like you’re being nice when you pay the bill. Right? You’re not trying to prove anything, are you? OLD RULE: NEW RULE: OLD RULE:

B Manners

surgeon, texting can wait until after the meal. Or at least until she excuses herself to go to the bathroom to text her friends. OLD RULE:

Stand up when we enter

a room. Don’t get up. q What, you think we’re Queen Victoria? Are you calling us old? Wait...are you calling us dead?! NEW RULE: O L D R U L E : Punch people to defend her honor. N E W R U L E : Do not punch people to defend her honor. q You’re at a bar. Some dude dares to ﬂirt with your female companion. You think, I should punch him! That’s what a real man would do. That’s not what men do. That’s what utterly clueless dickwads with thirsty knuckles do. Or scary ’roiders with rage problems. Remember, we are prettier and more educated than you. (Nationwide study. FACT, son.) We are more than capable of ridding ourselves of an unwanted suitor. In fact, if you’re the kind of guy who goes around throwing punches in our honor, we will do the same to you. What you can do: Come up with a joint SAVE ME! code—a tap on the left elbow, a three-second nostril ﬂare, whatever—for emergency rescue-me-from-this-convo use. She’ll return the favor next time you’re stuck talking to a friend of a friend’s friend visiting here from Germany. E XC E P T I O N : Unless they’re assholes. Some dude called us fat. Punch away, strong man-friend!

But in the modern age, hopping to your feet every time we enter a room just makes all of us look silly. Plus, women could take your chivalrous overtures as a sign you believe all that ladies-are-helpless-weedarlings bullshit. That said, sometimes it is nice to be treated nicely, just for, like, the niceness of it. There is a place for modern chivalry—or as I like to call it, common courtesy. The rules just need some updating. So that’s exactly what we did. Always hold the door. Almost always hold the door. q No woman is going to roll her eyes if you hold a door open for her. And really, holding a door is not about preserving our delicate upper-body muscles. It’s a common courtesy that socialized humans do for one another, regardless of gender. Just don’t do that thing where you make us sprint sans sports bra for the door because you raced ahead to hold it open when we weren’t even close. That defeats the whole point. But as long as you’re in the right physical proximity (i.e., a foot or so from the door) and not running ahead like a toddler dying to press an elevator button, go for it. Just don’t be too showy about it. No need for a Downton Abbey–esque hand flourish—you’re ushering us through a doorway, not into Buckingham Palace. And if we’re closer to the door, don’t maneuver us out of the way just to take hold. You see those long danglers on either side of our breasts? They’re arms! And we know how to use them—as ZZ Top once sang about our legs—only physically in this case. And finally, don’t use this as an opportunity to steal a glimpse at our butts, as one former co-worker used to do very indiscreetly. She might not witness your eyeballs Wile E. Coyote–ing out of your head, but everyone behind her will. E XC E P T I O N : But never, ever the door to the taxi. q I know you think you’re being nice by letting us get in first, but you know what? Sliding your butt across three seats of sticky black leather is not fun. We wear OLD RULE: NEW RULE: 184 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

Put your phone away. Put your phone away. q THIS. IS. IMPORTANT. It isn’t even new. Back in the olden days, the rule went like this: “Do not lie thy messenger dove by the meat stew of thy love.” No amount of door opening, bill paying, or carrying thy lady over a foul sewer puddle can make up for being That Guy who puts his phone on the table during dinner. Unless you’re a heart OLD RULE: NEW RULE:

lauren bans is a writer living in Los Angeles.

J O H N KO B A L F O U N DAT I O N /G E T T Y I M AG E S

Order for her. Never order for her. q Seriously, who started that tradition? Napoleon? “If I aggressively order for ze mademoiselle, she won’t notice I am but un mètre tall!” It’s just so absurd and megalomaniacal. We can read a restaurant or Seamless menu and decide what we want to eat, thank you. If you actually want to be nice, let us pick out your meal, too. We’ll eat half. E XC E P T I O N : We’re working late. q Like missed-dinner-and-consideredcatching-and-eating-a-rat-on-the-subway late. If there’s not decent food waiting for us when we slump through the door, we’ll go straight for that two-month-old takeout box in the back corner of the refrigerator, ensuing Moo Goo Gai Butt Death be damned. So please order something, anything, for us. We will be grateful. I promise. NEW RULE:

Fight off home intruders. Go downstairs if she hears something, anything. q Here’s a telling story: Once, I farted in bed with my new boyfriend. Quelle horreur! Fortunately my fart happened to sound exactly like a creaky old door opening, and fortunately, to the power of a billion, my front door happened to be a creaky old door. So I played it o≠: “Oh shit, did you hear that? I think that was someone opening the door!” Without hesitation, my dude jumped out of bed, grabbed a bat from the closet, and tiptoed down the stairs to check out the situation. And I was really grateful he did that. Not only because it bought time for the smell to dissipate, but also because it is really nice having someone there to protect you from danger. Even today. Yes, this contradicts that whole women-don’tneed-saving thing, but chances are, you’re bigger than us—thus you have to be the one who gets killed ﬁrst. OLD RULE: NEW RULE:

GQ INTELLIGE NCE

Am I Too Old to Win the U.S. Open? I am a tennis fanatic. I also happen to be pretty decent at it. Not, like, pro-level, but skilled enough to enter a qualifier for this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s U.S. Open. It was the longest of shots, but as I rapidly approached 40, it was also one last grasp at sports glory. So just like the Federers and Murrays of the world, I hooked up with an aging champ (Mats Wilander!), trained for months, and took my first step toward becoming a Grand Slam winner â&#x153;&#x2019; R O S E C R A N S B A L D W I N

This Sporting Life

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B This Sporting Life

It took me thirty years to figure out that tennis is as good as it gets for humans. After love, of course, and fulfilling work. But following that, tennis is the axis mundi, the bridge between this world and the next one, heaven or hell, sometimes both at once. You want to kiss the spiritual plane and at the same time brush your teeth with the gunge of human su≠ering? Try serve-and-volleying at 5–6 in a thirdset tie-break with the sun in your eyes. As a kid, my parents put me in lessons at a swim club. My mom said in the car, “The great thing about tennis, it’s a sport for life.” Whatever she meant, I had no idea, all I knew was I didn’t like it. The snobby kids. The starchy atmosphere. All that pressure to never miss, never double-fault, simply go out alone and duel, mano a mano, for the sake of climbing the club ladder. Good-bye, tennis; hello, skateboarding. The End. Twenty years later, I was on the verge of 30 and needed to lose weight. Near my wife’s and my old apartment in Brooklyn, there were some public courts and a Sri Lankan guy in white shorts and aviators who gave lessons for $30/hour. One month after that, I was hooked. Seven years later, it’s psychosis. Today I play as much as possible. Two hours a day, four or five days a week, I’m out hitting, and it’s mania, I love it, I can’t stop. I’ve played on hard courts when it was 110 degrees outside. I’ve played on clay courts in sidewinding sleet. By this point, I’m not bad; I’d make my high school varsity squad. And when I’m not playing, I dream about it, I air-guitar forehands. I pack rackets in my bag on business trips. My wife and I have neither children nor church, but I feel a certain sacred reverence for the green lawns of Wimbledon, the red dust of Chatrier. We live in Los Angeles now. A few months ago, one of my hitting partners, Tom, asked me how old I was. Tom’s very fit, despite being in his sixties, with the body-fat percentage of a mechanical pencil. I told him: 37. “You’ll want to start playing more doubles.” He sounded fatigued just saying it, like someone had once told him the same thing. “You’re going to lose that speed soon. Start to work on your volleys.” I stared at him. Doubles? I mean, I play doubles, it’s fun. But had it come to all that already? Tennis is simply more enjoyable at higher levels. The better you get, the better it feels. But there’s also a razor’s edge. Golf is a hitting game; tennis is a running game. The older you become, the slower it goes, especially if you started playing as an adult, like me, and didn’t spend your childhood practicing serves. 194 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

The idea fills me at night with a liquid sadness. My future flashes before my eyes: not an epoch of competitive battling, but weekends of social doubles, collared shirts, endless games won on lobs. Not quite The End, but Pretty Fucking Close. But here’s another thing about tennis: Every year, there’s an opportunity in this great land for basically any player—even the old and amateur—to test his or her mettle at the highest levels. To pursue the potential glory reserved in other sports for only the sub-35. Each summer, the United States Tennis Association sanctions regional qualifying tournaments that allow a thousandplus amateurs to fight for a berth in the U.S. Open in New York. (That embrace of walkons is technically what the “open” part means.) So if ever there was a right time for me to submit an application, this was it. According to the timeline, I had two months to dial in my tennis, overhaul my conditioning, hopefully fix my wobbly forehand volley. But there was no way I could do it alone. T O D A Y ’ S P R O F E S S I O N A L M E N ’ S game is superlative. At the same time, the guys who rule the sport aren’t phenoms anymore. Federer is 33. Nadal is 28. Djokovic and Murray are 27. Recently the champions have been calling up past champions to find that elusive extra jolt to help them win. Murray bagged the U.S. Open and Wimbledon with Ivan Lendl in his box. Japan’s Kei Nishikori has been studying under Michael Chang. In July, Stefan Edberg coached Federer to the Wimbledon finals, where he lost in a tight five-setter to Djokovic—who’s lately been coached by Boris Becker. If I was going to play my best tennis before all my hair turned gray, surely I needed a Grand Slam champion for a spirit guide. Mats Wilander was inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame in 2002. In his singles career, he won the French Open three times, the Australian Open three times, and the U.S. Open once. In 1988, he was the World No. 1 during a year when a pair of Swedes—Wilander and Edberg—captured the titles of all four Grand Slams, following a trail blazed by their headbanded forerunner, Björn Borg. These days, Wilander is 50 and lives with his family outside Sun Valley, Idaho. He leads pretty much the life of a retired top athlete as we know it, except Wilander also spends a portion of the year traveling the highways of America in a thirty-sevenfoot Thor Daybreak RV, singing loudly and slightly o≠-key to Bob Dylan—he also does a decent semi-Scandinavian Tom Petty— and teaching tennis.

What Is It About That Fila Jacket? Anyone who reads this mag can rattle off the reasons why Björn Borg’s Fila zip-up was so stylish—the superslim fit, the classic trimmings, and the ease with which he wore the thing in the late-’70s spotlight. But what gives it iconic resonance now? The colors. A red-whiteand-blue getup convinces fans you’re the guy to root for. (Exhibit A: Rocky.) Borg wasn’t intentionally making overtures to Americans—as torchbearer of the Swedish tennis mafia that included Wilander, he’d have made his patriotic statement in cornflower blue—but we took it that way.— M A R K A N T H O N Y G R E E N

Since 2009, Wilander and his business partner, Cameron Lickle, a former tennis captain at the Naval Academy, have taught more than 6,000 people under the guise of Wilander on Wheels (WOW). For three months a year, they crisscross the country, driving from fancy clubs to modest courts. People pay around $275 for ninety minutes of instruction, plus a fancy meal and a chance to ask Mats what it was like playing against Lendl. The first time Cameron and I spoke, I brought up the trend of all the pros hiring former champions, looking to wring out their last drops of excellence. Mats had previously coached pros like Marat Safin and Paul-Henri Mathieu—this wouldn’t be that, Cameron said. But if I wanted to join them for a southern sojourn, spend five days in the Daybreak as they conducted a dozen clinics in Texas and Louisiana, participating in a couple along the way and observing the rest so I could absorb Mats’s teachings, then sure, absolutely, okay. “But you are serious about this, right?” Cameron said. I assured him, yes, I was very serious. We met in the parking lot of the Houston Racquet Club in late April. Special for the occasion, I’d worn a throwback Fila jacket, the same that Borg wore in the ’70s. Mats and I shook hands outside the RV. He was

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GQ INTELLIGENCE

B This Sporting Life

THINGS: YOUR FOOTWORK AND YOUR DETERMINATION. THAT’ S IT.” did you do that? You’ve got a good backhand—why hit a slice?” Twenty minutes later, there was a drill where Mats fed me overheads so fast I might as well have swung my arm like a propeller to hit them all. Instead, I lost focus and dumped three into the net. Mats was pissed. “You should never miss an overhead! It’s the easiest shot in tennis. Federer misses maybe five overheads in a season.” I was broken, I was rebuilt. Then, after a meal and an autograph session with clinic participants, we’d jump into the RV, roar onto the highway, and do it again. For five days, even though we slept eight feet from each other—Mats in the bedroom, me on a bunk that was big enough for a VHS cassette—Mats wasn’t one for small talk. Maybe I was a little intimidated. For this tennis junkie, the situation kept shocksay, with basketball or soccer, you can play your whole life. And for all those decades, it’s got the fight of boxing without the violence, the satisfaction to be had in baseball from batting, only you’re never not at bat. In singles, the grand design of chess. In doubles, the camaraderie of bridge. At any level: strategy, exercise, transports of joy. By my third clinic with Mats, my play had improved. We did the overhead drill again. I didn’t miss. Even my forehand volley seemed better. One night, we set up camp in a club’s parking lot, and I snuck out to serve on an empty court under a streetlight. I turned around at one point: Mats was watching. I looked again a minute later and he was gone. On my last day, I warmed up Cameron before a clinic. We had multiple long, good rallies. Toward the end, I hit a winner, a down-the-line forehand I’d set up by swinging him over to the opposite corner, and Cameron reacted by pumping his fist, shouting, “Dude! Best rally yet! You see?” That evening, my last before heading home, we camped in an RV park outside Dallas. Cameron went out to do laundry. Mats was sitting in the captain’s chair, reading. “So,” Mats said, looking up, “tell me about this tournament.” Ninety minutes later, I was scrambling to write down all he’d said. It was a master class. He disassembled everything he’d noticed in my game, down to the tiniest hiccups in my strokes. “Against these guys”— meaning the opponents I’d see at the tournament—“you have nothing. No weapons. Maybe two things: your footwork and your determination. That’s it.” From there came tips, tactics, solutions. He jumped out of his chair to demonstrate positioning. Compared situations I might face to moments in matches he’d played twenty-five years ago. By the end, my notes ran to seven pages. “And wear that jacket,” he said as he got up wearily to go to bed. “The Borg one I saw you wearing. That’s what it was, right?” I grabbed it from my bunk. He laughed. “We all had that jacket, me and my friends, when we were kids. Wear that; then you’ll really intimidate them.” SALINAS IS A LANDLOCKED

“

YOU HAVE NOTHING,” MATS SAID. “ NO WEAPONS. MAYBE TWO

tan, energetic, friendly, if slightly reserved in the way of people who’ve lived public lives for a long time. Mats said, “So Cameron tells me you’re playing a tournament soon.” It was true: Six weeks later, in Salinas, California, just south of San Jose, I’d be one in a field of fifty-four that included midlevel pros, Division I college stars, nationally ranked high school warriors, and older guys who’d played in college. Plus one or two hacks like me. All of whom were planning to fight like hell to be the single winner who’d move on to a second qualifier in New Haven, Connecticut. The winner of which would receive a wild card to Flushing Meadows. So there was a possibility that I’d win and win and win, play in the U.S. Open, and get to face o≠ against one of my heroes— and that chance was approximately 0.00000001 percent. I explained all of this to Mats in the parking lot’s twilight, expecting a sympathetic laugh. No laugh. He said, “Okay, well, you brought rackets? I need to grab a shower; then we’ll hit.” T H E M AT S W I L A N D E R

tennis experience is a ninety-minute battle to avoid collapse. Right away you’re running and hitting. Corrections to your game are o≠ered in Swedishtinged yarps. By minute thirty come lots of curses from yours truly and other exhausted amateurs in the clinic, though sometimes we’re shouting because we’ve used a tip from Mats or Cameron and done something that just felt great. Then, by the finish, there’s a stillness around the courts. Ball flu≠ in the air. An aura of clarity. I did the WOW clinic three times, and three times I experienced it: a sense of being rebuilt into a better version of my tennis self. Each clinic began the same: eight people divided on two courts. At first they giggled. They were about to hit with Mats Wilander! It took about fifteen minutes before their asses were tired. Then too tired. Soon people were panting. “We will push you as hard as you’d like to be pushed,” Cameron would instruct before each session, though the unspoken assumption was: pretty hard. This was the breaking-down phase. Meanwhile, Mats and Cameron remembered everyone’s name, observed their strengths and weaknesses. My first time out, a ball from Mats came fast to my backhand. I was caught o≠ guard and returned a weak slice, rather than a more powerful topspin shot. Mats said immediately: “Why GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

ing me anew: I was playing tennis all day with Mats Wilander! Though, in fact, when tennis came up, it was hard to get him to stop talking. I’d barely ask a question and he’d be o≠, about rackets today (too big), the amateur game (too focused on ballstriking rather than problem-solving), the appeal of the game itself (its beauty, its pleasures, its lessons about life). “There are lots of fantasy camps out there. Guys spend tens of thousands and get a couple of minutes with a former pro,” Cameron shouted at me late one night while steering the ark into Dallas with EDM bellowing from the stereo. (Wilander’s RV rules mandate that the driver gets to choose the music and the volume.) “Mats is tennis. He’s so pure about it. And we bring that to you. It’s personal. It’s a totally di≠erent experience.” When I try to convert people to tennis, I talk about the sport’s generosity. How it absorbs my stress from work and ﬁnds me friends. My mom was right: Unlike,

town of 150,000. It’s the largest municipality in Monterey County, and an agricultural center, nicknamed “the Salad Bowl of the World.” The cool night breezes around my motel reeked of dung. My good feelings were gone by that point, anyway. A few days earlier, I’d received my draw. I’d be playing a teen, a rising

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B This Sporting Life

high school junior. He was the fourthranked kid his age in California, twentyfourth in the nation. I looked him up on tennisrecruiting.net: He was being tracked “with high interest” by UCLA and Stanford, two of America’s top tennis programs. Since Texas, I’d been playing constantly, as much as possible, six days a week. Goodbye, beer; hello, interval training. O≠ court, I did push-ups in the park, wind sprints around the block. For tennis, my hitting partners included guys who’d grown up playing tournaments and a recent college graduate who used to be nationally ranked. We drilled, we trained, we played match after match. None of them, though, had been recruited by UCLA or Stanford. The tournament was held at a beautiful club with courts terraced on hillsides. The night before, I laid out my clothes. At the last second, I decided to wear whites. After all, wasn’t this my Wimbledon? I packed my Borg jacket and went to bed watching an old Wilander-McEnroe match on YouTube. It was not a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I found a public court near the motel and practiced serves for an hour. Due to nerves, my ball toss kept flying wide. I couldn’t control it. Every serve went long or short—I kept doublefaulting, the observation of which, naturally, set my nerves on fire and made sure that I kept double-faulting. What was the big deal? Why, suddenly, was I nauseated? It dawned on me that what had begun as a bit of a lark was now something I cared about a lot, to the point that my fingers were shaking. I drove to the tournament in the grip of a fever dream. The day before, I’d texted the WOW team for any last words of advice. The reply came from Sun Valley: Hit and hope!!!!! Short points, stay aggressive. Juniors are flaky.… If you get in his head and you’re on, you might have a chance.… At the club, at noon, the players gathered around a table. We were all ages: young, middle-aged, just shy of senior. I got my first look at my opponent: 16 at best, slender, a little shorter than me. Tan from a lot of playing, and not interested in making eye contact. We had five minutes to warm up with each other. We said maybe fifteen words. I’ll take some volleys.… Let’s hit serves.… It’s probably time. It was time. I served first. Thankfully, I didn’t doublefault. But right away he was on top of the ball, burying it into the opposite corner. Love–15. The next point, during a rally, I hit the ball long. Shit. Love–30. Next I served a slice out wide and came in behind it, but he had no trouble hitting a beautiful passing shot through a very small window of 202 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

space. Love–40. FUCK ME. I served again, we rallied a couple of times, then he simply made the ball vanish, with a huge, spinny forehand; generation hashtag Rafa. Game: him, goddammit. We traded sides. I put the balls on his racket face. He said thanks, sat down, sipped water, and watched some girls play on the court next door. I stared at the ground and told myself: Stay positive, stay steady, watch for opportunities to attack, see if you can break the little fucker back. And then, in no time at all, it was done. The match lasted fifty-four minutes. Fiftyfour minutes. I’m happy to report I didn’t double-fault it away. In fact, in two sets, I only double-faulted once. As soon as we started, the nerves disappeared, my focus was precise. And I did win points. I played aggressive and got some nice results through attacking. But I never won a single game. He played terrific; he made very few errors. I made way too many. 6–0, 6–0. Breakfast served: double bagel. We shook hands above the net. I wished him good luck in his next match. He said thanks and looked to his mother, who’d been watching from the sidelines. The truth, I thought, was obvious to all three of us: One guy on the court was being tracked by UCLA, and the other had started seriously playing tennis at 29. Still, I was furious. I left the court fuming and grabbed a Coke to chug in the shade. I lay down and covered my eyes with a towel. The trouble was I’d convinced myself I had a shot when logic disagreed. Physics disagreed. Now I knew, and knowing hurt: The distance between the best amateur and the worst pro—the distance between a competent adult and a top-flight teenager who’s been training since childhood—is easy to cover with the imagination but nearly impossible to cross on foot. Five minutes later, I stopped being a baby and sat up to watch some tennis. In front of me was a match between a college player and an older guy, forty- or fiftysomething. I overheard people saying he was a local high school teacher. The young guy was tall, wearing a

rosecrans baldwin wrote “Learn to Kill in Seven Days or Less” in the March issue of gq.

H O L L O WAY/ S T O N E / G E T T Y I M A G E S

sweat-wicking uniform that said wake forest. Old dude had on a trucker hat and a drenched cotton shirt. But they both were playing great. The tennis was beautiful, like on TV: crisp points, with maximum e≠ort. If anything, the young guy looked more stressed. He played at Wake Forest! Meanwhile his opponent ran down everything that came his way, getting it back with great strokes, smart tactics. At the same time, behind me, another college player was facing o≠ against an old guy—and this one trotted around like a matador and hit every shot with a wild slice, like he was trying to carve the cheese o≠ a burger with a sword. Worse, anytime his opponent prepared to hit a second serve, he’d run up to the service line, turn his cap sideways, and twist his face into a grimace. People around me were saying, “What the fuck? Dude’s a clown!” But it was the Wake Forest–Old Dude match that held my attention. The outcome was actually up for grabs. A crowd was gathering. I thought, Here’s my guy—a player to emulate for the years ahead. Sure, I’d never face o≠ against Nadal in Arthur Ashe Stadium. But between the clown and the sportsman, the choice was clear. (Even if, in the end, Wake Forest won.) Afterward, I texted one of my hitting partners from the parking lot to set up our next session. I was keen to play; we had a lot more work to do, decades’ worth. By that point, the loss still stung—it took a good two days to get over, let’s be honest, and several beers—but a bright moment had emerged in my mind, a moment from my match on which I grew ﬁxated: a point where I served, the kid returned, and I drove it down the line, to his backhand corner. The ball was deep. I came in behind it. He tried a pass, and I got a clean volley winner. A point won convincingly: pure tennis. Sure, it’s a tiny moment, but one so pleasing, so fulﬁlling, so enormous, actually, I want it again and again and again and again and again.

The realm of sports is where the human spirit seeks glory and achievement. It is also where some human spirits seek blow jobs, payoffs, and cushier luxury boxes. We do not know why sports attracts so many lowlifes. We only know their names

✒ DREW

MAGARY

The 25 Biggest Sleazebags in Sports 204 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

GQ INTELLIGE NCE

Sports W I T H T H E N B A D E S P E R AT E LY

○ Possibly the worst thing about Donald Sterling: Walks around nude, like, constantly.

trying to purge every trace of current (?) Clippers owner Donald Sterling, this is the perfect time to catalog the men in sports right now who surpass normal shitbaggery to achieve a kind of Trump-like transcendence. Thanks to the Internet—and the occasional TMZ leak—we can see every last molecule of slime. We can also see that these men are often not very good at their jobs. So come and meet them, presented here in no particular order. Keep some Purell handy. EDDIE GUY

GQ INTELLIGENCE

B Sports

SLEAZE KEY:

○ No-Class Class of 2014 members (from left) Winston, Hernandez, Rice, and Incognito.

2. Aaron Hernandez Allegedly murdered three people, two of history of gross behavior (sexual harassthem over a spilled drink. Allegedly got a ment, bankrupting an entire basketball tattoo commemorating that double murleague, being friends with James Dolan) der. (He can rub it and always reminisce that we only have space here to give you a about avenging that lost G&T.) Allegedly taste of his oeuvre. And here is that taste: invited a friend for a car ride speciﬁcally While sexually harassing a Knicks exec, Isiah compared his feelings for her to the to kill him. But look, you can take all of movie Love & Basketball. Ewwwww. Who that away and the ex–Patriots tight end would fall for that? Jesus. would still be a scumbag. Let’s go back in time to 2007, when he was still in college. SLEAZE KEY: We’re in a Gainesville, Florida, restaurant and Hernandez is refusing to pay his tab, 5. Chad Curtis because of course. A bouncer confronts The imprisoned ex-outﬁelder molested a Hernandez and is rewarded with a punch 15-year-old girl and then told the girl that from behind to the head, which ruptures they should write a book together to prehis eardrum. Tim Tebow— vent future grown men Hernandez’s Gators teamfrom being seduced by mate—is in the restaurant, 15-year-old girls. It goes Sleaze Key but even He cannot use His without saying that he once Cheatin’ sleaze magic Jesus powers to stop played for the Yankees. Hernandez from being an SLEAZE KEY: Dickhead sleaze unhinged psychopath. Greedy sleaze 6. Tiki Barber SLEAZE KEY: For a long time, no one Lying sleaze knew what a shady fucker 3. Sepp Blatter Pervy sleaze this guy was. Here’s a quote All it took was $5 million about Tiki from Sports and a fancy sketch of a Says-horrible-shit sleaze Illustrated back in 2006: hovering air conditioner Toupee sleaze “Tiki wants America to for the FIFA president and wake up to Tiki, not to Matt his board to bestow hosting Violent sleaze Lauer.” Oh God, can you duties for the 2022 World imagine waking up to Tiki Cup upon Qatar, a nation now? The guy who banged an NBC intern that treats its migrant workers worse while his then wife was pregnant? Fun than Germany treated Brazil in its 2014 fact: While Barber was ditching his wife, Cup debacle. Will Blatter answer for this? he and his mistress hid from the media in Of course not. Blatter is so unbeholden to his agent’s attic. Did Barber use an Anne any form of international law or common Frank analogy* to describe this situation? decency that he can simply rampage from Of course he did. country to country, looting co≠ers and shitting on poor people as he pleases. SLEAZE KEY: SLEAZE KEY:

raping his girlfriend. He got kicked out of the UFC, then got kicked out of the porn business after going on a rampage at an industry pool party. He now runs a clothing shop called Alpha Male Shit, where you can buy T-shirts with dont be a pussy written backward on them. Why backward? Because I’m tailgating you with my motorcycle—NOW OUTTA MY WAY, PUSSY! SLEAZE KEY:

8. Dana White Turns out underpaying your UFC employees, bullying rivals, and generally impersonating Don King as a bald white guy doesn’t do wonders for your charisma! SLEAZE KEY:

9. Lance Armstrong He’s not sorry. Watch any post-scandal interview and it’s obvious that Armstrong feels that everything he did—all the cheating, all the lying, all the bullying—was justiﬁed in his ascent to becoming Cancer Jesus. “People are going to call bullshit on this,” he told ESPN this year, “but I’ve never been happier.” Asshole. SLEAZE KEY:

4. Isiah Thomas That smile. That oily, drippy, disingenuous smile. It’s the kind of smile that lets you know Isiah just got back from grabbing your wife’s ass. Isiah has such a long 206 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

7. War Machine Unfamiliar with the MMA ﬁghter born Jonathan Koppenhaver? Allow us to introduce you! He’s been thrown in jail multiple times for multiple bar ﬁghts in multiple states. He once joked on Twitter about

10. Bobby Petrino Want to become the perfect embodiment of a good-ol’-boy shitbag football coach? First, ditch your pro team (the Atlanta Falcons) for a college job without telling anyone you’re leaving. Then hire an underqualiﬁed woman to work on your sta≠ just so you can fuck her. Then take a motorcycle ride with your new mistress and crash the bike. Then refuse to call 911 in a last-ditch attempt to cover your ass. Congratulations! Louisville has a sevenyear contract waiting for you. SLEAZE KEY:

*After noting that his agent, Mark Lepselter, was Jew-

ish, Barber told SI that his attic retreat “was like a reverse Anne Frank thing.”

H E A D S , F R O M L E F T: J E F F G R O S S /G E T T Y I M AG E S ; J I M DAV I S / T H E B O S TO N G LO B E V I A G E T T Y I M AG E S ; L AU R A C AVA N AU G H / F I L M M AG I C /G E T T Y I M AG E S ; W I L F R E D O L E E /A P P H OTO

1. Donald Sterling The standard-bearer for all worldwide sleaziness. Racist? Yes. Cheap? Oh yes. Horny Neanderthal? Oh God, yes, yes! A landlord? Check—and by the way, if you don’t have a check for him and you are a Latino, he will evict you three days early. He’s like a Voltron of shitbags fused together. This is a man who once negotiated buying a fur coat for a mistress in front of the mistress’s mom. Pure class, kids.

GQ INTELLIGENCE

B Sports

○ From top, FIFA’s Blatter; Kentucky’s Calipari.

11. J. R. Smith The Knicks shooting guard will sneakily untie your shoes on the court, jack up an air ball, and ask your mom for a hand job over Instagram. He’s a charmer—until you remember that he once killed a friend in a car accident and served thirty days in jail. Kinda ruins it. SLEAZE KEY:

having to answer questions about it. An ESPN sideline reporter tried once after a game, and Winston’s lawyer demanded a public apology, presumably in the form of stolen crab legs. (Google “Jameis Winston stolen crab legs” for further merriment.) SLEAZE KEY: allegedly 22. Richie Incognito Just a rolling mass of grunts and farts and “FAG!” You can see the little hamster wheel in Incognito’s brain slowly spinning when you examine some of the text messages he sent to his bullying victim, Jonathan Martin: “I’m sorry I have puss swinging from my nuts… Wordddddd… ”

12. Ray Rice Earlier this year, the Ravens running back knocked his wife unconscious and dragged her body out of an elevator. His apology was almost as awful: “I won’t call myself a failure. Failure is not getting knocked down. It’s not getting up.” Folks, do not judge Ray Rice until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, presumably while dragging your wife behind you. SLEAZE KEY:

a camera-phone video of an ESPN honcho hitting on women at a bar. And here’s the kicker: It sorta worked! He mysteriously got a freelance gig with the Worldwide Leader shortly after. SLEAZE KEY:

SLEAZE KEY:

13. Luis Suárez He made soccer just violent enough for Americans to get interested, and all it took was biting someone for a third time. He also once taunted a rival by calling him a negro—seven times—which is still a slur, even when you say it in Spanish. SLEAZE KEY:

18. Lane Kiffin The program-wrecking Alabama o≠ensive coordinator is like a baby Petrino, only he crashed a Lexus, which is 31 percent classier than crashing a motorcycle. SLEAZE KEY:

SLEAZE KEY:

15. Jim Irsay The Colts owner was pulled over this spring by the cops while wasted, with more than $29,000 in cash on him and “numerous” pill bottles inside his briefcase and on the ﬂoor mat, because cars today lack proper Valium holders. Irsay lost his license for a year (oh no!), but he has yet to be punished by the NFL. Because real sleazes know how to get away with it. SLEAZE KEY:

20. Dan Snyder Redskins owner Snyder is the rare selfmade billionaire. Alas, one of the ways Snyder Communications made him that fortune was by forging customers’ signatures and switching their phone service without their consent. His company was ﬁned $3.1 million for this, or about one-tenth of what he wastes on the average free agent. SLEAZE KEY:

24. Jeffrey Loria The Marlins owner conned Miami into paying $509 million for a ballpark and then couldn’t even last a full season before trading everyone away and hoarding every last penny for himself to blow on Giacometti paintings and Polo button-downs. SLEAZE KEY:

16. John Calipari Everything this man walks away from ends up vacated: titles, Final Fours, equipment facilities, Fatburger...you name it. SLEAZE KEY:

17. Jay Mariotti The former syndicated columnist and Around the Horn HOT TAKE provider was booted from ESPN after pleading no contest to stalking his girlfriend and ripping out her hair. Then he attempted to scheme his way back into ESPN’s good graces with 208 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

21. Jameis Winston The Florida State He i s m a n Tr o p h y winner was never charged for allegedly raping a fellow student, despite incriminating evidence and her continued insistence that he did. What’s nice is that Winston had an entire infrastructure of school o∞cials, coaches, lawyers, and deranged FSU fanboys all shielding him from ever

25. Josh Lueke After allegedly raping a woman, the Rays pitcher pleaded no contest to unlawful imprisonment and spent forty-two days in jail. Later he called the incident “a freak-accident kind of thing.” Whoops! Accidentally set my alarm clock to RAPE. You will notice this sort of behavior a lot among the gallery of assholes on this list: an aggressive distorting of reality and a terse dismissal of anyone who attempts to un-bullshit their stories. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need a shower. SLEAZE KEY:

drew magary is a gq correspondent and a sta≠ writer for Deadspin.

H E ADS , FROM TOP: ALE X AN DER HASSENSTEIN/FIFA /G E T T Y IMAG ES; RONALD MARTIN EZ /G E T T Y IMAG ES

14. John Terry The former England national-team captain reportedly had sex with a teammate’s ex- girlfriend (while he was married, natch) and called an opponent a “fucking black cunt,” which is still a slur, even when you say it in British.

19. Alex Rodriguez Said to have a painting of himself as a centaur hanging inside his home. And that’s the most endearing fact about him.

23. Jimmy Haslam Here was the director of sales at Cleveland Browns owner Haslam’s truck-stop company on how it ripped o≠ Hispanic customers, for which it just got slapped with a $92 million ﬁne: “They’re not stupid—there is a language barrier. So you can get away with a little bit more, because they know that they are not going to understand everything that you say.” Oh, but Jimmy knew nothing about any of that, of course. He was too busy asking a magical hobo he met before the NFL draft—true story!—if Johnny Manziel is any good. Es muy bueno. SLEAZE KEY:

GQ INTELLIG E NCE

The Orthodox Hit Squad Crime B

Under Jewish law, a woman who wants out of her marriage can’t just call 1-800-DIVORCE. The man has to initiate. And sometimes he needs a little… persuasion. Maybe a visit from henchmen with cattle prods. Or the old Taser-to-theballs trick. After a few hours of this kind of torture, the stubborn husband will sign pretty much anything. One powerful rabbi (yes, a rabbi!) has allegedly employed this system for decades, operating with total impunity—until now ✒ M AT T H E W S H A E R P R O D U C E R : P R O D U C I T, I N C . S T Y L I S T: VA N E S S A S H O K R I A N AT C E L E S T I N E AG E N C Y. P R O P S T Y L I S T: R I C K F LOY D . H A I R : G I OVA N N I G I U L I A N O U S I N G B U M B L E A N D B U M B L E . O N M E N , F R O M L E F T, S U I T A N D S H I R T: T H E O R Y. S U I T A N D S H I R T: TO M M Y H I L F I G E R . S U I T A N D S H I R T: B U R B E R R Y. S U I T A N D S H I R T: C A LV I N K L E I N . S U I T A N D S H I R T: TO M M Y H I L F I G E R . A L L H AT S : J J H AT C E N T E R . A L L S U N G L A S S E S : R AY- B A N . A L L S H O E S : C A LV I N K L E I N .

○ Okay, so they didn’t really dress like this. But the hit men did unleash torture tactics reminiscent of Tarantino’s finest.

Y O U ’ R E A Y O U N G I S R A E L I M A N named Meir Bryskman. It’s a cool October night in 2010, and you’ve just stepped off a bus in downtown Lakewood, New Jersey. Pulling your dark overcoat across your chest, you walk northeast in the direction of the Metedeconk River. The sidewalks are empty, but you’ve made this journey before and have no reason to be nervous. Lakewood—at various points a railroad town, an iron town, and a resort town for claustrophobic New Yorkers— is these days known for its dense population of Orthodox Jews, who cluster there to be close to Beth Medrash Govoha, one of the largest yeshivas in the world. As a typist for Hebrew texts, that’s why you’re there, too. To be among your people. JEFF RIEDEL

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Shortly before midnight, you arrive at the rambling brick home of David Wax, a prominent local rabbi who’s hired you to do some work. You’re greeted warmly and shown upstairs to a second-story bedroom, expecting to spend the next few hours poring over Talmudic scripture. But no sooner have you crossed the bedroom’s threshold than you catch a fist that breaks your nose. Then you feel yourself lifted from behind by two sets of big hands and driven down into the floor. Lesson learned. You lie still. You’re flat on your stomach now, blindfolded, hands cu≠ed behind your back, ankles tied together. As far as you can tell, there are three men—the two attackers, whose gru≠ voices you don’t recognize, and Wax, whom you know from his nasal honk. You hear the door being shut and footsteps retreating down the hall, and for a moment it seems the worst is over. Then the door is opening again, and you feel heavy wire being wrapped around your arms. Your hands go tingly and then numb. Before dawn breaks over Lakewood, you’ll be subjected to a carnival of torture techniques. You’ll be presented with a body bag—“for you to get used to the size.” You’ll be presented with acid and feel it burn your skin. You’ll be told your next stop is the Poconos, where you’ll be eaten alive by rats. You’ll be told not to move, unless you want a stream of piss on your forehead. And you’ll be told that all the torment— all the crippling embarrassment—will halt only if you agree to sign what’s known as a get: a document releasing your wife from marriage. The choice is simple, your captors say: “A divorce or a funeral.” a man and his wife enter wedlock by signing their names to the ketubah, the traditional prenuptial agreement, both knowing that only the man, the head of the household, is allowed to terminate the relationship. A husband’s refusal to do so creates an agunah out of his powerless wife—she becomes, literally, a “chained” woman. Bryskman’s wife claimed to be just that. A few months earlier, she and her husband had found themselves embroiled in particularly acrimonious separation proceedings in an Israeli rabbinical court. She moved out of the house they shared, took the kids with her, and forbade her husband from seeing them. She claimed he was an unfit father. She insisted upon a divorce. He wouldn’t agree. On the advice of his rabbis, Bryskman flew from Israel to America, where he had some family—only to find on this night in Lakewood that his marital problems, far IN ORTHODOX TRADITION, 212 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

○ Rope was among the gentler torture devices.

from being left behind in Israel, had followed him across the Atlantic. Peeking through a gap in the blindfold, he caught a glimpse of Wax in a cartoonishly large white cowboy hat. “Do you like my hat?” Wax asked before delivering a few kicks to the ribs. Bryskman raised his head, revealing a spreading pool of blood. “You ruined my carpet!” Wax squealed. Adequately terriﬁed, Bryskman agreed to his tormentor’s terms. He would grant the get—anything to save his life. Line by line, he was led through the process: ...Hereby I do release thee and send away and put thee aside that thou mayest have permission and control over thyself to go to be married to any man whom thou desirest and no man shall hinder you in my name...

At 3 a . m ., Wax hustled Bryskman downstairs and into a waiting taxi. He ordered the driver to take them both toward Brooklyn. On the way, he phoned Bryskman’s father, Zalman, in Israel. Wax said he had a team on the ground there; as proof, he named a fast-food spot where Zalman had recently dined. If Zalman

didn’t wire $100,000 to the family of Bryskman’s wife, Wax would have both Bryskman and Zalman murdered. “For you, there’s a special gift,” he told Zalman. “It’s called a bullet…in your head.” Bryskman was deposited, bloody and aching, at the doorstep of his cousin’s apartment in central Brooklyn. Meanwhile, Wax turned back for Lakewood, apparently untroubled by the possibility that Bryskman might rat him out. After all, ultra-Orthodox Jews consider it blasphemous to involve secular authorities in a dispute that should be rightly settled in the community. But at this point Bryskman no longer cared. Later that same day, lying in a bed at Maimonides Medical Center in Brooklyn, he told his story to several law-enforcement o∞cials. A search warrant was issued; Wax was arrested; his Lakewood house was tossed. Upstairs, investigators found a large white cowboy hat and an invoice from Step on Me Carpet & Flooring for a $1,311.10 emergency carpet installation. Wax, prosecutors would later allege, was part of a criminal syndicate “engaged in the business of kidnapping and torturing

GQ INTELLIGENCE

B Crime

“

HE WAS BEATING GUYS UP, HE WAS GIVING THEM BLOODY NOSES, HE WAS USING CATTLE PRODS. HE HAD A GANG OF THUGS,

AND HE HAD A VAN, AND HE’ D SCOOP YOU RIGHT OFF THE STREET.” had a gang of thugs, and he had a van, and he’d scoop you right o≠ the street.” Bell-shaped and wizened, with protuberant blue eyes and a wide forehead, Epstein speaks in a gravelly New York accent, punctuating his observations with blasts of Yiddish. He’s fond of quoting Maimonides (“A woman is not a prisoner who should be forced to live with the man she hates”) and the Jewish sages of yore: “Ein adam dor im nachash bekeﬁfa achas—you can’t live with a snake.” An ultra-Orthodox woman named Henny Kupferstein recently told me the story of her arranged marriage, at the age of 18, to a man she soon came to think of as a controlling monster. “I was taught that

people, beating them up, tying them up, shocking them with Tasers and stun guns until they got what they wanted”—a group of hit men that had allegedly been abducting and assaulting recalcitrant husbands across the tristate area for decades, to the tune of one forced get every year. In May, David Wax pleaded guilty to his role in the kidnapping of Meir Bryskman. But he told the court that he had done the hit on behalf of someone else, a man purported to be the mastermind of the forcedget ring, a man known as the Prodfather: a 69-year-old gray-bearded, frazzle-haired father of eight—and grandfather of fortyfour—named Rabbi Mendel Epstein. I N T H E S E C U L A R W O R L D , we enter relationships voluntarily, and we exit them the same way. Our entire modern romantic outlook is predicated on this fact. We choose our mate, and if we fuck up—or if they fuck up, or if it just doesn’t work—we can wave good-bye. There are no rabbinical courts or ancient laws holding us back. As Rabbi Epstein writes in his 1989 book, A Woman’s Guide to the Get Process, outside of Orthodox circles “people often divorce casually, for mere incompatibility, immaturity or absorption with their careers or lusts. But this is not true in the religious world. In over 30 years of counseling, I have never met a frum”— pious—“couple that divorced due to incompatibility alone. When frum people divorce, it is because one spouse is abusive and the healthy one feels endangered, physically and emotionally.” For at least three decades, Epstein has been the most feared divorce lawyer in the so-called black-hat community of New York and New Jersey—a loose collection of Hasidic sects and Orthodox congregations that spills across Brooklyn and low-lying Lakewood and the rural reaches of Kiryas Joel, up near Poughkeepsie. And yet he’s never gone to law school; he’s not licensed to practice law in New York State or New Jersey or anywhere else. He is a to’ein—an advocate in the threeman rabbinical court known as a beit din, or “house of justice.” In Orthodox society, which can be so insular it employs its own uno∞cial police force, the beit din is both small-claims court and counseling service. Have trouble collecting an outstanding debt from your tightﬁsted neighbor? Visit a beit din. Need advice on how to bury your mother? See the beit din. Want out of a marriage? Sign a get at your local beit din for ratiﬁcation. The hitch comes when a husband refuses to participate in the process. Suddenly his wife, who may have been pressed into an arranged marriage and

now has a handful of screaming kids on her hands and very little money of her own—to say nothing of education or the means to make a living, which in ultra-Orthodox circles, where men are always the breadwinners, is pretty much out of the question, anyway—is o∞cially an agunah, chained to a marriage that is functionally dead. Situations like this are Epstein’s specialty. His reputation was founded on extricating trapped women from marriage; by his own count, he has personally supervised 2,000 divorce cases. Success, Epstein has bragged, is merely a matter of ﬁnding “the right buttons to push to aggravate the husband so that he wants out of his selfimposed predicament.” Depending on

○ Meir Bryskman’s view might’ve looked something like this—if he hadn’t been blindfolded.

how much you’re willing to spend, those buttons might include harassment (in his book, Epstein recalls once following a husband into a dance club and remaining there until that meshuggener, pink-faced and utterly ashamed, put pen to paper) or, perhaps, alternate measures. To his enemies, he’s a menace and a bully. To his admirers, though, he’s a hero—a liberator. As such, Epstein has scarcely tried to hide what he does. In Orthodox circles, his work isn’t just an open secret—it’s barely a secret at all. “For a long time,” says Monty Weinstein, a New York therapist who frequently counsels Orthodox clients, “it was always his name that came up. He was beating guys up, he was giving them bloody noses, he was using cattle prods. He

the only reason that you’re in this world is to serve your husband,” says Kupferstein, who has round cheeks the shade of burnished apples and beautiful long brown hair—her own, she points out, after years of shaving her head and wearing a wig, as married frum women must. “It never occurred to me that there was a way out,” she went on. “I was going to get married as a teenager and have babies every year, and I would be a grandmother at 39. It would be fabulous. What wasn’t fabulous was that my life didn’t go that way. My marriage was a trauma that lasted for fourteen years.” Eventually, Kupferstein left her husband. But her husband denied her the get, and at the age of 32, Kupferstein was adrift, “cut o≠ from everyone and anyone. Little

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THE VAN, YOU’ D GIVE A GET TO YOUR WIFE. YOU PROBABLY LOVE YOUR WIFE, BUT YOU’ D GIVE A GET WHEN THEY FINISH WITH YOU.” which bothered the frum Leah; worse yet, he didn’t want children. Leah decided on a divorce. But there was a snag: Ben and Moshe were still business partners, and Moshe had conveniently remembered that Ben owed him some money. Now, they tell Epstein, Moshe is squirreled away in South America, refusing the get until this debt is repaid. Even beyond the logistical challenges, there’s still the question of money. Liberating an agunah isn’t cheap. Ben and Leah will have to pay ten grand to the rabbinical court that would take their case, and an additional $50K to $60K to the “tough guys” required to extract the get. A plan emerges: Moshe will be lured north to New Jersey under false pretenses and thrown into the back of a van. “Basically what we’re going to be doing,” Epstein says, “is kidnapping a guy for a couple of hours and beating him up and torturing him and then getting him to give the get.” Ben is skeptical. He knows his business partner—Moshe isn’t the type of guy to simply back down. “Wait a second here,” Epstein says. “I guarantee you that if you’re in the van, you’d give a get to your wife. You probably love your wife, but you’d give a get when they finish with you,” he continues. “Hopefully there won’t even be a mark on him.” “You can leave a mark,” Ben laughs. “No, no, no. We—” “I know. I understand what you’re saying.” “We prefer not to leave a mark. Because when they go to the police, the police look at the guy… ” Luckily, Epstein has methods that don’t cause any blood loss: “We take an electric cattle prod… ” “Electric cattle prod,” Leah repeats. “Okay.” “If it can get a bull that weighs five tons to move… You put it in certain parts of his body and in one minute the guy will know.” Ben and Leah don’t need to hear anything more: They hire Mendel Epstein on the spot. Two months later, at 8 p.m. on October 9, a pair of dark minivans pull around the back of an aging warehouse in a waterfront tract of New Jersey, where Ben is waiting. He’s already wired Epstein a $20K down payment—with the rest contingent on services rendered. The team runs through the plan one last time: In a few minutes, Ben will go collect Moshe, who has flown up from South America believing he’s being shown a new piece of property. Once inside the warehouse, Moshe will be jumped. Of paramount importance is to keep him away

“

WAIT A SECOND HERE. I GUARANTEE YOU THAT IF YOU’ RE IN

kids would cross the street to get away from me. I was an outcast.” Kupferstein turned to Epstein, who received the desperate woman in the living room of his Brooklyn home. The light was dim, and the tables were piled high with papers. The walls were lined with portraits of community leaders and photographs of Epstein shaking hands with various Orthodox dignitaries. Kupferstein was led to a chair. Almost immediately, she felt comfortable— she was in the presence of someone who understood. Epstein, Kupferstein says, “seemed to have this inside understanding of women’s emotions—he validated you when you explained why the marriage was breaking down. He nodded. And that nodding was enough to encourage you—to make you believe your thoughts were legit, which is far more than you get from other men in your community. Here’s a guy who wears a beard that gets it.” A few months later, with Epstein’s help, Kupferstein was released from her marriage, without blood loss, through a series of hearings in the local beit din. Still, Kupferstein has no doubt that had things not gone her way in the beit din, Epstein would have suggested tactics “outside the normal channels,” as Epstein himself has described his more aggressive methods. She would need only to have said the word. Epstein ﬁrst gained notoriety outside the black-hat world in the late 1990s, when several men, all in the midst of divorce and custody battles, went public with tales of back-alley assaults at the hands of masked madmen. One was shot in the ass. Another su≠ered facial burns. Each

blamed his problems on Epstein and one of his colleagues, the revered Orthodox rabbi Martin Wolmark. For a certain kind of husband—the kind who believed in his heart that women were meant to be subservient and that the whole agunah issue was merely a matter of secular political correctness run awry—Epstein became a bogeyman. He was the malevolent spirit from Yiddish folktales, the dybbuk. You didn’t want him darkening your doorstep. And like a dybbuk, he seemed impossible to bring down by earthly means. Accusations bounced right o≠ him. Part of the reason, of course, is that many in the community didn’t want their star to’ein to be caught. He may have been rough, but he was also a crusader for women’s rights. “I came to believe that Epstein was a sociopath at a very high level,” Kupferstein told me. “He straddled both worlds: religious and criminal. He loves his own children, he loves his God, he’s capable of love, but he’s capable of criminal behavior at the same time. It’s like Breaking Bad.” O N A U G U S T 1 4 , 2 0 1 3 , a pair of prospective clients—a brother and sister I’ll call Ben and Leah—show up at the doorstep of a home Epstein keeps in Lakewood. They ﬁnd him inside, clad in his traditional uniform of black coat, white shirt, black pants. A few years earlier, Ben explains, he’d introduced his sister to one of his partners in the real estate business, a man we’ll refer to as Moshe. Ben liked Moshe, and Leah liked Moshe, and the match initially seemed blessed by God. But shortly after the marriage was consummated, cracks appeared in the facade. Moshe was having ﬁnancial issues,

Untouchable The authorities have been aware of Mendel Epstein for quite some time. Here, an abridged history of previous allegations against the Prodfather.— M . S . V 1996: Brooklyn rabbi Abraham Rubin alleges that a gang of thugs under the command of Mendel Epstein and Martin Wolmark kidnapped him and set a stun gun to his genitals. The case is dropped. V 1998: Inspired by Rubin, accountant Stephen Weiss comes forward, alleging that his jaw, leg, and arm were broken in 1992 by members of a ring run by Epstein and Wolmark. No arrests are made. V 1998: Newsday interviews an additional dozen residents of Brooklyn’s Borough Park and Midwood neighborhoods, all of whom claim that they’ve been harassed, threatened, or assaulted by men working for their estranged wives. The Brooklyn district attorney agrees to look into the charges but, despite pressure from the victims, declines to prosecute.

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RABBI EPSTEIN HAS HELPED SCORES OF ABUSED WOMEN FOR SOME THIRTY YEARS EQUAL THE PLAYING FIELD IN A MALE-DOMINATED RELIGIOUS WORLD.” determined to ﬁght. He and Wolmark have pleaded not guilty. In an e-mailed statement, Robert G. Stahl, Epstein’s attorney, indicated that at least part of his strategy will be to depict Epstein himself as the abused party. “When all the facts and evidence come out, it will be apparent that the government is on the wrong side of a terrible social injustice,” Stahl said. “By inserting itself into a complicated religious issue, the government has interfered with the complex religious tenets of an Orthodox Jewish marriage and divorce process. Rabbi Epstein has helped scores of abused women for some thirty years equal the playing ﬁeld in a maledominated religious world.” A jury trial is scheduled for early next year in New Jersey. In the meantime, Epstein is out on $1 million bail, provided mostly by his family. T H E S E DAY S E P S T E I N ’ S

from the windows, so nobody outside sees anything suspicious. While Ben watches, the men prepare their work clothes. Some wear black ski masks. Some have bandannas pulled over their faces in the manner of Wild West outlaws. One man is wearing a zombie mask, another a black Metallica T-shirt. A third has yanked a big trash bag over his torso— perhaps a blood-splatter prophylactic, in case this particular get requires leaving a mark after all. Twenty minutes later, Ben exits the warehouse and walks out to his car. At 8:23 p.m., the eight men hear a sound at the door. Within seconds, they ﬁnd themselves ambushed by an FBI Specialized Weapons

corporate real estate. There’d never been an agunah called Leah or a protective brother named Ben. There were only “Ben” and “Leah,” undercover FBI agents working out of the bureau’s Newark o∞ce. I N T H E I R M A N Y conversations with Epstein, both in person and on the phone, Ben and Leah were always careful to use a recorder. The resulting transcripts, detailed in court documents, have provided both the basis for this story and what Joseph Gribko, the assistant U.S. attorney on the case, has called “overwhelming evidence” against Epstein. On these tapes, Epstein describes not only what he will have done to Moshe but exactly how

○ The assailants were always beautifully lit.

and Tactics team. There is shouting, the squeak of thick-soled boots, the glare of rail-mounted tactical lights. The goons put their hands up. FBI agents fan out across the room. In one corner, they discover an array of gear: feather quills and ink and paper to record the get, plus rope, a screwdriver, and most ominously, a clutch of surgical blades. As these items are being bagged, additional agents are serving search warrants on the homes of Epstein and Wolmark and the other alleged members of the ring, in hopes of drumming up enough evidence to land the Prodfather in prison for life. Unable to fathom the possibility that he’d be on the receiving end of a sting, much less one pulled o≠ with such panache, Epstein had been fooled at every turn. There was never a Moshe, with his money-grubbing ways and interest in 218 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

much he expects to be paid for it. It is the approach of someone who cannot imagine ever being arrested. Six of the eight men present at the warehouse on October 9 have pleaded guilty to traveling in interstate commerce to commit extortion. Their statements to law enforcement, in conjunction with the tapes recorded by Ben and Leah, yield what the assistant U.S. attorney’s office believes is a clear portrait of an organization akin to the Bloods, the Crips, or the Maﬁa. In May of this year, a grand jury indicted Epstein and Wolmark on multiple counts of kidnapping. They each face the possibility of twenty-ﬁve years to life in a federal penitentiary. At 69 years old and in increasingly poor health—obese, pre-diabetic, and a survivor of open-heart surgery— Epstein cannot a≠ord prison time. So he is

Brooklyn home is shuttered and locked, the windows of his old o∞ce boarded over with gra∞tied plywood. Despite dispensation from a judge allowing regular passage to a nearby shul, Epstein seems to remain sequestered with his wife and family. He rarely appears in public and has denied all requests to comment on his case. In early May, I decided to drive down from New York to see him in New Jersey. The day was stormy, and along Lakewood’s leafy back roads, rainwater coursed through the gutters. I parked at the end of a cul-desac near the town center and followed a cement walk to Epstein’s front door. The two-story house, with its claycolored paint job and chipped black shutters, was falling into disrepair. Trash was scattered across the front yard; yellowing newspapers were piled on the porch. I knocked and then tried the bell, and got no response. I went back to my car to wait. A few minutes later, there was a ﬂicker of movement in an upstairs window, and Epstein appeared at the glass, his face moony and pale, his white hair protruding at odd angles. Only a fool would attempt to read minds, but it was impossible not to see the palpable sadness of a once powerful man brought low. The twilight of a self-modeled hero. All traces of him had been scrubbed out of a neighborhood where he had long exercised his will so audaciously. Now he was conﬁned to a house with a garbagestrewn lawn. He wasn’t even bothering to brush his own hair. As I watched, he drew the blinds shut.

matthew shaer is the author of The Sinking of the Bounty: The True Story of a Tragic Shipwreck and Its Aftermath.

MILLENN

Three years ago, Adam Driver was a former Marine with little more than a degree from Juilliard and a guest spot on Law & Order to show for his acting career. Then he landed on a show called Girls. Appealingly intense and compellingly awkward, he was nobody’s idea of the next Brad Pitt. Now, suddenly, Hollywood is betting he’s something better than that: his generation’s cure for the cookie-cutter leading man Jessica Pressler Paola Kudacki

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“This is very cool,” Adam Driver says as the serene face of the Statue of Liberty comes into view. We levitate around it for a little while, observing the trails of tourists that scurry, antlike, under Lady Liberty’s skirt. The air is smooth and clear—just as our helicopter

pilot promised. Then: “Shiiiit!” Driver says, as the machine shudders and dips, then jokingly throws out his arms as though bracing himself against potential disaster. The gust lasts approximately two seconds. The pilot glances back quizzically at this strange tall man with the slightly familiar face. Driver pushes back his longish hair—the indierock styling of which may not be so much his as that of the character he plays on HBO’s Girls—and nods. “I’m glad they gave us these fanny packs,” he deadpans, patting the life preserver on his waist. There’s not much Adam Driver is afraid of, certainly not a touristy helicopter trip. “We rode in helicopters in the Marines,” he told me on the tarmac. “Also, we’ve been using them a lot in this movie I’m in.” He sounded a little embarrassed, like being in a movie is so much less cool than being a Marine. But it was, after all, his second choice of career. These days it’s rare to encounter an emerging Hollywood talent who is also a veteran— of a Who Wore It Best battle, maybe, but not the actual military. But before Driver became the breakout star of a show about entitled slackers in Brooklyn, he served in the armed forces. More speciﬁcally, he was “a fucking Marine who went to Juilliard,” as one director put it, in that tone of curiosity and awe Driver tends to inspire. The helicopter arcs over the Brooklyn Bridge. “There’s my apartment,” Driver says, pointing. He sounds a bit wistful, probably because lately he hasn’t seen the inside of it

much. Over the past couple of years, Driver has been in the midst of a transformation, from the most unexpected star of a cult TV show to being “probably one of the most sought-after actors around,” says direc tor Shawn Levy, who moved heaven and earth—in the form of the schedules of Jason Bateman and Tina Fey—to cast Driver in the role of the perpetually adolescent younger brother in this month’s This Is Where I Leave You. The movie is the first in a verita ble avalanche of prominent films Driver will soon appear in, among them Je≠ Nichols’s Midnight Special, Noah Baumbach’s While We’re Young, and Martin Scorsese’s Silence. Like a cool band, he’s been plucked from hipster Brooklyn and is in the process of being fully mainstreamed, though he still retains his cred: Last night, he was up late shooting scenes for the fourth season of Girls, even though today he’s leaving for the London set of the latest installment in that blockbuster of blockbusters, Star Wars. I’m looking at him craning his neck toward the chopper window, this quiet, slightly goofy guy whose Adam’s apple, in profile, sticks out roughly as much as his nose, and Driver doesn’t seem like the world’s most likely movie star. But “this kid,” Levy says, with mark-my-words import, “is going to be one of the most formidable actors of his generation.” “That’s nice of Shawn,” Driver says when I tell him what Levy said. “He’s, like, the kind of person who believes things will turn out good. Unlike me, who believes things are going to go to shit at any minute.”

A W E E K O R S O before our helicopter trip, we met for lunch in Manhattan. From the moment we walked in, it was clear that the place, with its white tablecloths and overly attentive waiters, was all wrong for Driver, his sensibility as well as his

size—not that Driver, a polite midwesterner, would ever complain. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, he folded his six-foot-three body into one of the froofy chairs, ordered a steak, medium-rare, and didn’t even blink when it arrived covered in edible ﬂowers. “My plan was to be able to make a living as an actor,” he says. “And then everything else just...” He motions with one of his hands and nearly smacks a water pitcher out of the grasp of a lurking waiter. “Oh no!” he says, hunching his wide shoulders forward in shame, like he’s the Incredible Hulk and has just burst out of his clothes in public. Which is kind of a ﬁtting image to show what happened to Driver. As the lovable sexual deviant Adam Sackler, he burst, partially and sometimes fully naked, onto the screen in Girls, playing the boyfriend of Lena Dunham’s character, immediately commanding attention. It’s hard to say what was most compelling about him: perhaps his face, with all of its di≠erent planes, like a carving from Easter Island. Or maybe his incongruously muscular body, which seemed to contain equal amounts of twitchy intensity and feral grace. Or it could be the way he spoke, forcefully but always with a tremulous undercurrent of feeling that somehow made him endearing, even as he barked out fantasies to Dunham’s character while having sex: “You’re a junkie and you’re only 11 and you had your fucking Cabbage Patch lunchbox. You’re a dirty little whore, and I’m going to send you home to your parents covered in cum.” “To me, Girls announced this wholly new and surprising kind of actor,” says Levy, who came away from his initial co≠ee date with

←← HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE NEW PROPORTIONS? •If there’s a word that sums up the past decade of men’s fashion in GQ, that word is slim (with all due respect to runners-up like dynamic, rakish, pulchritudinous, and ultra-fuckable ). It has become this magazine’s mantra— slim pants, slim suit jackets, slim ties, slim lapels— for a good reason: We’ve been breaking the bad habits America learned in the ’90s, during the mallification of our culture and the exaltation of comfort over all things handsome and, um, pulchritudinous. But now that men understand the basic tenets of not dressing like Roseanne Barr, we’re starting to loosen things up. Last month, Kanye West graced our cover in a voluminous camel coat over a slim T-shirt and skinny leather pants. And here we see Adam Driver in mostly slim-fit clothes, but in each look there’s one relaxed piece offering counterbalance. That means: Slim cargos with an oversize cardigan. Slim jeans with a roomy coat. Roomy pants with a cropped peacoat. The new formula is Slim + Slim + Kinda on the Looser Side. That’s the way forward. So check out these photos and let your eyes adjust to the new proportions. — W I L L W E L C H 2014 GQ.COM 223

SEPTEMBER

The cargos here are pretty skinny, but the tank is long (without being wide) and the sweater is oversize. That gives Adam a look that’s laid-back but not sloppy.

→ cardigan $1,150 Black Sail by Nautica tank top $65 ATM Anthony Thomas Melillo pants $495 Belstaff vintage necklace Melet Mercantile

Driver with what sounds like a full-blown man crush. “The way he moves, talks, eats, navigates the world,” he gushes. “It’s really authentic. Adam is a fucking man.” At a time when nearly every industry is trying to commodify authenticity— McDonald’s artisan burger, anyone?— Hollywood has lagged. To Levy and others, Driver is a welcome course correction from the parade of blue-eyed Brad Pitt types (your Chris Hemsworths, your Chris Pines). His ripped physique is comparable to today’s action heroes’, but beneath his pecs there is the suggestion of a brain, a heart, a soul. Driver’s electric intensity and his intriguing backstory suggest that this is a man who has Seen Things. “He’s a real person,” says Baumbach. 224 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

ADAM DRIVER, real person, grew up in the Leave It to Beaver –ish town of Mishawaka, Indiana. His family were devout Baptists—his stepfather was a preacher—though Driver was a bit of a rebel. He sang in the choir, but he also ran a ﬁght club, where he and his friends would beat one another in a ﬁeld behind a banquet hall that hosted weddings and baby showers. “Can we just…,” he interjects apologetically when I start to ask about how his parents feel about the path he’s chosen, “if I can, I’ll skip the parents stu≠ ?” He doesn’t want to reopen any family wounds. “We have di≠erent views on the world,” he explains. “They have their life; I have mine.” He didn’t tell them about Girls until after the second season. “What was I going to tell them?” he

says, laughing. “I just masturbated on some girl’s chest”? Driver’s parents didn’t know much about his acting in high school, either—not that it was all that important then. Appearing in a production of Oklahoma! just seemed like a good way to meet girls. But it’s indicative of his tendency toward extremes that once he began considering it as a career, he saw only two paths available. “It was like the South Bend Civic Theatre,” he says with distaste, “or Juilliard.” He applied to the latter and didn’t get in. And that, for a while, was that. On September 11, 2001, Driver was almost 18 years old, living in an apartment in the back of his parents’ home and “not doing fucking anything,” he says. In the swell of patriotism that followed the terrorist attacks, he decided to enlist in the armed forces. “It just seemed like a badass thing to do,” he says, “to go and shoot machine guns and serve your country. Coupled with: There’s nothing for me here, there’s nothing that’s keeping me here, there’s nothing that’s stopping me from going.” He was shipped o≠ to Camp Pendleton in California. Rarely do you hear praise for the brutal initiation of basic training, but Driver loved it: “You see what your body can do and how discipline is e≠ective.” He fell comfortably into the structure of the military and into friendships with the people he met there. “It’s hard to describe,” he says. “You’re put in these very heightened circumstances, and you learn a lot about who people are at the core, I think. You end up having this very intimate relationship where you would, like, die for these people.” Driver never made it to war. Two years in, he broke his sternum on a cheapo mountain bike and soon after was medically discharged, an outcome that still “fuckin’ kills me,” he says. “To not get to go with that group of people I had been training with was...painful.” He moved back to Indiana, but he was restless and depressed. “I wanted a challenge,” he says. Driver’s thoughts wandered again to Juilliard. “The Marine Corps is supposed to be the toughest and most rigorous of its class,” he says. And in a similar way, Juilliard was the toughest in its class. “Obviously the stakes are di≠erent,” he says. “You have the risk of getting shot or killed in one and just embarrassed in the other. I thought, (continued on page 280)

â&#x2020;? jacket $2,525 Giorgio Armani sweatshirt $348 Club Monaco pants $58 Adidas Originals sneakers $100 Nike watch Omega where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

These are the widest pants weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve shown in GQ in years. But the sweatshirt and coat are as formfitting as ever.

“Ain’t Nothing Shine Brighter Than That Bad Boy” The Inside Story of Hip-Hop’s Most Notorious Label Biggie Smalls’s landmark album Ready to Die, produced by Sean Combs, came out twenty years ago this month, on September 13, 1994.

AN O R AL HI STO RY O F HOW PU FF DADDY, BIG GI E S MALL S, AN AR MY O F R APPER S, AN D AN OC EAN O F CHAM PAGN E CHANG ED HIP-HOP FO R EVER BY C RAIGH BAR BOZ A

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From Ashy to Classy The first album released by Bad Boy Entertainment—twenty years ago this month—was the Notorious B.I.G.’s Ready to Die, an instant classic and possibly the most influential rap record ever made. For Sean “Pu≠ Daddy” Combs, the label’s founder, it was the first in a remarkable streak of commercial hits: twenty-one straight gold- or platinum-selling albums, including Pu≠ ’s own Grammy-winning debut, No Way Out, plus home-grown artists like Faith Evans, the Lox, Mase, Total, and 112. By the mid1990s, Bad Boy was the biggest label in pop music. This is the story of how it all began.

Andre Harrell (founder of Uptown Records, Combs’s mentor): Pu≠ was a great groovemaker, and whoever controls the groove controls the attitude. Cheo Coker (journalist, Notorious screen-

this 19-year-old hip-hop kid?” And I’d say, “You don’t understand. This guy’s not normal. He’s special.” Kathy Nelson (head of MCA soundtracks): I remember going to a meeting to watch a video for one of Andre’s artists. Pu≠ was in charge of it. We’re looking at the rough cut, and Pu≠y’s got himself in the video. I was like, “Oh… Okay!” [laughs] But the video was great, so who cared?

writer): Ready to Die is one of the ﬁrst records to tell the perspective of the streetcorner drug dealer that wasn’t all fantasy and gloss. It wasn’t kingpin, Scarface-type stu≠. It was similar to what Richard Price did with Clockers. But Biggie didn’t take 500 pages. He took an hour of your time, and you could dance to it. Jessica Rosenblum (party promoter): We could be anywhere—in Palladium or a club in D.C.—Pu≠y always walked around with a bottle in his hand. Biggie had a bottle. They understood the fantasy. When Bad Boy ﬁrst started doing videos with mansions and all that, nobody was actually living that way yet. It was a projection of what was to come. Bad Boy sold a dream.

Jadakiss (rapper, the Lox): Getting on Bad

Boy was like being the top pick in the draft, going to play with the Bulls when Mike was there. It put the battery in our back. Janelle Monáe (singer, Bad Boy artist): Bad

Boy was proof that the American Dream was real for hardworking young black artists in the ’90s, just like it had been real for Berry Gordy and all my soul and funk heroes at Motown in the ’60s and ’70s. When I graduated high school, I headed straight to New York. That’s where Broadway was. That’s where Pu≠ was. Russell Simmons (co-founder of Def Jam):

“This Guy’s Not Normal. He’s Special.” Sean Combs was born in Harlem, and after earning a rep as a party promoter at Howard University in the late 1980s, he landed an internship at Uptown Records, where he helped the label’s founder, Andre Harrell, popularize a new R&B sound known as New Jack Swing. (Think: Control -era Janet Jackson, early Bobby Brown.) Almost immediately Combs proved he was capable of being more than just an errand boy; he began developing his own artists, including Mary J. Blige, and promoting his own shows. Rosenblum: I called him Tu≠y for three

Kirk Burrowes (general manager, Bad Boy): Uptown’s parent company, MCA, wanted to fire him, and he was waiting for the politicians and New York citizens to calm down, waiting on the police investigations to resolve what happened. It was a long, dragged-out thing, but Andre worked his magic. MCA gave Pu≠ another chance. Combs: I got an opportunity one night when [mega-successful R&B producer] Teddy Riley didn’t show up to the studio. He had a session at Chung King, this famous studio downtown. So I said, I’m just gonna utilize this time. I had this idea, which was influenced by the mixtapes of Brucie B. and Kid Capri: They would blend hip-hop beats with R&B a cappellas. I took one of Jodeci’s a cappellas and put an EPMD beat underneath it, and it was the first record I produced: “Come and Talk to Me,” the remix. Coker: Blending an R&B record with a hip-

Everything Pu≠y touched was golden. He just made hit after hit after hit. Sean “Puf f Daddy” Combs: I remember

waking up one day and I had six of the Top 10 records. As a producer, I had taken over the charts. Everybody wanted a piece of that Bad Boy sound. Gabrielle Union (actress): Every jam was like, “Aaawww, shit.” Y’know, one hand covering your face, the other in the air.

weeks. I thought his name was Tu≠y. I’d already been in nightlife for several years, but somehow we became fast partners, doing events on an equal footing. People would ask, “Why are you putting on

hop beat seems so elementary. It seems like peanut butter and jelly. But when you’re the ﬁrst to ﬁgure out PB&J tastes good together, it’s going to propel your career, and that’s what Pu≠y did.

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O P E N I N G PAG E : DA N A L I X E N B E R G . T H I S PAG E , C LO C K W I S E F R O M L E F T: E R N I E PA N I C C I O L I ( 2 ) ; R AY M O N D B O Y D / M I C H A E L O C H S A R C H I V E S / G E T T Y I M A G E S ; N Y D A I LY N E W S A R C H I V E V I A G E T T Y I M A G E S .

In 1991, Combs organized a concert to follow a charity basketball game at the City College of New York. But the event was oversold, causing a violent stampede when the doors opened for the show. Nine people were killed. The tragedy was national news, feeding early stereotypes about the dangers of rap, and it nearly derailed Combs’s career before it began.

Clockwise from far left, Combs in the early years; Combs with Blige and Harrell at Uptown Records; front page of the New York Daily News the day after the CCNY tragedy; Bad Boy’s girl group Total; Jodeci, Combs’s first producing success; Mase; Combs with Biggie; the Lox.

Big Time At Uptown, Combs became one of the label’s hottest producers. In addition to Jodeci, he created hit records for Mary J. Blige, Father MC, and Heavy D. But as his proﬁle rose, his unpredictable behavior began to grate on his co-workers, and before long Combs and his mentor, Harrell, were at each other’s throats. At around the same time, Combs was introduced to a young Brooklyn rapper named Christopher Wallace, a.k.a. Biggie Smalls. Sybil Pennix (sta≠ member, Uptown): I was C LO C K W I S E F R O M L E F T: E R N I E PA N I C C I O L I ( 2 ) ; H U G H E DWA R D S / I P O L /G LO B E P H OTO S ; J O N AT H A N M A N N I O N

could get his position back, as I was pregnant—in my ﬁrst trimester. Dre said, “No!” At that point, I became the biggest cheerleader, encourager, and advocate for Sean starting his label. I was never worried, not one bit. Matty C (journalist, The Source): I was in charge of the Unsigned Hype column in 1993. Pu≠ called me up. I told him I had someone I’d just put in my column who I thought he’d like. And he said, “Come play me some stu≠.” C o m b s : My mind was blown. I knew

that: “I’m not gonna stop!” He just kept going as if nothing happened. If it a≠ected him in any kind of way, he didn’t let us know it. Simmons: It looked like Pu≠y was ﬁnished a

hundred times; it don’t make no di≠erence. No matter how many times you stab him, Pu≠ ain’t gonna lay down. He’s a survivor. He’ll reinvent himself. Kenny Meiselas (Combs’s lawyer): Within a

Pu≠y’s assistant and Andre’s go-to person to keep track of Pu≠y and his craziness. Many days we would have a planned meeting and Pu≠y could not be found. When he ﬁnally arrived, he’d just lie on the conference table and perform antics to get everyone’s blood to rise. He thrived on drama. Combs: I was always very dramatic—I still

instantly that Big was the greatest rapper I ever heard. It was like witnessing a miracle or something. Easy Mo Bee (producer): At that time, the West Coast sound [led by N.W.A members Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and Dr. Dre, as well as a young Tupac Shakur] was winning. Big time. Mel Smith (senior vice president of promotions, Bad Boy): On the East Coast, nobody was making hardcore records. Our records were about girls, how ﬂy you were, and how bad your car was. N.W.A was about that thug street stu≠. Biggie brought that world to life. I told Pu≠, “This is groundbreaking.” Mary J. Blige (singer and Combs’s protégée at Uptown Records): Biggie was one of the nicest people you could meet—so quiet. He’d post on the wall, waiting his turn. But when he hit the booth... Damn!

short period of time we had the deal with Clive Davis at Arista Records, and we basically got all the acts we signed at Uptown, except Biggie. We had to negotiate to buy Biggie out of his agreement [with MCA]. Combs: This was when they started shutting down hip-hop clubs around the country. So when we negotiated for Biggie, MCA was like, “Sure.” They just knew him as a gangster rapper. They didn’t know how talented he was.

am, you know. Chucky Thompson (producer, the Hitmen): He is the master of motivation. He would motivate you by using psychological tactics. In other words, he would straight mindfuck you! [laughs] G a r y H a r r i s (music-industry vet and

Uptown founding sta≠ member): After a while, managing Pu≠ was becoming a nightmare for Andre. Harrell: I don’t want to rehash this joint any-

more. I’m gonna let that one go. Combs: It was my fault. I kind of embodied that hip-hop attitude and spirit, and I rebelled a little bit too much. M i s a H y l t o n ( fashion consultant and Combs’s ﬁrst love): I remember the day it got real. Andre ﬁred Sean, and we gave it a week before I reached out to see if Sean

After Combs was ﬁred from Uptown, he shopped around for a parent company to help him set up his own label, which he planned to call Bad Boy Entertainment. Many people in the music business thought he was crazy: Who would back an unruly, loudmouthed A&R kid who’d just been ﬁred by his mentor? Blige: He was determined. Like, Pu≠y is a determined guy. And he’s not going to let anything stop him. He constantly says

Clockwise from left, Biggie and Faith Evans; Lil’ Kim, whose affair with Biggie strained his marriage; Biggie and Puff at a Soul Train Awards afterpar ty in 1997, on the night Biggie was murdered; Biggie in his element.

Pu≠ ?” We didn’t see the big deal. Pu≠ was like, “What, are you kidding me!” Big said, “Yeah, this is my wife. That’s it. We outta here.” Harris: Radio was a big hurdle.

The Bad Boy Family Combs’s notion of what a music label could be was inﬂuenced by Motown—the music he grew up on. He wanted Bad Boy to have a unique sound, which he cultivated with the help of his in-house production team, the Hitmen, as well as a sense of community among his artists. Together they came to be known as Pu≠ Daddy and the Family. In August 1994, two of his biggest stars, Faith Evans and Biggie Smalls, met at a photo shoot and soon became family for real. Harve Pierre (president, Bad Boy): Scarsdale, New York. Six Kolbert Drive. That was our ﬁrst o∞ce. It was where Pu≠ was living at the time. We worked out of the basement. J u n e B a l l o o n (street team, Bad Boy):

You didn’t get the radio exposure for rap records that you get now. The most successful rap records were regional. Smith: Rap was like somebody’s dirty little sister who dances at the strip club. That’s how they treated us. Harris: The Chronic changed that to a large extent, because [Dr. Dre’s parent label] Interscope was able to get a lot of Top 40 play. Then Bad Boy came in on the updraft. In the summer of 1994, Bad Boy had the crazy one-two punch of [Craig Mack’s] “Flava in Ya Ear” and [the Notorious B.I.G.’s] “Juicy.” Combs: I’ve always had this thing, even

Everyone had their little station. You had people writing songs, producers working on beats. It was like a boot camp. And the guys were always hungry, because food around there was expensive. I used to come all the way from Queens to bring them Chinese food. One day Pu≠ ﬂipped out because the guys were starving so bad they ate Misa’s food. Pu≠ was like, “Who the fuck is eating a pregnant woman’s food?” Keisha Epps (singer, 1990s girl group Total): Pu≠y was very hands-on, and he didn’t take any slack—none. Of course, no singer should smoke cigarettes. But I did, and one day I took a break to sneak a couple pu≠s. He found out and damn near kicked down the restroom door. He was screaming not to mess up his money. I’m like, “Pu≠y, just wait. I’m not a child.” Finally I opened the door, and he said, in his most quiet voice, “Now, were you smoking?” I said, “Yes, but—” Before I could ﬁnish, he said, “Get your shit and go home. There’s no studio for you today. Or evvvverrrr, if I catch you smoking again.” I left. That was one of many memorable moments with Pu≠y. He would be happy to hear that I stopped. Faith Evans (singer): Before Big and I broke the [marriage] news to Pu≠, people made it sound like we were in trouble: “Did y’all tell

to this day, that if you’re gonna do it, do it big. Be disruptive and make releases exciting. Nobody ever had the gall to release two artists at one time. So I was like, I’ma shake the game up. I’ma make MCA and Andre regret ﬁring me. I wanted vengeance, in a positive way. Easy Mo Bee: I made that “Flava” beat while

The Birth of Bottle Service Q Parker (singer, R&B quartet 112): We watched Craig get his hit. Big get all his hits. Faith. Total. Man, our on-base percentage was crazy! Everybody was hitting, whether it was a home run, a single, a double. You didn’t want to be the artist that struck out or couldn’t bring home a teammate. Funkmaster Flex (club DJ, radio host): Pu≠

Combs: One of my strengths was sam-

pling—to try and give people the feeling I got growing up in the ’70s and ’80s. I remember watching Soul Train and dancing in my living room with my mother. I wanted to fuse those elements with what was going on at the time with “gangsta rap,” or reality rap. “Juicy Fruit” was a record that always felt like summertime in the city. Easy Mo Bee: Do I regret not working on “Juicy”? Damn right, I do! [laughs] I wish I would’ve looped that record up. I ain’t gonna lie. Yo, Pu≠. If you can hear me, I dropped the ball on that one.

Parker: It didn’t really hit us until we moved to New York. The first thing we did was go to Big’s “One More Chance” video shoot in Brooklyn, and we were just looking around at all these musical giants, like, “Oh, my God. There goes Mary! That’s Heavy D! Look at Aaliyah!” I mean, dude, you name it. It was like a big cookout. Mase (rapper): Before I met Pu≠, I was sleeping on the floor of a one-bedroom apartment in Harlem, splitting White Castle. You know how small White Castle burgers are, right? My man Cudda sold his Acura so we could fly down to Jack the Rapper [an Atlanta hip-hop convention]. We was going

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F R O M L E F T: E R I C J O H N S O N /C O R B I S O U T L I N E ; DA N A L I X E N B E R G

standing in my drawers one morning. It took twenty-ﬁve minutes. At the time, I was real busy. I’d already started working on Biggie’s stu≠, and I remember [Biggie’s breakout hit] “Juicy” was the song I didn’t want to do. Pu≠y asked me ﬁrst. He said, “Yo, Mo. Loop up that ‘Juicy Fruit’ joint by [early-’80s funk group] Mtume for me.” And I just looked at him like, “You serious, man?” If you were just looping, you weren’t really working.

single-handedly brought champagne to mean something. If it wasn’t for Bad Boy, there’d be no bottle service in clubs. Thompson: Money, cars, jewelry, cham-

pagne, baby mommas. [laughs] It was an exciting time. Oh, and did I mention the houses?

to meet Jermaine Dupri, but they wouldn’t let us speak to him. Then I bumped into Pu≠ on the dance ﬂoor. Combs: He was just so charismatic. With most of the artists I sign, it’s love at ﬁrst sight. Balloon: The ladies love Mase. This one

night, we were leaving the club. Everyone hops into the fifteen-passenger van, and these chicks run in the van and right in front of everyone they start sucking Mase’s dick! Now they fighting to see who’s gonna catch the nut. I mean, it’s crazy, and Mase goes, “Wait, hold up. Y’all can’t be having my dick go all these di≠erent directions. Calm down.” One girl’s on the phone like, “I told you I was gonna get Mase. Bitch, I told you.” Epps: I remember Big screaming at us for trying to send the groupies home. There’d be flocks of girls at the hotel in each city, waiting to be called upstairs. We’d tell them, “You probably won’t see Big or Pu≠, because you have to go through their boys first.” Some cared. Most didn’t. Balloon: By the time we hit the Days Inn,

all the girls is in the lobby and it’s “pick a winner,” basically. We had a name for that: Groupie Appreciation Day.

The Gordon Gekko of Hip-Hop F R O M TO P : M AU R Y L . P H I L L I P S ; J O N AT H A N M A N N I O N

before Christmas, he makes us come into the o∞ce to get them. At 10 a.m. he’s calling everybody to see who’s not at their desk. Literally calling each person. By noon he calls a meeting in the lobby. We’re all sitting there, waiting for him. The tension in the room, you could cut it with a knife. He steps o≠ the elevator with his bodyguards. He’s got on a mink coat, dripping jewels, sunglasses. Looks at everybody. Goes to his o∞ce. Gets something to drink. I don’t know, some juice. He’s an apple-juice fiend. Keeps us waiting another five minutes, comes back, sits down, and looks at the room and says, “Y’all are mad as fuck, ain’t you?” We know he’s got bonus checks, so nobody’s saying shit. And reading the room, he’s like, “You see me sitting here with my fur and all of that and you like, ‘Fuck Pu≠.’ But you know what? I dare one of y’all to come get it. I dare one of you to work harder than me. To come get what I got.” He launches into this Gordon Gekko– like sermon, like, “I come in here and work harder than you in the day, then go to the club and work. You think I’m in the club getting drunk? I’m looking at who’s dancing to what, figuring out which song is working in what way, which DJ is making it hot. Tell me who’s doing that more than me?” I was just sitting there like, Holy shit. Who he is hit me. He sleeps no more than four hours a night. And every waking hour, he’s figuring out how to make more money. I’ve always said he’s the greediest and most driven person I’ve ever met—like, his greed is disgusting. Too much is never enough. But he’s got a motivation and a drive that can match that greed. And when those two meet, it’s magic. Biggie happens. Mase happens. He happens.

Pac and Big As Bad Boy became a powerhouse, it also accumulated some powerful enemies. The feud with Death Row Records began with the unraveling friendship between Biggie and Tupac Shakur. After Shakur was robbed and shot at a New York studio in November 1994, he grew convinced that his former friend was somehow involved. Shortly after, Biggie released “Who Shot Ya,” which featured lines that seemed to mock Shakur for his shooting. Seventeen months later, Shakur dropped his infamous response track, “Hit ’Em Up” (Who shot me? / But your punks didn’t ﬁnish / Now you ’bout to feel the wrath of a menace). A rash of violence would claim both their lives over the next ten months. To this day, their murders remain unsolved. F u n k m a s t e r F l e x : “Who Shot Ya” was

released after about three months of people saying Biggie was too commercial. It’s like Pu≠ was listening to the street and wanted to shut them up. When “Who Shot Ya” dropped, that was it. King of the street. Coker: You have to understand what it was like to be on a dance ﬂoor when the DJ played a song like “Who Shot Ya.” Beyond all the controversy, that record’s incredible! You have to hear that record how it’s supposed to be played—the way the highs and the lows cut through a few thousand people at three in the morning in a nightclub. There’s no more compelling record on earth. Easy Mo Bee: We all know Pac and Big grew

to dislike each other, but I was there while the two were actually good friends. I just happened to be recording the Me Against the World album with Tupac in 1994 when he invited Big up to the studio. It was real crowded. Pac had his crew up in there. Biggie had his crew up in there. I had half of Lafayette Gardens up in there. So many people wanted to (continued on page 278)

Bad Boy and Sean Combs were on top of the world. But working for Bad Boy, and particularly for Combs, wasn’t always a party. The boss was tireless and tyrannical, and he never let a dollar go unchased. Jayson Jackson (marketing executive, Bad Boy Records): It’s an unspoken rule in the music business that pretty much after Thanksgiving, it’s a wrap. But for Pu≠, that’s the time when you need to be setting up a rap record, because everyone’s home from college, people are out partying. So he’s like, “I don’t give a fuck what’s happening in the larger music business; we’re gonna be working!” People were livid. Then he doesn’t give out bonus checks. Two days

Jeff Goldblum has chased dinosaurs, turned into a fly, stopped an alien invasion, and lived aquaticallyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;all while becoming a jazz pianist, an Internet phenomenon, and maybe the best-dressed sexagenarian we know. And the key to that last part? Not dressing like a sexagenarian at all Lauren Bans Peggy Sirota

GOLDBLUM

THE

â&#x2020;? shirt $50 and jeans $70 Calvin Klein Jeans glasses Tart Optical Enterprises watch Tudor on her:

dress Reem Acra earrings Ornament and Crime Jewels bracelet Cartier restaurant The Original Park Pantry, Long Beach, California

STANDARD SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 233

← ONE GOOD REASON TO WEAR A SUIT ON A SATURDAY

TALKING STYLE WITH JEFF GOLDBLUM •The inspiration for the clothes in this shoot? The personal style of the man himself. GoogleImage Jeff Goldblum (as we did before putting together the clothes you see here) and you’ll find that his look has only become more eclectic as he’s gotten older. (He’s currently in what he describes as a “growth spurt.”) Naturally, he gave us the fashion commentary that follows while sitting inside his closet “so as to best inform and inspire myself.”

“I’ve been after a corduroy suit, and I thought this one was very fine, dressed down with the hip sneaker,” Goldblum says. “I found myself imagining the scene: If it weren’t a photo shoot, what might have caused me and the lovely lady to be there?” suit $4,360 t-shirt $390 and sneakers $990 Tom Ford watch Hamilton on her:

top (swimsuit) ASOS skirt Tom Ford heels Rupert Sanderson jewelry, see page 281. location The Barber Shop, Long Beach, California

WHEN YOU FIND SOMETHING GOOD, RUN WITH IT “I first admired motorcycle jackets on Marlon Brando in The Wild One. But I never was sure it was right for me until I found one a couple of months ago while on jury duty— you know, during the Tribeca Film Festival. It’s one of the central pillars of my closet at this point. I found it, and it found me.”

← jacket $2,995 and jeans $265 Ralph Lauren Black Label Denim shirt $295 and tie $115 Ralph Lauren Black Label shoes $705 Alden glasses Tart Optical Enterprises belt Salvatore Ferragamo watch Panerai on her:

cardigan Crippen bikini top Charlie by Matthew Zink pants Zaid Affas heels Manolo Blahnik where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

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Jeff Goldblum is a people person, and that is a drastic understatement. One of his favorite things to do with people is tell them which other person they resemble. The first time I witness this happen, I'm waiting

for him at a corner table near the hostess station at Chateau Marmont. “You know who you look like?” I catch him asking the hostess. “Amanda Plummer’s mother. Oh! What was her name?” He hits his head in mock frustration. “Tammy Grimes! A young, beautiful Tammy Grimes!” Unfortunately the hostess, along with most people who don’t

share Je≠ Goldblum’s prodigious knowledge of ﬁlm history, has no idea who this is. “People say I look like Sandra Bullock?” she o≠ers, conciliatory. Je≠ Goldblum doesn’t accept this. “Tammy Grimes! She was a wonderful stage actor, married Christopher Plummer, and then…,” he continues, racking his brain for Grimes facts. Because a story about a 61-year-old man telling a young restaurant worker that she looks like a famous gorgeous person has certain connotations, let’s state clearly

← THINK OUTSIDE THE (INVISIBLE) BOX “I had a sweater like this back in my days when I was trying to be like Marcel Marceau, doing a mime demonstration with some whiteface, but that’s forty years ago, before mime hit hard times, opinionwise. Actually, my fiancée is French, and she has an item or two like this. So now if we had a mime duo, we could wear them simultaneously, if it wasn’t a violation of both taste and sanity.” sweater $250 Diesel Black Gold watch Montblanc glasses Garrett Leight location Alfredo’s Beach Club, Long Beach, California where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

that Je≠ Goldblum doesn’t come across as a skeeveball. But he is a ﬂirt. In the most innocuous way imaginable. It’s like he loves humanity so much, he can’t help but coo over it. The next night, I went to watch Goldblum play piano with his jazz band, the Mildred Snitzer Orchestra, which he’s been doing around Los Angeles for about ﬁfteen years, and it became evident that the “You’re a Young, Beautiful So-and-So” game with his audience is basically a trademarked Goldblumism:

Yes, you look like—I’ve got one, I’ve got a pretty good one—I say a young, beautiful Jennifer Jason Leigh! Look her up, because I think I’m right! A young, beautiful Lisa Kudrow over there. Okay, just a second: Oh, you’re a young, beautiful Seth Rogen! Thank you! Oh, and you—Adam Sandler! A young, handsome Adam Sandler! I’ll keep working on you. Okay, just a second. It’s coming to me. You see him? Who? Who? Beethoven the dog? Who said that? A big slobbering dog? No, no, no. Woof, woof. Wladimir Klitschko!

A young, handsome Wladimir Klitschko. Who do people tell you? Hugh Jackman, interesting! Well, maybe. You can actually hear Je≠ Goldblum saying that, right? That familiar manic, super-smart, self-interrupting patter? Je≠ Goldblum, it turns out, is the most Je≠ Goldblum–y person on the planet. The man has played nearly a hundred roles— from an alien in Earth Girls Are Easy to a human-insect hybrid in The Fly to (most recently) an executed legal executor in The Grand Budapest Hotel—and in every one of them there is an unmistakable Goldblum-ness present, even when he’s pretending to be someone other than Je≠ Goldblum. So much so that it actually feels weird to call him anything besides Je≠ Goldblum. ( Mr. Goldblum? Je≠ ? No. Goldy? Maybe.) He’s so indelibly himself that word has it he once pissed o≠ Steven Spielberg by accidentally improvising the same line—“Must go faster!”— in both 1993’s Jurassic Park (hightailing a Jeep away from an encroaching T. rex) and 1996’s Independence Day (hightailing a spaceship away from encroaching alien spaceships). And it explains why, when you meet Je≠ Goldblum for the ﬁrst time, he is almost exactly whom you imagine him to be. Like a Jewish version of the Dos Equis man. Like a young, beautiful Je≠ Goldblum. On the morning of our breakfast, Je≠ Goldblum is looking tan in an o≠-white blazer, tailored navy slacks, and a woven fedora. It’s the kind of outﬁt that says, “I live in Miami and move kilos of cocaine every day.” Except for the shoes. His Nike sneakers remind me of the ones my dad wears to mow the lawn. Goldblum is wearing them because he walked here. He loves being in good cardiovascular health: “It’s the little things—taking the stairs, parking the car far away—that count.” He lifts his shirt over his belly button (Je≠ Goldblum has an innie, by the way—phew) and shows me the Fitbit hooked discreetly to the waist of his pants. It’s 10 a.m. , and so far today he has taken 2,000 steps. He aims for 11,000 to 12,000 every day. “It took me seven minutes to get here,” he says. “I left just a minute late, so I had to hurry. Punctuality is my middle name! That would be a good name for a child, wouldn’t it?” Punctuality? “Punctuality Goldblum!” he says with a twinkle in his eye. Je≠ Goldblum’s eyes are perpetually twinkling. “But what if Punctuality Goldblum was always late?” I ask him. “Yes, I suppose…,” he thinks aloud. “Just like you can’t say Chastity, in case they aren’t… Or Gluttony. Nobody names a child Gluttony or Sloth Goldblum.” SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 237

This ﬁxation with baby names begs the question: Is Je≠ Goldblum thinking about having a little Goldblum? Twice divorced, he currently lives with his 31-year-old gymnast ﬁancée, Emilie. “No,” he says, but then his eye twinkles again. “But, you know, they are cute, aren’t they?” The closest Je≠ Goldblum has to a baby at the moment is an 11-month-old red-haired poodle named Woody Allen Goldblum. “Woody Allen,” he says, referring to the human, not the poodle, “was originally reddish, I believe—kind of freckly and red-y.” During the day, Je≠ and Woody (the poodle) go on long walks together—it helps Goldblum reach his step count—and those walks sometimes end in naps. “He’s gotten to be a very good 238 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

partner in bed. He’s very delightfully loving, soulful, tactile, sensual… Yesterday, I must say, I took a nap with him—we’re evolving more and more in closeness and bonding, and we took a midday, the two of us. Well, to tell the truth, he was already taking a little siesta, and I kind of arranged myself close nearby. We were, you know, together. Cuddling.” A conversation with Je≠ Goldblum feels a little like a Disneyland ride in that it’s (a) good clean fun, but also (b) full of twists and turns. Except this particular ride tends to let you o≠ ten miles from where you got on. At some point during our breakfast, a young, beautiful Jessica Biel sits down at the table next to us. As in: the actual Jessica Biel. Je≠ Goldblum gets up, and they hug and (continued on page 280)

↑ THE “NO COMMENT” STATEMENT PANT “I’m not trying to make a statement when I reach for a colorful pant. I’m just trying to tickle myself, and educate myself about my own evolving aesthetic. I’m reminded of a quote that guides my thinking: ‘I’m not trying to impress anybody; I’m just trying to express myself.’” peacoat $4,965 Ermenegildo Zegna sweater $350 Rag & Bone cords $125 Polo Ralph Lauren sneakers $150 Nike ON HER:

sweater Burberry Brit jeans Paige heels Giuseppe Zanotti Design sunglasses (on both) Ray-Ban

GOING GRAY THE MODERN WAY “Oh, I have things like these,” Goldblum says of the sneakers that anchor this allgray look, showing he fully gets the current starksimple trend. “A Chuck Taylor, Shoes Like Pottery… I’m enjoying my current affair with Nike Cortezes. I’m kind of a minimalist. I pare things down.”

← hoodie $198 John Elliott + Co pants $200 Brooks Brothers Red Fleece sneakers $410 Common Projects bracelet Miansai sunglasses Ray-Ban grooming by sussy campos. woman’s hair by roque at oribe salon miami; makeup by matthew vanleeuwen at the wall group. woman’s wardrobe stylist: jeanne yang at the wall group. prop stylist: phillip williams. produced by steve bauerfeind at bauerfeind productions–west. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

HANDLE WITH FLAIR

↑ briefcase $8,750 Hermès + suit $2,163 Etro watch Shinola

Wow, there are lots of bags out there: totes, messengers, folios, and all manner of packs and pouches. Even the original workbag, the dutiful briefcase, looks a lot less dutiful now, in colors that will work nicely with your sharp plaid business suit. (Your business suit is plaid, right?) Now go forth and carry some sh*t! Sebastian Mader

â&#x2020;? briefcase $2,450 Gucci + suit $2,890 Gucci watch Hamilton for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

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A BAG FOR THE ERA OF THE OFFICE INDIVIDUALIST •We ran the numbers and found that conformity has accounted for exactly zero promotions so far in 2014. Which explains the recent return of bold-patterned suits to the workplace: They say, “I know how to suit up, but I’ve gotta do it my way.” And now designers have cooked up a sweet new batch of briefcases that will also declare your one-of-a-kind-ness. The template for these bags is retro—they’re just strippeddown leather cases with flaps—but the hides are next generation (pebble grain, anyone?) and the colors have gone electric. So replace your messenger bag or run-of-the-mill brown briefcase with a caramel one that has orange stitches. Or instead of black, go cool gray. Then reach for it daily, and carry it to work like your name is on the door. — M A R K A N T H O N Y G R E E N

briefcase $5,500 Louis Vuitton + suit $1,595 Luigi Bianchi Mantova watch Hermès grooming by carrie lamarca; manicure by ana-maria, both at abtp.com. for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go /fashiondirectories

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briefcase $950 Lotuff

suit $3,495 Isaia

watch Omega

briefcase $2,100 Salvatore Ferragamo

suit $995 Sand Copenhagen

watch Jack Spade

briefcase $1,745 Dolce & Gabbana

suit $650 Tallia Orange

watch Dolce & Gabbana

briefcase $475 Tumi

suit $599 Suitsupply

watch Bulova AccuSwiss

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NATHANIEL PENN

Sexual assault is alarmingly common in the U.S. military, and more than half of the victims are men. According to the Pentagon, thirty-eight military men are sexually assaulted every single day.

These are the stories you never hearâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;because the culprits almost always go free, the survivors rarely speak, and no one in the military or Congress has done enough to stop it

PLA TON

Mike Thomson “I don’t know if I lost consciousness, but the next thing I remember is my wrists were taped to the bed frame and they were holding a knife to my throat.” S E P T E M B E RS E 20 P1T4’ 1G 4Q . C O M

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I. “you will not make a noise.” The moment a man enlists in the United States armed forces, his chances of being sexually assaulted increase by a factor of ten. Women, of course, are much more likely to be victims of military sexual trauma (MST), but far fewer of them enlist. In fact, more military men are assaulted than women— nearly 14,000 in 2012 alone. Prior to the repeal of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” in 2011, maleon-male-rape victims could actually be discharged for having engaged in homosexual conduct. That’s no longer the case—but the numbers show that men are still afraid to report being sexually assaulted. Military culture is built upon a tenuous balance of aggression and obedience. The potential for sexual violence exists whenever there is too much of either. New recruits, stripped of their free will, cannot question authority. A certain kind of o∞cer demands sex from underlings in the same way he demands they pick up his laundry. A certain kind of recruit rapes his peer in a sick mimicry of the power structure: I own you totally. “One of the myths is that the perpetrators identify as gay, which is by and large not the case,” says James Asbrand, a psychologist with the Salt Lake City VA’s PTSD clinical team. “It’s not about the sex. It’s about power and control.” To understand this problem and why it persists twenty-two years after the Tailhook Q interviewed military o∞cials, scandal, GQ mental-health professionals, and policymakers, as well as twenty-three men who are survivors not only of MST but also of a bureaucracy that has failed to protect them.

Sam Madrid* Marines, 1962–68

When a gunnery sergeant tells you to take o≠ your clothes, you better take o≠ your clothes. You don’t ask questions.

Dana Chipman Judge advocate general Army, 2009–13

The way we socialize people probably has some e≠ect on the incidents. We cut your hair, and we give you the same clothes, and we tell you that you have no more privacy, you have no more individual rights—we’re gonna take you down to your bare essence and then rebuild you in our image.

Jones I still don’t believe I didn’t bring this on. I keep telling myself, If only I hadn’t had a few beers that night. If only I hadn’t invited him back to my room. I tried to resist. He was just so fucking strong.

A warship is like a city—sprawling, vital, crowded with purposeful men and women. But on a warship, as in a city, there are people who will see you not as their friend or their neighbor but rather as their prey. After turning 25, Steve Stovey joined the Navy to see the world: Malaysia, Australia, Japan, Fiji, the Persian Gulf. His first year and a half as a signalman on the USS Gary was “the greatest time of my life,” he says. In late September 1999, Stovey was sailing to Hawaii, where he’d be joined by his father on a Tiger Cruise, a beloved Navy tradition in which family members accompany sailors on the final leg of a deployment. Parents and kids get to see how sailors live and work; they watch the crew test air and sea weapons. The Disney Channel even made a movie about a Tiger Cruise, with Bill Pullman and Hayden Panettiere. The West Coast itinerary is usually Pearl Harbor to San Diego. On the morning of September 20, two weeks before the warship was due in port, three men ambushed Stovey in a remote storage area of the ship, where he’d been sent to get supplies. They threw a black hood over his head, strangled and sodomized him, then left him for dead on a stack of boxes. Stovey told no one. He was certain that his attackers, whose faces he hadn’t glimpsed, would kill him if he did. He hid in a bathroom until he could contain his panic and tolerate the pain. Then he quietly returned to his post. Stovey says he might have killed himself were it not for his father’s imminent arrival. The timing of the visit was “almost a miracle,” he says. “When I saw him, it was the most safe feeling I’d ever felt in my whole life.” Father and son spent the next five days on board ship, almost certainly being watched by the three attackers. “I just kept it inside,” Stovey says in a low voice. “I couldn’t tell him.” 246

Welch There’s nothing I could have done, except never have joined the military.

Charles Bigo Army, 1966–69

I’ve told my psychologist, “Maybe it’s my fault, because I’m gay.” I was looking for friendship, companionship, some kind of emotional connection with somebody. They were predators. They knew what they saw in me that allowed them to be that way.

Michael F. Matthews Air Force, 1973–85

TerrY Neal Navy, 1975–77

The part that I remember before I passed out was somebody saying they were going to teach me a lesson.

Afterward they started kicking the shit out of me and said, “If you ever tell anybody, we’ll come back and get you.” But it was like the angels were singing, because I realized I wasn’t going to die. Later I wished I had.

kole welsh Army, 2002–07

Richard Welch Air Force and Army, 1973–82

I was coming in and out of consciousness. He kept saying, “You’re going to like this.”

MATTHEW OWEN* Army, 1976–80

I heard one of them say, “Get that broom over there by the lockers.”

I had actually let the assault go, because I didn’t want it to interfere with my career. I wanted to be an o∞cer, and I just said, “Bad experience, won’t let that happen again.” But there was some residual damage. A month and a half later, I was brought into a room with about nine o∞cers and told, “You’ve tested positive [for HIV].” I was removed from the military and signed out within a day. It was a complete shock.

Gary Jones* Army, 1984–86

james Asbrand Psychologist, Salt Lake City VA

At ﬁrst I thought he was playing around. He managed to wrestle me onto my back, and I started freaking out. He pinned my arm above my head and my knee in the crook of his arm and covered my mouth with his right hand and looked at me and said, “You will not make a noise.”

There’s the fear that “if other people know this about me, well, then, my life is over. No one’s gonna want to be around me. They’ll know that I’m less of a man.” *Name changed.

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Neal One of the doctors said to me afterward, “Son, men don’t get raped.”

Jim M C Donald* Army, 1982–2004

I’m gonna have to cut this short. I’m not gonna be able to do this interview. This is really causing some ﬂashbacks and triggers. I’m already having a panic attack. You’re asking some serious questions, and I’d rather just cancel it here.

II. “Hell no, I didn’t report this. Who was I going to report it to?” An overpowering shame prevents many enlisted men from reporting an assault—a sense that they must somehow be complicit in what has happened to them. Straight men often question their own sexual orientation, while gay men may struggle to ﬁnd intimacy in relationships because they don’t trust other men (or their own judgment). Telling the secret ruptures families and friendships. So does not telling. The rape of a male soldier has a particular symbolism. “In a hypermasculine culture, what’s the worst thing you can do to another man? Force him into what the culture perceives as a feminine role,” says Asbrand of the Salt Lake City VA. “Completely dominate and rape him.” But shame isn’t the only reason these men so often say nothing. Another is fear— of physical retaliation, professional ruin, social stigma. Research suggests that the military brass may have conspired to illegally discharge MST victims by falsely diagnosing them with personality disorders. “The military has a systemic personality disorder discharge problem,” write the authors of a 2012 Yale Law School white paper. Between 2001 and 2010, some 31,000 servicepersons were involuntarily discharged for personality disorders. It is likely that in many cases these were sham diagnoses meant to rid the ranks of MST victims. “If they want you to be schizophrenic,” says Trent Smith, an MST survivor currently ﬁghting his discharge from the Air Force, “you’re schizophrenic.” These diagnoses also spare the government the costs of aftercare: The VA considers a personality disorder to be a pre-existing condition, so it won’t cover the expense of treatment for PTSD caused by a sexual assault. Above all, MST victims keep quiet because they do not believe their attackers will be punished. And they’re almost certainly SEPT’14

Trent Smith “He was a senior aide—he had a direct line to the top. Being invited over to his house, I just took it as I should go. Looking back, I ask myself, Why didn’t you do anything? It wasn’t like he held me down or tied me up. I didn’t want to cross him. I really didn’t feel like I had any choice. I had just turned 19. It could be my career. I froze and went along with it.”

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right. The conviction rate in MST cases that go to trial is just 7 percent. An estimated 81 percent of male MST victims never report being attacked. Perhaps it should astonish us that any of them do.

Madrid I guess I feel okay telling you because you don’t know who in the hell I am, and I don’t know who you are, and you can’t see me.

Mike Thomson Marines, 1997–99

I wasn’t “afraid” to report it—I was ashamed and disgusted. Guys aren’t supposed to be raped. I didn’t want to tell anybody about it. I didn’t want to say anything.

Bigo I didn’t talk about this for nearly ﬁfty years.

Trent Smith Air Force, enlisted 2011

He was a senior aide—he had a direct line to the top. Being invited over to his house, I just took it as I should go. Looking back, I ask myself, Why didn’t you do anything? It wasn’t like he held me down or tied me up. I didn’t want to cross him. I really didn’t feel like I had any choice. I had just turned 19. It could be my career. I froze and went along with it.

Welch Hell no, I didn’t report this. Who was I going to report it to? He had serious rank over me. After they ordered me to return to work with him, I stabbed myself in the neck so I could go home.

Brian Lewis Navy, 1997–2001

No commanding o∞cer wants to have to pick up the phone to his or her boss and say, “I’ve had a sexual assault aboard my command.”

Thomson That’s basically admitting that you can’t control your men.

Chipman [Let’s say] I’m a company commander and I’ve got this sergeant ﬁrst class who’s done a great job of getting my company ready for combat. Then this private I don’t know from Adam comes in and says, “Sergeant X assaulted me last night.” I don’t believe that private. I don’t want t to believe that private. I can’t imagine that Sergeant X would do such a thing. Is there a natural bias that would say, “Can I make this go away?” That’s probably a very typical reaction.

Kole Welsh “A month and a half after the assault, I was brought into a room with about nine officers and told, ‘You’ve tested positive [for HIV].’ I was removed from the military and signed out within a day. It was a complete shock.” 248

SEPT’14

Steve Stovey “As a man, I can’t perform the way I used to. I just feel damaged. All I remember, along with the pain, is the slapping sound of being raped. I try to make love to my wife, but I can’t—I’m triggered. I’m traumatized by that sound.”

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Neal I was starting to hallucinate that people were coming to get me. I barricaded myself in my room in the barracks because I heard a key in the lock and thought they were coming in. It was my roommate, but I was screaming, “Don’t hurt me!” They took me to the hospital, and that’s where I ﬁnally told the psychiatrist what had happened. It was a huge mistake. I was put into a mental ward out of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The doctor would say, “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Come on, tell me the truth.”

Jeremy Robinson* Army, 1970–72

I have very little memory of my time in the psychiatric ward, because I was so heavily drugged. I stopped eating. I became suicidal, and I made three attempts. They gave me shock treatments against my will. The diagnosis was paranoid schizophrenia. I bore that label for forty years before the VA ﬁnally admitted they had misdiagnosed me.

neil Alexander* Navy, 2002–04

There were about seven assaults. I got to the point where I just didn’t want to live anymore. Not that I had a plan; I just got reckless, and my command took it as a signal I was suicidal. They said I had “Personality Disorder—Not Otherwise Speciﬁed.” They said I was being discharged for that.

Chipman The discharge for personality disorder— that’s a problem. If you’ve talked to twenty di≠erent victims and twelve of them say, “I was discharged for a personality disorder and I was railroaded,” I would not deny that in many cases a personality discharge would have been issued. It’s not right.

III. The case of Heath Phillips Navy, 1988–89

The two main guys—their nickname was the Twin Towers. They held themselves like they were God and untouchable. They were both six feet five or above, 250 pounds. I weighed maybe 120 pounds soaking wet. As soon as the Twin Towers came near you, you instantly wanted to pee yourself. The main attacks were at night. When you’re being dragged out of your bunk literally by your ear, you can’t fight, because they’re doing these funky things with your fingers, twisting them, and they’re ripping your mouth open, and then they got another 250

Heath Phillips “When you’re being dragged out of your bunk literally by your ear, you can’t fight, because they’re doing these funky things with your fingers, twisting them, and they’re ripping your mouth open, and then they got another guy that has his fingers in your nose or in your eyes to make you open your mouth. That’s what always used to bother me: I’m screaming, yelling, fighting, and nobody is even moving their curtains to look.”

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guy that has his fingers in your nose or in your eyes to make you open your mouth. That’s what always used to bother me: I’m screaming, yelling, fighting, and nobody is even moving their curtains to look. I went AWOL; I couldn’t take it no more. I tried hanging myself. I was living in the streets, and I got arrested shoplifting, and they sent me to the brig. Then I got sent back to the same berthing area, where they started terrorizing me again. The final straw was, I was taking a shower and these guys beat me up and raped me with a toilet brush. Medical told me I probably had a hemorrhoid. I went AWOL again, then turned myself in a couple of days later. Finally my executive o≠icer came back [proposing] I take an other-than-honorable discharge. To this day I don’t know why they did it, because they had beautiful girlfriends. I just happened to be one of their victims.

Owen The hardest thing for me was the fear to be looked at as being gay. I went through a lot of women. I went through several marriages. I wasn’t a loyal husband. In college a couple guys brought up to me that they had an opportunity to make some serious money. I became an escort, and I did it for a good eleven years. It erased my thoughts.

The Myth of “Good Order and Discipline” Senator Kirsten Gillibrand (D-N.Y.) has been Congress’s leading voice for reform of military sex-assault laws. She’s pushing a bill, currently stalled, that would strip commanders of the authority to decide whether a particular case gets prosecuted.—N.P. What are the shortcomings of the existing MST legislation? “Under the current system, justice isn’t possible, because there’s too much bias. It’s too toxic for nine out of ten victims to even report; of the one in ten who did report, 62 percent were retaliated against. To me, that means you have to take the decisionmaking about whether a case goes to trial out of the chain of command.” The former judge advocate general of the Army told GQ, “If you haven’t served, many people say, ‘Good order and discipline—that’s a throwaway.’ I can’t throw it away so cavalierly.” How would you respond? “I think he’s hiding behind rhetoric. First of all, 26,000 [victims of] sexual assaults in one year alone is not ‘good order and discipline.’ Second, our allies have already done this, and they have shown no diminution in good order and discipline. Third, when we tried to repeal ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’ when we tried to integrate women, when we tried to integrate African-Americans, the reason why the military did not want to do any of those things is because they said it would undermine good order and discipline.”

Alexander I’m afraid to go outside. I hate dealing with people. I hate being in crowds. I go grocery shopping at three in the morning, because there’s nobody out. I drive a hundred miles to Walmart to pick up my meds, because one of my friends works there and I can get in and out comfortably.

Welch No supervisor was ever going to have me alone in his o∞ce again. If a supervisor was to call me into his o∞ce, I was done. I can’t tell you how many jobs I went through over the years because of that.

IV. “I’m terrified of men. I’m gay and I’m terrified of men.” Men develop PTSD from sexual assault at nearly twice the rate they do from combat. Yet as multiple research papers have noted, the condition in men is egregiously understudied. This is because so few men tell anyone. Those who do often wait years; many male participants in therapy groups are veterans of Korea and Vietnam. At Bay Pines’ C. W. Bill Young VA Medical Center in Florida, the country’s ﬁrst residential facility for men su≠ering from MST, the average patient is over 50 years old at admission. Military sexual trauma causes a particularly toxic form of PTSD. The betrayal by a comrade-in-arms, a brother in whom you place unconditional trust, can be unbearable. Warrior culture values stoicism, which encourages a victim to keep his troubles to himself and stigmatizes him if he doesn’t. An implacable chain of command sometimes compels a victim to work or sleep alongside an attacker, which can make him feel captive to his su≠ering and deserving of it.

Phillips I just couldn’t handle working around men. I’ve done masonry work, but I’d last only a couple weeks. I would have outbursts. Sometimes sexual jokes would trigger me. I’d be like, “Listen, you perverted scumbag… ” When things upset me, I yell [my attackers’] names out to people. The guys would just look at you like, This guy is crazy.

Lewis Your certiﬁcate of discharge, form DD-214, says very clearly your reason for discharge. But if you [tell a prospective employer] the psychiatrist misdiagnosed you, the perception is, “Oh, he’s lying. He’s a troublemaker, and we don’t want to hire him.” So you either have to own up to it or you basically don’t get a job. You essentially have to tell a prospective employer you were sexually assaulted.

Robinson It wasn’t until I got my records that I learned about the codes on the DD-214. Employers who o≠er beneﬁts are not going to hire anyone with a pre-existing condition such as schizophrenia. I’ve spent many years just spinning my wheels trying to get jobs that I’m not gonna be allowed to get.

Jones CHIP SOMODEVILLA/GETTY IMAGES

I’m terriﬁed of men. I’m gay and I’m terriﬁed of men. I can’t even get an erection, especially since I got sober. I isolate. I don’t go to movies, I can’t handle concerts. I have horrid nightmares. Last Christmas, I went to dinner with some friends, and at one point I started panicking so bad I had to get out of the restaurant. I was shaking. I never even told anybody about this until last July. Do you know what it’s like to live with this for thirty years?

Neal My ﬁrst sexual experience ever was being raped by these guys. It screwed me up: That’s what sex is supposed to be— anonymous, painful. The nightmares never went away. I started getting really bad with alcohol and an addiction to anonymous sex. Having a relationship with somebody has been extremely di∞cult.

Owen To this day, I still cut—arms, legs, stomach— with a hunting knife or a razor blade. It gives me a sense of control, endorphins, relief. The nightmares just play over and over. They’re so real I can feel the broomstick going up inside me. (continued on page 279) SEPT’14

251

→ YOUNG MEN: IT’S TIME TO TIE ONE ON AGAIN At the fall fashion shows, the jacketand-tie looks at labels like Gucci and Saint Laurent were so Beatlesinspired we nearly had acid flashbacks. Here those shortcut blazers and drainpipe trousers are worn in Dalston with mop-top élan by Jake Bugg. (That’s him in the red scarf.) FROM LEFT: ON TOM ROBERTSON

sports jacket $2,150 Band of Outsiders tie $150 Alexander Olch pants $378 Patrik Ervell scarf (also on Jack) Fred Perry — ON JACK ATHERTON

sports jacket $695 Duckie Brown tie $175 Dolce & Gabbana pants $120 Topman — ON JAKE BUGG

sports jacket $6,000 Brioni tie $55 Kenneth Cole New York pants $590 Gucci scarf, vintage — ON GRANT BUGG

sports jacket $2,550 and jeans $475 Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane tie $100 Neil Barrett scarf Sandro for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go/fashion directories

ANOTHER 2014

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It turns fifty this year: the iconic Beatles film in which the Fab Four romp across London. Not coincidentally, the fashion world is pilfering the band’s mid-’60s look with clothes ripped straight from the film. So we recruited 20-year-old Brit-rock wunderkind Jake Bugg and his band to channel their heroic forebears

HARD DAY ’S NIGHT

Nathaniel Goldberg

← CALL IT THE LENNON EFFECT Anything he touched became popular. Even the Greek fisherman’s cap was an instant hit when John wore one, and now it’s back, thanks to designers (and your local army surplus). Jake and crew go full nautical by pairing their caps with peacoats. FROM LEFT: ON GRANT

(BOTTOM)

peacoat $995 Kent and Curwen turtleneck $860 and cap Gucci — ON TOM

peacoat $2,000 Dior Homme turtleneck $1,000 Brioni cap DPC — ON JACK

peacoat $1,750 Ron Herman Denim turtleneck $670 Gucci cap Aegean at JJ Hat Center — ON JAKE

peacoat $2,700 turtleneck $670 and cap Gucci for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com /go/fashion directories

↑ REMINDER: THE TOPCOAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN ROCK ’N’ ROLL Photos from the Hard Day’s Night era prove that dressing up can be rock ’n’ roll as long as the fit is young and skinny. Maybe that’s why designers are making tweed topcoats with razorsharp fits in retro patterns like (from left) glen plaid, gun check, herringbone, and houndstooth. FROM LEFT: ON GRANT ON JACK

HE’S A BUGG, NOT A BEATLE •The eighty-one-word bio: Twenty-year-old British rocker. Grew up with his mum on a council estate (England’s public housing) in Nottingham; started playing guitar at 12. His first two full-lengths, Jake Bugg and Shangri La (named after Rick Rubin’s studio, where he made it), both major hits in the UK, spotlight his nasally voice, folkrock-y strumming (Bob Dylan/Tom Petty/Neil Young vein), and the demons he lays bare in his lyrics. Hits the road with the Black Keys this fall. •Off the road: Bugg was on tour for more than 300 days last year, so he’s due for a break. What does time

coat $2,195 Burberry London boots $90 Topman — ON JAKE

coat $1,470 Officine Generale loafers $595 Tod's — ON TOM

coat $3,150 Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane shoes $435 Grenson

coat $286 ASOS boots $210 Jack Erwin

off look like? “When I’m by myself, I write songs. It keeps me sane, so I’ll probably be working on the next record,” he says. “I’ve been listening to a lot of soul—Curtis Mayfield, Bill Withers—so maybe that’ll come through on the songs.” •A Hard Day’s Night, firsthand: The film famously opens with the Beatles being chased by a pack of ravenous female fans. The closest Bugg’s experienced so far was in Japan last fall, when fans who’d come to the show stalked him from the venue to a nearby bar. “We had to take shortcuts down alleyways to get away.” •Why the Fab Four still matter: “There’s a lot of music today that wouldn’t exist without them,” Bugg says. “It’s rare for a band to make consistently great records. They could always deliver.” — E R I C S U L L I V A N SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 255

→ SUITING UP (WITHOUT AGING UP) Looking sharp in your youth doesn’t have to mean chasing the latest street styles like women chased the Fab Four—but you don’t want to dress like management, either. Bugg and band don dandy suits in The Stag’s Head, a century-and-ahalf-old pub, but take a decade off by pairing them with polka-dot shirts. FROM LEFT: ON TOM

suit $1,270 Bespoken shirt $275 Sandro — ON JACK

suit $2,460 Gucci shirt $48 ASOS — ON GRANT

suit $3,145 Dolce & Gabbana shirt $145 Fred Perry — ON JAKE

suit $1,740 Emporio Armani shirt $70 Express for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go/fashion directories

I’VE BEEN LISTENING TO A LOT OF SOUL—CURTIS MAYFIELD, BILL WITHERS—SO MAYBE THAT’LL COME THROUGH ON THE NEXT RECORD.” 2014

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→ TAKE YOUR LOOK FROM FLAT TO SHARP These fitted retro cardigans could’ve come out of a time machine sent from Liverpool circa 1964. That’s what this style is all about: an eye on the past and knowledge of how clothes should fit. FROM LEFT: ON GRANT

cardigan $2,040 Thom Browne New York — ON JAKE

cardigan $415 David Hart & Co. — ON TOM

cardigan $200 Fred Perry — ON JACK

cardigan $890 Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane

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2014

→ AN OLD TRICK YOU CAN ALWAYS DIAL UP It’s a constant refrain here at GQ: Put a stripe on it. Stripes will turn a regular old sweater into a style move and help you break out of whatever box you’re stuck in. It worked for the Beatles, and it works for Jake Bugg.… So, yeah, it’ll work for you. CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: ON JACK

turtleneck $79 Joe Fresh cap Stetson Cloth Caps & Hats — ON JAKE

sweater $379 Officine Generale turtleneck $24 Lands' End jeans $700 Dior Homme cap Banana Republic — ON GRANT

sweater $49 Joe Fresh cords $265 Band of Outsiders cap Original Penguin scarf Prada hair by alain pichon at streeters. grooming by jenny coombs using kevyn aucoin. produced by tee lapan and jordi devas at jda ltd. prop styling by brigit hegarty. for additional credits, see page 281. where to buy it? go to gq.com/go/fashion directories

Da Bars!

R 20 BE 1 4

SEPT E

GQ.CO

WELCOME to

B O B BY FI S H ER

Now OFFICIALLY the GREATEST PLACE in AMERICA to GET YOUR DRINK ON

↖ Beverage director Charles Joly displays his box of boozy treasure at The Aviary. ↗ The Full House at Drumbar.

261

C H I C AG O

LOOK , W E K NOW: Chicagoans have been drinking—and drinking like champs—for generations. (See the Blues Brothers, Polish immigration, winter, et al.) But the Second City has hit its boozy stride. Right now, at this very minute, there isn’t a city in America better suited to our favorite pastime. And we don’t just mean for the schmoozers who can get past a tough door, or the barstool lifers who’ve never missed happy hour. We mean everybody—the beer drinkers, the gin lovers, the rare-bourbon aficionados. The empty-pocketed deal-seekers and the name-dropping foodies. These days you can hardly walk a block without passing a packed new bar. It’s a full-on drinkable renaissance, which is why it’s time to book your tickets, do a cleanse in preparation, and get yourself to the Windy City. no.

In CHICAGO there’s a Cheers in every hood

Before we go on about the new bars, a few words on the old ones: Thanks to decent rent and thirsty crowds, the pub is in remarkably good shape here. Which is cool, because at least one big city should keep its corner bars alive. Bar DeVille in Ukrainian Village.

2 MEET THE PARENTS Chicago’s killer cocktail scene all traces back to one revolutionary bar Supplies the ice spheres for many places on this list HENRY’S SWING CLUB JUST ICE SABLE KITCHEN & BAR A new dinerstyle restaurant from the team behind Big Star A big, loud lobby bar with classic V.H.-style cocktails DOVE’S LUNCHEONETTE

When the V.H. opened in 2006, it was the only serious cocktail joint in town. Now—in part due to its alums—the city is awash in booze both shaken and stirred. Venerable restaurant with a V.H. alum mixing drinks

Brand-new club with a huge list of inventive cocktails

VIOLET HOUR MIXES SOME OF THE BEST MANHATTANS OUTSIDE OF MANHATTAN ANALOGUE A throwback club opened by former V.H. barbacks SHE COCKTAIL CONSULTING Drinking well at an event? Probably because of this former G.M.

The

A jam-packed taco bar that’s more bar than taco

BAR RESTAURANT

BLACKBIRD

BIG STAR

CONSULTANT

3 no.

Of all the gin joints in all the world, the best one is here , To be fair, calling Scofflaw a gin joint is like calling Scorsese a cameraman. It’s two years old and already a master seminar on how to run a first-class bar without an ounce of pretension. Exhibit A is partner Danny Shapiro’s flawless and affordable cocktails ($8!), some made with Scofflaw’s own Old Tom Gin. Then there’s the mythical offmenu beast of a sandwich called the Guapichosa. And the free chocolate-chip cookies at midnight, fresh from the oven. Best of all is the red light just above the door, used by the hostess to signal passing cabs when you’re ready to go. You’ll never want her to turn it on.—JEFF RUBY

nos. 4 - 6

You can drink straight from the tap (and we don’t mean the water) Give a Chicagoan a brew, he’ll ask for another. Teach a Chicagoan to brew, he’ll make some fine hooch and let you tour his facility to prove it.—ERIC SULLIVAN GOOSE ISLAND: The godfather of hometown breweries. Sure, it’s now owned by Anheuser, but the beers remain just as great. HALF ACRE: The brewery

tour on Saturday morning is legendary—three beers, a pint glass, and an afternoon buzz for just ten bones. FEW: This distillery opened three years ago and already puts out excellent gin and three kinds of whiskey. We reach for the rye.

T I M TOMK I N S O N

PRE VIOUS PAGE: JORDAN BALDER AS . 1) MA X HERMAN . 3) YOU ME US NOW.

7 IT’S NOT (ALWAYS) TOO FRIGID TO DRINK OUTSIDE , Sportsman’s Club would survive just fine if it were nothing but a narrow storefront on a lonely block. The drinks are good, the specials plenty alluring (ordering a Lowlife, for $5, gets you a High Life and a shot), and the taxidermied decorations perfect for the bearded, flannel-wearing crowd. But the bar is just half of it—the other half is the sunken outdoor patio, a dazzlingly great space to have a drink when the weather’s nice. Get here early to snag a table, and don’t leave till you feel the first flake of snow. K YAR

The bartenders don’t fool around, but you can

Ever drink with one of those guys who get hypercompetitive? Too many pints and he turns into Bill Belichick? Take him to Guthries, an ivy-covered tavern with more board games than the closet in The Royal Tenenbaums. If drunk Battleship isn’t your thing, hit the shuffleboard table at Weegee’s Lounge, an old-school cocktail joint with serious cred. Or lead your pal to a Ping-Pong table at the gloriously divey Happy Village and show him your backhand over $2 brews. Propose that the loser buy the next round. Then win.—J.R.

10 #

The Director’s Guide to

SUDS-ING UP & CHOWING DOWN

JOE SWANBERG, director of Drinking Buddies and other mumblecore must-sees, loves beer. And food. And Chicago. Combine the three and the man is edging into nirvana. Here, his top picks for where to grab a cold one and a hot plate.—E.S.

Chicago is low on pretension and high on chill spaces. My favorite is Hopleaf in Andersonville, a beer mecca for twenty-three years running. Seventy beers on tap, with a Belgian focus. Order the mussels and frites. I also love Revolution Brewing. Its pub is always slammed, but the brewery in Avondale is big, and it’s easy to grab a table. Bring your own food— it’s like a reverse BYOB. Piece, in Wicker Park, brews its own beer—the Camel Toe double IPA will knock you off your stool—and makes its own pizza, which is super-good.”

No.

, If your night ends at the Public, all columned grandeur on the ground floor and minimalist bliss in the rooms above, you’ll know you’ve made at least one good decision. It’s expensive, but you can’t put a price on proximity to the Pump Room, JeanGeorges Vongerichten’s den of gluttony, which is right off the lobby. For a younger (and thriftier) vibe, book at the Acme Hotel, where “knock-and-drop” room service ensures that you don’t roll out of bed until you’re ready. And if you want to drink well, pass out, and then have brunch all in the same building, book one of the six rooms at Longman & Eagle. It looks like your most stylish friend’s pad, and it’s twenty feet from the great bar and kitchen downstairs.—MARK BYRNE SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 263

1 1 ) C L AY TO N H AU C K ( 2 )

9 COME FOR THE BEER, STAY FOR THE GAME

The Cubs and the Bears might have more fans, but when it comes to brew selection, they can’t rival the White Sox: At U.S. Cellular Field, they pour craft beers like Half Acre, Two Brothers, and Michigan-favorite Bell’s.

Longman & Eagle’s bar…

THE PARTY REALLY IS IN THE HOTEL LOBBY

…and the bedrooms upstairs.

12 #

You can order priceless booze oﬀ a bar menu

13 BOOZEHOUNDS, MEET BOOZE NERDS , Amaro is an herbal Italian digestif, meaning you’re supposed to drink the stuff after dinner. At Billy Sunday, a popular Logan Square cocktail haven, it is always “after dinner.” The bartenders are so obsessed with amaro, they’ve run out of room to store their 300 selections. The liqueur crops up in countless guises—none finer than the majestically bitter Victorian, where it mixes with Dutch gin, sirop de capillaire, and wormwood bitters. “There’s still so much to learn about amaro,” says Billy Sunday bartender Alex Bachman. If he’s teaching, count us in. feel like you’ve wandered into an ancient, dingy Swedish restaurant where the 80-year-old waitresses are still wearing sexy beermaiden costumes. And you say you like bitter? Try a sip. That’s right. I just saw your brain, because the bitterness turned your head inside out. It looked like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark in there. But hey: That next sip of barrel-aged Vieux Carré is going to taste pretty sweet. That next triple bock with coffee notes is going to go down smoother than ever. Because the world may be your playground, but sometimes you gotta smash your teeth on the monkey bars. —BRETT MARTIN BOOZ

At The Berkshire Room, a cavernous woodpaneled space in the back of the Acme Hotel (see No. 11), beverage director Benjamin Schiller presides over what might be the finest rare-bourbon collection west of Kentucky. Better yet, he actually sells the stuff by the glass. You won’t find those tastes on special, but whiskeyheads know an opportunity when they see one, especially when it comes to World War II–era Weller. Even if rarity isn’t in your price range, Schiller knows his way around a cocktail menu. One concoction of his—wheated whiskey, pipe tobacco, and coffee essence—already seems like a classic, and it tastes like one, too.—M.B.

, Drumbar’s breezy eighteenth-floor patio, the secret everyone knows about atop the Raffaello hotel, is chill before 8 p.m. and a throbbing, bourbon-fueled madhouse afterward. The fact that the outdoor space closes promptly at midnight— when the city’s noise ordinance sends everyone back inside— just makes it that much more of a flash-in-the-pan party. The Hello Neighbor! SK

14 EW

THE DOWNTOWN RAGER THAT’S ABOVE IT ALL

INE VI

You kids. You think every drink is supposed to be delicious, don’t you? Just like every coffee has to be a cortado, every burger from the Shake Shack, every day a goddamned bubble bath. Well, Jeppson’s Malört is here to issue a much needed correction. If you’ve never heard of the liquor, it means you’re

not from Chicago. It’s been a staple in Big Shoulders since Prohibition, when Carl Jeppson started bootlegging the recipe he brought with him from Sweden—the biggest fuck-you from the Old World to the New since smallpox blankets. You like vintage cocktails? Just look at the bottle: You’ll

1 2 ) C L AY TO N H AU C K . 1 4) G A L D O N E S P H OTO G R A P H Y.

SHOTS FIRED! TAKE THE MALÖRT CHALLENGE

BS EO E

IO N

â&#x2020;&#x2014; Stephen Andrews shakes up a drink at Billy Sunday. SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 265

NO.

The IFL Science at The Aviary.

RODRICK MARKUS, owner of the Rare Tea Cellar and

supplier of odd ingredients to the top joints in town (The Aviary uses hundreds), on one of his best concoctions:

BEST CHEF runs

America’s most insane bar Grant Achatz has three big, shiny Michelin stars for his universally adored restaurant Alinea and a hard-won license to break all the rules at his restaurant Next. Which could explain

why the two bars he owns, one stacked on top of the other, bear pretty much zero resemblance to any bar we’ve ever seen. At The Aviary the hosts talk into earpieces when you arrive, call you a cab when you’re taking off, and treat the time in between like kids showing off at a science fair. In one drink, scotch, ginger, lemon, and honey are boiled in what chef Micah Melton

The Southern Decadent Syrup is magnolia-blossom tea from Fujian cooked in Louisiana cane sugar and spiked with cane vinegar, then aged in an oak barrel. People try to add more booze to drinks we make with it because it’s so smooth.”

no.

, Gone are the skinny jeans and post-ironic facial hair that once marked Logan Square as Chicago’s insufferable bohemian epicenter. Now the neighborhood belongs to everyone, and its diagonal thoroughfare, North Milwaukee Avenue, has the tightest concentration of

Less bar, more crawl: North Milwaukee Avenue is your new drinking strip good bars in this town or any other. Even those with craft-beer fatigue can’t resist Revolution Brewing, a sprawling, friendly spot with a range of glorious brew options—plus baconfat popcorn. A couple of hundred steps away is Cole’s, a dive that hosts film screenings, variety shows, and art exhibits. A block up, you’ve got the Chicago Distilling Company, a cavernous family-run spot where a drinker can sip his vodka on the rocks while watching a chemical engineer tend to the still that birthed it. CDC shares the block with The Radler, a German beer hall that overflows with steins of bock and wursts of various stripes. Across Fullerton Avenue reside two of Chicago’s best lounges. First is The Whistler, a little slice of cocktail heaven that doubles as a record label. The ingenuity behind the bar fuels the creativity of patrons, who do a monthly “movieoke”—like karaoke but with, say, the campfire scene from Blazing Saddles. Analogue does craft cocktails and Cajun food with equal artistry. (Think Fernets and beignets.) A bartender might do a shot with you on a quiet night, if only there were quiet nights on Milwaukee Avenue.—J.R.

17) LINDSEY BECKER

calls a “vacuum coffee pot,” then cooled with dry ice. There is no “bar” at The Aviary, and there aren’t really “bartenders,” either; just a line of chefs in an open kitchen, churning out the kind of drinks that are complex enough to be their own course on a tasting menu. (There is, for instance, an Ice Chef.) Downstairs, The Oﬃce offers a more personalized version of the same thing: The club is invitationonly (our advice? be friendly to everyone you meet), and the menus are little more than talking points to help you and the server figure out what you’re going to drink that night. A typical first course, a kind of amusecocktail, is served in a flask tucked inside a hollowedout leather-bound book. It sounds twee, we know, but it shouldn’t go overlooked that the cocktail is straight-up great and that there’s no other bar in the country so actively messing with the Way We Drink Now. Certainly there’s no other bar that does it so successfully.—M.B.

, A corridor in this refurbished factory showcases Ada St.’s impeccably curated (and surprisingly affordable) wine stock in cabinets behind mesh screens. Like everything else in the flickery tavern—the flea-market candelabra, the usedrecord library, that picture-perfect whiskey smash on the bar—it’s smart and gorgeous. IN E SPO

17 T

BROWSING FOR AN ’05 BLANC DE BLANCS

TH E TE A W H IS P E R E R

no. 22

LAST CALL MEANS THE NIGHT’S

By law, most bars close at 2 a.m. But a lucky few stay open till 4 a.m. (5 a.m. on Saturdays; good-bye, Sunday!). Pick where to go now, before you’re too blitzed to recall your own middle name.—ERNEST WILKINS

ONE OF THE BEST THINGS YOU’LL DRINK WILL COME IN A COCONUT 2 1 ) N E I L B U R G E R . 2 3 ) F R O M TO P : J A S O N L I T T L E ; C L AY TO N H AU C K .

Few bartenders get as much respect from their peers as Paul McGee, who made a hot spot out of The Whistler, in Logan Square, way back when that neighborhood was still the type of place people wouldn’t visit

without pepper spray. With Three Dots and a Dash, his tiki-themed wonderland in the cellar of a nondescript tower in a high-traffic part of town, he’s conquering a much bigger demographic: the rest of Chicago, and

everyone else, too. And judging by the line outside every night, it’s working. Even more miraculous? He’s convinced grown men that it’s cool to order a daiquiri garnished with a banana carved to look like a dolphin.—M.B. grub—tartare and bone marrow re-imagined as drinking food. The best thing on the menu, though, is the oceanic finger food like oysters and king crab, brought to your table on tiered, ice-blanketed towers. It’s important to stay hydrated.

This Smart Bar ’tender isn’t flirting. She just likes cherries.

24 LATE-

BAR FOOD SO GOOD, IT’S JUST FOOD Piaf, you get the Stones or Lou Reed warbling in your ear. And instead of the standard steak frites, Maude’s specializes in only the most decadent

bistro bar with dim chandeliers, subway tiles, and Lillet rosés. But instead of Edith NI

GHT G

RU B

,A classic

He doesn’t sound real, so you’ll have to trust us here: Every night, this guy wanders from bar to bar—pretty much every bar—selling hot, delicious tamales. Locals call him the Tamale Guy, but you can just call him the guy who saved your night.—M.B.

The late-night munchies

COME TO YOU

21 A COCKTAIL MENU WITH WIT LI K TAIL

, Whether you go with a Shaolin Praying Mantis, an Elk’s Own (above), or a Genius Behind the Savage, Barrelhouse Flat’s cocktails are as fun to order as they are to drink.

JUST STARTING

D O YO U WA N T T O R E G R E T YO U R D E C I S I O N T O M O R R OW ? Y

GO HOME!

Feel like twerking?

Can it be to your bud belting out “Free Bird”?

Do you still crave bottle N service and ze oontz oontz?

N well-curated Y playlist do?

Will a

Y N DJ it is. Looking for Tiësto?

Two words: Drunk. Karaoke.

Y You just want a bar, man.

How ’bout a beer-soaked ’90s dance party?

YES!

The Owl

Smart Bar

Alice’s Lounge

The Continental

SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 267

She is the latest in a steady stream of Aussie models (Elle Macpherson, Miranda Kerr, Gemma Ward) to break out Stateside—thanks to her gap-toothed smile, Victoria’s Secret bona fides, and a Taylor Swift Dis Heard Round the World. Learn the name Jessica Hart before DiCaprio does Dusan Reljin

HartBreaker someplace that every era shalt have its representative hot model. The face (and…other stu≠ ) that sums up the moment in professional prettiness. And in this, the Year of Our Lord of Sexy Gap Teeth, 28-year-old Aussie supermodel Jessica Hart is it. (Sorry, Mick Jagger’s daughter.) Hart’s got a pretty classic origin story: Her career began at age 15, when she was spotted at that high holy suburban mall where all future lingerie models are apparently found. She did the swimsuit thing for years, draped across the beaches of the world. And she’s spent a good part of her twenties as one of Victoria’s Secret’s marquee faces, a gig she’s defended in her wry and straight-shooting way—taking shots at Taylor Swift in the process—as goddamn hard work. Happily for you, she likes hard work—zigzagging the globe, throttling to Giseleian heights. On o≠ days, even when traveling, she Skypes with a kindly French tutor she found on Craigslist. She was partly inspired by a trip to Marrakech, where “the people speak k three languages and don’t even realize how awesome it is.” Also, “my boyfriend speaks French,” she says, all winky, “and now eavesdropping is a must.” She and this tutor talk for hours—but lately it’s getting “so personal! ” she says. “You start being able to have a small conversation—and your small conversations in real life would be what you’ve just done. So she asks, ‘Where have you come from? What are you doing?! And with who?! ’ ” The fact that Hart then bursts out laughing makes us think the answer is really, really good.—SARAH BALL IT ’S CHISELED ON A TABLET 268 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

SEE ADDITIONAL CREDITS.

GQ 271

for nearly thirty years, a phantom haunted the woods of central maine. unseen and unknown, he lived in secret, creeping into homes in the dead of night and surviving on what he could steal. to the spooked locals, he became a legendâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;or maybe a myth. they wondered how he could possibly be real. until one day last year, the hermit came out of the forest by michael finkel

tim oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;brien

WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED, THE EL ABORATE C AMP THAT T H E N O RT H P O N D H E R M I T H A D C A RV E D I N T O T H E F O R E ST WAS STOCKED WITH DEC ADES’ WORTH OF LOOTED GEAR.

THE HERMIT SET OUT of camp at midnight, carrying his back-

pack and his bag of break-in tools, and threaded through the forest, rock to root to rock, every step memorized. Not a boot print left behind. It was cold and nearly moonless, a ﬁne night for a raid, so he hiked about an hour to the Pine Tree summer camp, a few dozen cabins spread along the shoreline of North Pond in central Maine. With an expert twist of a screwdriver, he popped open a door of the dining hall and slipped inside, scanning the pantry shelves with his penlight. Candy! Always good. Ten rolls of Smarties, stu≠ed in a pocket. Then, into his backpack, a bag of marshmallows, two tubs of ground co≠ee, some Humpty Dumpty potato chips. Burgers and bacon were in the locked freezer. On a previous raid at Pine Tree, he’d stolen a key to the walk-in, and now he used it to open the stainlesssteel door. The key was attached to a plastic four-leaf-clover key chain, with one of the leaves partially broken o≠. A three-and-ahalf-leaf clover. He could’ve used a little more luck. Newly installed in the Pine Tree kitchen, hidden behind the ice machine, was a military-grade motion detector. The device remained silent in the kitchen but sounded an alarm in the home of Sergeant Terry Hughes, a game warden who’d become obsessed with catching the thief. Hughes lived a mile away. He raced to the camp in his pickup truck and sprinted to the rear of the dining hall. He peeked in a window. And there he was. Probably. The person stealing food appeared entirely too clean, his face freshly shaved. He wore eyeglasses and a wool ski hat. Was this really the North Pond Hermit, a man who’d

tormented the surrounding community for years—decades—yet the police still hadn’t learned his name? Hughes used his cell phone, quietly, and asked the Maine State Police to alert trooper Diane Perkins-Vance, who had also been hunting the hermit. Before Perkins-Vance could get there, the burglar, his backpack full, started toward the exit. If the man stepped into the forest, Hughes understood, he might never be found again. The burglar eased out of the dining hall, and Hughes used his left hand to blind the man with his flashlight; with his right he aimed his .357 square on his nose. “Get on the ground!” he bellowed. The thief complied, no resistance, and lay facedown, candy spilling out of his pockets. It was one thirty in the morning on April 4, 2013. Perkins-Vance soon arrived, and the burglar was placed, handcu≠ed, in a plastic chair. The o∞cers asked his name. He refused to answer. His skin was strangely pale; his glasses, with chunky plastic frames, were extremely outdated. But he wore a nice Columbia jacket, new Lands’ End blue jeans, and sturdy boots. The o∞cers searched him, and no identification was located. Hughes left the suspect alone with Perkins-Vance. She removed his handcu≠s and gave him a bottle of water. And he started to speak. A little. When Perkins-Vance asked why he didn’t want to answer any questions, he said he was ashamed. He spoke haltingly, uncertainly; the connection between his mind and his mouth seemed to have atrophied from disuse. But over the next couple of hours, he gradually opened up. His name, he revealed, was Christopher Thomas Knight. Born on December 7, 1965. He said he had no address, no vehicle, did not file a tax return, and did not receive mail. He said he lived in the woods. “For how long?” wondered Perkins-Vance. Knight thought for a bit, then asked when the Chernobyl nuclearplant disaster occurred. He had long ago lost the habit of marking time in months or years; this was just a news event he happened

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“I HAD NO PLANS. I HAD NO MAP. I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE I WAS GOING. I JUST WALKED AWAY.” to remember. The nuclear meltdown took place in 1986, the same year, Knight said, he went to live in the woods. He was 20 years old at the time, not long out of high school. He was now 47, a middle-aged man. Knight stated that over all those years he slept only in a tent. He never lit a fire, for fear that smoke would give his camp away. He moved strictly at night. He said he didn’t know if his parents were alive or dead. He’d not made one phone call or driven in a car or spent any money. He had never in his life sent an e-mail or even seen the Internet. He confessed that he’d committed approximately forty robberies a year while in the woods—a total of more than a thousand break-ins. But never when anyone was home. He said he stole only food and kitchenware and propane tanks and reading material and a few other items. Knight admitted that everything he possessed in the world, he’d stolen, including the clothes he was wearing, right down to his underwear. The only exception was his eyeglasses. Perkins-Vance called dispatch and learned that Knight had no criminal record. He said he grew up in a nearby community, and his senior picture was soon located in the 1984 Lawrence High School yearbook. He was wearing the same eyeglasses. For close to three decades, Knight said, he had not seen a doctor or taken any medicine. He mentioned that he had never once been sick. You had to have contact with other humans, he claimed, in order to get sick. When, said Perkins-Vance, was the last time he’d had contact with another person? Sometime in the 1990s, answered Knight, he passed a hiker while walking in the woods. “What did you say?” asked Perkins-Vance. “I said, ‘Hi,’ ” Knight replied. Other than that single syllable, he insisted, he had not spoken with or touched another human being, until this night, for twentyseven years. David Proulx, whose vacation cabin was broken into at least fifty times. Then people began noticing other things. Wood shavings near window locks; scratches on doorframes. Was it a neighbor? A gang of teenagers? The robberies continued—boat batteries, frying pans, winter jackets. Fear took hold. “We always felt like he was watching us,” one resident said. The police were called, repeatedly, but were unable to help. Locks were changed, alarm systems installed. Nothing seemed to stop him. Or her. Or them. No one knew. A few desperate residents even left notes on their doors: “Please don’t break in. Tell me what you need and I’ll leave it out for you.” There was never a reply. Incidents mounted, and the phantom morphed into legend. Eventually he was given a name: the North Pond Hermit. At a homeowners’ meeting in 2002, the hundred people present were asked who had su≠ered break-ins. Seventy-five raised their hands. Campfire hermit stories were swapped. One kid recalled that when he was 10 years old, all his Halloween candy was stolen. That kid is now 34. Still the robberies persisted. The crimes, after so long, felt almost supernatural. “The legend of the hermit lived on for years and years,” said Pete Cogswell, whose jeans and belt were worn by the hermit when he was caught. “Did I believe it? No. Who really could?” Knight’s arrest, rather than eliminating disbelief, only enhanced it. The truth was stranger than the myth. One man had actually lived in the woods of Maine for twenty-seven years, in an unheated nylon tent. Winters in Maine are long and intensely cold: a wet, windy cold, the worst kind of cold. A week of winter camping is an impressive achievement. An entire season is practically unheard of. Though hermits have been documented for thousands of years, Knight’s feat appears

to exist in a category of its own. He engaged in zero communication with the outside world. He never snapped a photo. He did not keep a journal. His camp was undisclosed to everyone. There may have been others like Knight, whose commitment to isolation was absolute—he planned to live his entire life in secret—but if so, they were never found. Capturing Knight was the human equivalent of netting a giant squid. He was an uncontacted tribe of one. Reporters across Maine, and soon enough across the nation and the world, attempted to contact him. What did he wish to tell us? What secrets had he uncovered? How had he survived? He stayed resolutely silent. Even after his arrest, the North Pond Hermit remained a complete mystery.

F R O M L E F T: J E N N I F E R S M I T H - M AYO ; M A I N E S TAT E P O L I C E / T H E N E W YO R K T I M E S / R E D U X P I C T U R E S

I D ECI D ED TO write him a letter. I wrote it by hand, pen on paper, and sent it from my home in Montana to the Kennebec County jail. I mentioned I was a journalist seeking explanations for his ba±ing life. A week later, a white envelope arrived in my mailbox. The return address, printed in blue ink in wobbly-looking block letters, read “Chris Knight.” It was a brief note—three paragraphs; 272 words. Still, it contained some of the ﬁrst statements Knight had shared with anyone in the world. “I replied to your letter,” he explained, “because writing letters relieves somewhat the stress and boredom of my present situation.” Also, he didn’t feel comfortable speaking. “My vocal, verbal skills have become rather rusty and slow.” I’d mentioned in my letter that I was an avid reader. From what I could tell, Knight was, too. Many victims of Knight’s thefts reported that their books were often stolen—from Tom Clancy potboilers to dense military histories to James Joyce’s Ulysses. H A RV E Y C H E S L E Y ( L E F T ) M A N AG E D T H E P I N E T R E E C A M P A N D WAS B E D E V I L E D F O R Y E A R S BY T H E H E R M I T, C AU G H T H E R E O N V I D EO ST E A L I N G F O O D F R O M T H E C A M P.

C H R IS T O P H E R K NIG HT was arrested, charged with burglary and theft, and transported to the Kennebec County jail in Augusta, the state capital. For the ﬁrst time in nearly 10,000 days, he slept indoors. News of the capture stunned the citizens of North Pond. For decades, they’d felt haunted by…something. It was hard to say what. At ﬁrst, in the late 1980s, there were strange occurrences. Flashlights were missing their batteries. Steaks disappeared from the fridge. New propane tanks on the grill had been replaced by old ones. “My grandkids thought I was losing my mind,” said

IN ADDITION TO THE SUPPLIES K N I G H T K E P T AT H I S C A M P, H E S TA S H E D P R OV I S I O N S D E E P I N T H E F O R E S T S O H E C O U L D Q U I C K LY F L E E I F H E WA S E V E R D I S C OV E R E D .

Hemingway, I wrote, was one of my favorites. It seemed that Knight was shy about everything except literary criticism; he answered that he felt “rather lukewarm” about Hemingway. Instead, he noted, he’d rather read Rudyard Kipling, preferably his “lesser known works.” As if catching himself getting a little friendly, he added that since he didn’t know me, he really didn’t want to say more. Then he seemed concerned that he was now being too unfriendly. “I wince at the rudeness of this reply but think it better to be clear and honest rather than polite. Tempted to say ‘nothing personal,’ but handwritten letters are always personal.” He ended with: “It was kind of you to write. Thank you.” He did not sign his name. I wrote him back and sent him a couple of Kiplings (The Man Who Would Be King and Captains Courageous). His response, two and a half pages, felt as raw and honest as a diary entry. He was su≠ering in jail; the noise and the ﬁlth tore at his senses. “You asked how I sleep. Little and uneasy. I am nearly always tired and nervous.” In his next

letter, he added, in his staccato, almost songlyric style, that he deserved to be imprisoned. “I stole. I was a thief. I repeatedly stole over many years. I knew it was wrong. Knew it was wrong, felt guilty about it every time, yet continued to do it.” We exchanged letters throughout the summer of 2013. Rather than becoming gradually more accustomed to jail, to being around other people, Knight was deteriorating. In the woods, he said, he’d always carefully maintained his facial hair, but now he stopped shaving. “Use my beard,” he wrote, “as a jail calendar.” He tried several times to converse with other inmates. He could force out a few hesitant words, but every topic—music, movies, television—was lost on him, as was most slang. “You speak like a book,” one inmate teased. Whereupon he ceased talking. “I am retreating into silence as a defensive move,” he wrote. Soon he was down to uttering just ﬁve words, and only to guards: yes; no; please; thank you. “I am surprised by the amount of respect this garners me. That silence intimidates puzzles me. Silence is to me normal, comfortable.” He wrote little about his time in the woods, but what he did reveal was harrowing. Some years, he made it clear, he barely survived the winter. In one letter, he told me that to get through di∞cult times, he tried meditating. “I didn’t meditate every day, month, season in the woods. Just when death was near. Death in the

form of too little food or too much cold for too long.” Meditation worked, he concluded. “I am alive and sane, at least I think I’m sane.” As always there was no formal closing. His letters simply ended, sometimes mid-thought. He returned to the theme of sanity in a following letter. “When I came out of the woods they applied the label hermit to me. Strange idea to me. I had never thought of myself as a hermit. Then I got worried. For I knew with the label hermit comes the idea of crazy. See the ugly little joke.” Even worse, he feared his time in jail would only prove correct those who doubted his sanity. “I suspect,” he wrote, “more damage has been done to my sanity in jail, in months; than years, decades, in the woods.” His legal proceedings were mired in delays, as the district attorney and his lawyer tried to ﬁgure out how justice could be served in a case entirely without precedent. After four months in jail, Knight had no clue what punishment awaited. A sentence of a dozen or more years was possible. “Stress levels sky high,” he wrote. “Give me a number. How long? Months? Years? How long in prison for me. Tell me the worst. How long?” In the end, he decided he could not even write. “For a while writing relieved stress for me. No longer.” He sent one last, heartbreaking letter in which he seemed at the verge of breakdown. “Still tired. More tired. Tireder, tiredest, tired ad nauseam, tired inﬁnitum.”

HOME ALONE Maine

INSIDE THE CAMP THAT KEPT CHRISTOPHER KNIGHT HIDDEN FOR DECADES

9 2 5

4 7 6

1. Tent 2. Latrine 3. Buried trash 4. Propane tank

5. Clothesline 6. Concealed entrance 7. Wash area

8. Water-collection barrel 9. Hidden supply cache

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Finding the Perfect Spot Two years after heading into the forest, Knight discovered the patch of woods that would become his permanent home. Perched on a slope that attracted a gentle breeze and shielded by enormous boulders and trees, the campsite remained virtually invisible despite sitting only a few hundred feet from a nearby cabin.

Outfitting a Home On midnight raids of lakeside cabins, Knight gathered the goods he needed to build his abode—and to keep it hidden. He slept in a nylon tent (on a pilfered box spring and mattress) that he kept covered with brown tarps, and used spray paint to camouflage his coolers, trash bins, and even his clothespins.

Keeping Camp Clean Camping in one spot—and keeping things tidy—for nearly three decades can be logistically tricky. Knight created separate washing and bathroom stations that he outfitted with hand sanitizer, laundry detergent, and other supplies. And he buried his trash, including hundreds of propane tanks he used to power his camp stove.

And that was it. He never wrote me again. Though he did ﬁnally sign his name. Despite the exhaustion and the tension, the last words he penned were wry and self-mocking: “Your friendly neighborhood Hermit, Christopher Knight.”

T H R E E W E E K S A F T E R H I S final letter, I flew to Maine. The Kennebec County jail, a three-story slab of pale gray cinder blocks, permits visitors most evenings at six forty-five. I arrived early. “Who you here to see?” asked a corrections o∞cer. “Christopher Knight.” “Relationship?” “Friend,” I answered unconfidently. He didn’t know I was here, and I had my doubts he’d see me. I sat on a bench as other visitors checked in. Beyond the walls of the waiting room, I could hear piercing buzzers and slamming doors. Eventually an o∞cer appeared and called out, “Knight.” He unlocked a maroon door and I stepped inside a visitors’ booth. Three short stools were bolted to the floor in front of a narrow desk. Over the desk, dividing the booth into sealed-o≠ halves, was a thick pane of shatterproof plastic. Sitting on a stool on the other side of the pane was Christopher Knight. Rarely in my life have I witnessed someone less pleased to see me. His lips, thin, were pulled into a downturned scowl. His eyes did not rise to meet mine. I sat across from him, and there was no acknowledgment of my presence, not the merest nod. He gazed someplace beyond my left shoulder. He was wearing a dull green overlaundered jail uniform several sizes too big. A black phone receiver was hanging on the wall. I picked it up. He picked his up— the first movement I saw him make. I spoke first. “Nice to meet you, Chris.” He didn’t respond. He just sat there, stone-faced. His balding head shone like a snowfield beneath the fluorescent lights; his beard was a mess of reddish brown curls. He had on silver-framed glasses, di≠erent from the ones he’d worn forever in the woods. He was very skinny. He’d lost a great deal of weight since his arrest. I tend to babble when I’m nervous, but I made a conscious e≠ort to restrain myself. I recalled what Knight wrote in his letter about being comfortable with silence. I looked at him not looking at me. Maybe a minute passed. That was all I could endure. “The constant banging and buzzing in here,” I said, “must be so jarring compared with the sounds of nature.” He shifted his eyes to me—a small victory—then glanced away. His eyes are light brown. He scarcely has any eyebrows. I let my comment hang in the air.

I T WA S N ’ T U N T I L A F T E R H I S A R R E S T T H AT K N I G H T G R E W A B E A R D , LO S T W E I G H T, A N D C A M E T O R E S E M B L E T H E H E R M I T P E O P L E H A D I M AG I N E D .

Then he spoke. Or at least his mouth moved. His ﬁrst words to me were inaudible. I saw why: He was holding the phone’s mouthpiece too low, below his chin. It had been decades since he’d used a phone; he was out of practice. I indicated with my hand that he needed to move it up. He did. And he repeated his grand pronouncement. “It’s jail,” he said. There was nothing more. Silence again. I shouldn’t have come. He didn’t want me here; I didn’t feel comfortable being here. But the jail had granted me a one-hour visit, and I resolved to stay. I settled atop my stool. I felt hyperaware of all my gestures, my expressions, my breathing. Chris’s right leg, I saw through the scu≠ed window, was bouncing rapidly. He scratched at his skin. My patience was rewarded. First his leg settled down. He quit scratching. And then, rather shockingly, he started talking. “Some people want me to be this warm and fuzzy person. All ﬁlled with friendly hermit wisdom. Just spouting o≠ fortunecookie lines from my hermit home.” His voice was clear; he’d retained the stretched vowels of a Down East Maine accent. And his words, when he deigned to release them, could evidently be imaginative and entertaining. And caustic. “ Your hermit home—like under a bridge?” I said, trying to play along. He presented me with an achingly long blink. “You’re thinking of a troll.” I laughed. His face moved in the direction of a smile. We had made a connection—or at least the awkwardness of our introduction had softened. We began to converse somewhat normally. He called me Mike and I called him Chris. He explained about the lack of eye contact. “I’m not used to seeing people’s faces,” he said. “There’s too much information there. Aren’t you aware of it? Too much, too fast.”

I followed his cue and looked over his shoulder while he stared over mine. We maintained this arrangement for most of the visit. Chris had recently been given a mental-health evaluation by Maine’s forensic service. The report mentioned a possible diagnosis of Asperger’s disorder, a form of autism often marked by exceptional intelligence but extreme sensitivity to motions, sounds, and light. Chris had just learned of Asperger’s while in jail, and he seemed unfazed by the diagnosis. “I don’t think I’ll be a spokesman for the Asperger’s telethon. Do they still do telethons? I hate Jerry Lewis.” He said he was taking no medications. “But I don’t like people touching me,” he added. “You’re not a hugger, are you?” I admitted that I do at times participate in embraces. “I’m glad this is between us,” he said, indicating the glass. “If there was a set of blinds here, I’d close them.” There was a part of me that was perversely charmed by Chris. He could seem prickly—he is prickly—but this was merely a protective cover. He told me that since his capture, he’d often (continued on next page)

A N DY M O L L OY/ K E N N E B E C J O U R N A L /A P P H O T O

“I NEVER FELT LONELY. TO PUT IT ROMANTICALLY: I WAS COMPLETELY FREE.” SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 275

T HE L AST H E RM IT “I screwed him on that,” Chris said. “I still owe him.” He worked less than a year before he quit. He drove the Brat to Maine, went through his hometown without stopping— “one last look around”—and kept driving north. Soon he reached the edge of Moosehead Lake, where Maine begins to get truly remote. “I drove until I was nearly out of gas. I took a small road. Then a small road o≠ that small road. Then a trail o≠ that.” He parked the car. He placed the keys in the center console. “I had a backpack and minimal stu≠. I had no plans. I had no map. I didn’t know where I was going. I just walked away.” It was late summer of 1986. He’d camp in one spot for a week or so, then hike south, following the natural geology of Maine, with its long, glacier-carved valleys. “I lost track of where I was,” he said. “I didn’t care.” For a while, he tried foraging for food. He ate roadkill partridges. Then he began taking corn and potatoes from people’s gardens. “But I wanted more than vegetables,” he said. “It took a while to overcome my scruples. I was always scared when stealing. Always.” He insists he never encountered anyone during a robbery; he made sure there was no car in the driveway, no sign of anyone inside. “It was usually 1 or 2 a.m. I’d go in, hit the cabinets, the refrigerator. In and out. My heart rate was soaring. It was not a comfortable act. I took no pleasure in it, none at all, and I wanted it over as quickly as possible.” A single mistake, he understood, and the outside world would snatch him back. He roamed about for two years before he discovered the campsite he would call home. He knew at once it was ideal. “Then,” he said, “I settled in.” The majority of North Pond residents I spoke with found it hard to believe Knight’s story. Many insisted that he either had help or spent the winters in unoccupied cabins. As the time allotted for our visit wound down, I challenged Chris myself: You must, I said, have had assistance at some time. Or slept in a cabin. Or used a bathroom. Chris’s demeanor changed. It was the only time in our meeting that he held eye contact. “Never once did I sleep inside,” he said. He never used a shower. Or a toilet. He did admit to thawing meat in a microwave a few times during break-ins. But he endured every season entirely on his own. “I’m a thief. I induced fear. People have a right to be angry. But I have not lied.” I trusted him. I sensed, in fact, that Chris was practically incapable of lying. I wasn’t alone in this thought. Diane Perkins-Vance, the state trooper present at his arrest, told me that much of her job consisted of sorting through lies people fed her. With Chris, however, she had no doubts. “Unequivocally,” she said, “I believe him.” Before he hung up the phone, Chris added that if I could see where he lived and how he survived, I’d know for sure. It was my plan to ﬁnd his camp. Afterward, I said, I’d like to return to the jail. Could we meet again? His answer was unexpected. He said, “Yes.” • • • THE BELGRADE LAKES AREA,

C O N T I N U E D F R O M PA G E 2 7 5

found himself emotionally overwhelmed at unexpected moments. “Like TV commercials,” he said, “have made me teary. It’s not a good thing in jail to have people see you crying.” Everything he said seemed candid and blunt, unﬁltered by the safety net of social niceties. “I’m not sorry about being rude if it gets to the point quicker,” he told me. That’s ﬁne, I said, though I expected to ask questions that might kindle his rudeness. But I started with a gentle one: What was your life like before you went into the forest? • • • BEFORE HE SLEPT

in the woods for a quarter century straight, Chris never once spent a night in a tent. He was raised in the community of Albion, a forty-five-minute drive east of his camp; he has four older brothers and one younger sister. His father, who died in 2001, worked in a creamery. His mother, now in her eighties, still lives in the same house where Chris grew up, a modest two-story colonial on a wooded fifty-acre plot. The family is extremely private and did not speak with me. Their next-door neighbor told me that in fourteen years, he hasn’t exchanged more than a word with Chris’s mom. Sometimes he sees her getting the paper. “Culturally my family is old Yankee,” Chris said. “We’re not emotionally bleeding all over each other. We’re not touchy-feely. Stoicism is expected.” Chris insisted that he had a fine childhood. “No complaints,” he said. “I had good parents.” He shared vivid stories of moose hunting with his father. “A couple of hunting trips I slept in the back of the pickup, but never alone and never in a tent.” After he’d disappeared, his family apparently didn’t report him missing to the police, though they may have hired a private detective. No one uncovered a clue. Two of Chris’s brothers, Joel and Tim, visited him in jail. “I didn’t recognize them,” Chris admitted. “My brothers supposed I was dead,” said Chris, “but never expressed this to my mom. They always wanted to give her hope. Maybe he’s in Texas, they’d say. Or he’s in the Rocky Mountains.” Chris did not allow his mother to visit. “Look at me, I’m in my prison clothes. That’s not how I was raised. I couldn’t face her.” He said he had excellent grades in high school, though no friends, and graduated early. Like two of his brothers, he enrolled in a nine-month electronics course at Sylvania Technical School in Waltham, Massachusetts. Then, still in Waltham, he took a job installing home and vehicle alarm systems; valuable knowledge to have once he started stealing. He bought a new car, a white 1985 Subaru Brat. His brother Joel co-signed the loan. GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

where Knight lived, is cow-and-horse rural, nothing

like the vast North Woods of Maine, wild and unpeopled. Knight’s camp was located on private property, just a few hundred feet from the nearest cabin, in an area crisscrossed by dirt roads. When I saw Knight’s woods myself, I understood how he could remain there unnoticed. The tangle of hemlock and maple and elm is so dense the forest holds its own humidity; one step in and my glasses fogged. But what made navigation truly treacherous were the boulders—vehicle-sized glacierborne gifts from the last ice age—scattered wildly and everywhere. I thrashed about for an hour, wrenched a knee between two moss-slick rocks, then gave up and retreated to a road. Before Chris was jailed, he’d led Hughes and Perkins-Vance to his camp; I knew roughly where it was located, but my second attempt was also a failure. There was no hint of a trail. Mosquitoes swarmed. Finally, reduced to slogging in a gridlike pattern, I squeezed around a boulder and there it was. My goodness. Chris had carved from the chaos a bedroom-sized clearing completely invisible from a few steps away, situated on a slight rise that allowed enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away, but not so much as to cause severe windchill in winter. It was surrounded by a natural Stonehenge of boulders; overhead, tree branches linked to form a trellis-like canopy that masked his site from the air. This is why Chris’s skin was so pale— he’d lived in perpetual shade. I ended up staying there three nights, watching the rabbits by day, at night picking out a few stars behind the scrim of branches. It was as gorgeous and peaceful a place as I have ever spent time. The police had dismantled much of his camp, but during my next visit with Chris, and several after that, he described his living space in meticulous detail. In total, Chris and I met at the jail for nine hours. He slept in a simple camping tent, which he kept covered by several layers of brown tarps. Camouflage, he felt, was essential; he didn’t want to risk anything shiny catching someone’s eye, so he spray-painted, in foresty colors, his garbage bins and his coolers and his cooking pot. He even painted his clothespins green. The breadth of his thievery was impressive. He’d fled the modern world only to live o≠ the fat of it. Inside his tent was a metal bedframe he’d removed from the Pine Tree Camp; he had hauled it across the pond in a canoe. He didn’t steal the canoe. He just borrowed one, as he often did, from a lakeside cabin— “there’s a wide selection”—then returned it, sprinkling pine needles inside to make it seem unused. He also stole a box spring and mattress and sleeping bags. He stole toilet paper and hand sanitizer for his bathroom spot. He took laundry detergent and shampoo for his wash area. There was no fire pit, as he’d insisted. He cooked on a Coleman two-burner stove that he connected to propane tanks. He stole a tremendous number of tanks, pillaging gas grills along the thirty-mile circumference of the pond. He never returned them. He buried the tanks—possibly hundreds of them—in his dump at the camp’s edge. He stole deodorant, disposable razors, flashlights, snow boots, spices, mousetraps,

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spray paint, and electrical tape. He took pillows o≠ beds. He kept three di≠erent types of thermometers in camp: digital, mercury, spring-loaded. Knowing the exact temperature was mandatory. He stole watches—he had to be sure, while on a raid, that he could return to camp before daybreak. Deeper into the forest, in his “upper cache,” as he called it, he’d stashed plastic totes filled with enough supplies—a tent and a sleeping bag, some warm clothes—so that if he heard someone approach his camp, he could instantly abandon it and start anew. He was committed. His diet was terrible. “Cooking is too kind a word for what I did,” Chris told me. He’d not been sick in the woods, and his worst accident was a tumble on some ice, but his teeth were rotten, and no wonder. I dug through his twenty-five years of trash, buried between boulders, and kept inventory: a five-pound tub that once held Marshmallow Flu≠, an empty box of Devil Dogs, peanut butter, Cheetos, honey, graham crackers, Cool Whip, tuna fish, co≠ee, Tater Tots, pudding, soda, El Monterey spicy jalapeño chimichangas, and on and on and on. He stole radios and earphones and hid an antenna up in trees. For a while, he listened to a lot of conservative talk radio. Later he got hooked on classical music—Tchaikovsky and Brahms, yes; Bach, no. “Bach is too pristine,” he said. He went through a spell of listening to television shows on the radio; “theater of the mind,” he called it. Everybody Loves Raymond was a favorite. But his undying passion was classic rock: the Who, AC/DC, Judas Priest, and above all, Lynyrd Skynyrd. We covered hundreds of topics while chatting in jail, and nothing received higher praise than Lynyrd Skynyrd. “They will be playing Lynyrd Skynyrd songs in a thousand years,” he proclaimed. He also stole the occasional handheld video game—Pokémon, Tetris, Dig Dug—but the majority of his free time was spent reading or observing the forest. “Don’t mistake me

level out his camp. Beneath his tent area were dozens of these bricks. I unearthed a stack of National Geographic s with the dates still legible: 1991 and 1992. I also saw People, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, and Vanity Fair. There was even a collection of Playboys. One book Chris never stole was the Bible. “I can’t claim a belief system,” he said. He celebrated no holidays. He meditated now and then but did not pray. With one exception. When the worst of a Maine winter struck, all rules were suspended. “Once you get below negative twenty, you purposely don’t think,” he told me. His eyes went wide and fearful from the memory. “That’s when you do have religion. You do pray. You pray for warmth.” • • • the rhythms of the seasons, but his thoughts were dominated by surviving winter. Preparations began at the end of each summer as the lakeside cabins were shutting down for the year. “It was my busiest time,” he said. “Harvest time. A very ancient instinct. Though not usually associated with crime.” His first goal was to get fat. This was a life-or-death necessity. “I gorged myself on sugar and alcohol,” he said. “It’s the quickest way to gain weight, and I liked the inebriation.” The bottles he stole were signs of a man who’d never once, as he admitted, ordered a drink at a bar: Allen’s Co≠ee Flavored Brandy, Seagram’s Escapes Strawberry Daiquiri, something called Whipped Chocolate Valley Vines (from the label: “fine chocolate, whipped cream & red wine”). As the evenings began to chill, he grew his beard to the ideal length—about an inch, long enough to insulate his face, short enough to prevent ice buildup. He intensified his thieving raids, stocking up on food and propane. The first snow usually came in November. Chris was always fearful about leaving a single boot print anywhere, which is impossible to avoid in a blanket of snow. And so for the next six months, until the spring thaw in April, Chris rarely strayed from his clearing in the woods. I asked him if he just slept all the time, a human hibernation. “Completely wrong,” he replied. “It’s dangerous to sleep too long in winter.” When seriously frigid weather descended, he conditioned himself to fall asleep at 7:30 p.m. and get up at 2 a.m. “That way, at the depth of cold, I was awake.” If he remained in bed any longer, condensation from his body could freeze his sleeping bag. “If you try and sleep through that kind of cold, you might never wake up.” The first thing he’d do at 2 a.m. was light his stove and start melting snow. To get his blood circulating, he’d pace the perimeter of his camp. His feet never seemed to fully thaw, but as long as he had a fresh pair of socks, this wasn’t a problem. “It’s more important to be dry than warm,” Chris said. By dawn, he’d have his day’s water supply. “Then, if I had had food, I’d have a meal.” And if he didn’t have food? There were, he said, some very hard winters—desperate winters—in which he ran out of propane and finished his food. The su≠ering was acute. CHRIS LIVED BY

ONE RESIDENT BEGAN HIDING ALL NIGHT IN HIS DARK HOUSE WITH A .357 MAGNUM. “ I WANTED TO BE THE GUY THAT CAUGHT THE HERMIT,” HE SAID. HE STAYED UP FOURTEEN NIGHTS ONE SUMMER. for some bird-watching PBS type,” he warned, but then proceeded to poetically describe the crunch of dry leaves underfoot (“walking on corn ﬂakes”) and the rumble of an ice crack propagating across the pond (“like a bowling ball rolling down an alley”). He stole hundreds of books over the years; his preference was military history—he named William Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich as his favorite book—but he took whatever was available. Magazines were more common. When he ﬁnished them, he’d create bricks of magazines, bound with electrical tape, and bury them in the ground to

Chris called it “physical, emotional, and psychological pain.” He hinted to me there were times he contemplated suicide. Why not just leave the woods? Chris said he thought about it. He even kept a whistle in his camp. “If I blew on it in sequences of three, help might come.” But he never used it. Rather, he made a firm decision that unless forcibly removed, he was going to spend the rest of his life behind the trees. When he heard the song of the chickadees, he told me, he could finally relax. “That alerted me that winter is starting to lessen its grip. That the end is near. That spring is coming and I’m still alive.” The cold never got easier. All his wintercamping expertise felt o≠set by advancing age. “You should have seen me in my twenties,” he boasted. “I was lord of the woods. I ruled the land I walked upon. I was tough and clever.” But over time, like an aging athlete, his body began to break down. The biggest issue was his eyesight. “For the last ten years, anything beyond an arm’s length was a blur. I used my ears more than my eyes.” If he saw a pair of glasses during a break-in, he always tried them on, but was unable to find a better prescription. His agility faded; bruises took longer to heal. His teeth constantly hurt. The victims of his thefts, after years of waiting for a police breakthrough, eventually took matters into their own hands. Neal Patterson, whose family has owned a place on the pond for fifty years, began hiding all night in his dark house with a .357 Magnum in his hand. “I wanted to be the guy that caught the hermit,” he said. He stayed up fourteen nights one summer before he quit. Debbie Baker, whose young boys were terrified of the hermit—to quell their fears, the family renamed him “the hungry man”— installed a surveillance camera in their cabin. And in 2002, they captured a photo of Knight. The police widely distributed the photo and figured an arrest was imminent. It took eleven more years. After a robbery in March of 2013 at the Pine Tree Camp, Sergeant Terry Hughes, who often volunteered there, contacted the border patrol for advice. “It had gone on long enough,” said Hughes. He installed a motion detector that sounded an alarm at his house and practiced dashing from his bed to the camp until he had it down under four minutes. Then Hughes waited for the hermit to return. • • • F O L L O W I N G H I S A R R E S T , the court of public opinion was deeply divided. The man who wanted to live his life as invisibly as possible had become one of the most famous people in Maine. You could not walk into a bar in the Augusta area without stumbling into a debate about what should be done with Christopher Knight. Some said that he must immediately be released from jail. Stealing cheese and bacon are not serious crimes. The man was apparently never violent. He didn’t carry a weapon. He’s an introvert, not a criminal. He clearly has no desire to be a part of our world. Let’s open a Kickstarter, get him enough cash for a few years’ worth of groceries, and allow him to go back to the woods. Some people were willing to let him live on their land, rent-free. SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 277

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Others countered that it wasn’t the physical items he robbed that made his crimes so disturbing—he stole hundreds of people’s peace of mind. Their sense of security. How were they supposed to know Knight wasn’t armed and dangerous? Even a single breakin can be punishable by a ten-year sentence. If Knight really wanted to live in the woods, he should’ve done so on public lands, hunting and fishing for food. He’s nothing but a lazy man and a thief times a thousand. Lock him up in the state penitentiary. On October 28, 2013, Chris appeared in Kennebec County Superior Court and pleaded guilty to thirteen counts of burglary and theft. He was sentenced to seven months in jail—he’d already served all but a week of this, waiting for his case to be resolved. The sentence was far more lenient than it could have been, though even the prosecutor said a long prison term seemed cruel in this case. Chris was ordered to meet with a judge every Monday, and avoid alcohol, and either find a job or go to school. If he violated these terms, he could be sent to prison for seven years. Before his release, I met with Chris again. He said he’d be returning home, to live with his mother. His beard was unruly—“my crazy hermit beard,” he called it. He was alarmingly skinny; he itched all over. We still didn’t make much eye contact. “I don’t know your world,” he said. “Only my world, and memories of the world before I went into the woods. What life is today? What is proper? I have to figure out how to live.” He wished he could return to his camp—“I miss the woods”—but he knew by the rules of his release that this was impossible. “Sitting here in jail, I don’t like what I see in the society I’m about to enter. I don’t think I’m going to fit in. It’s too loud. Too colorful. The lack of aesthetics. The crudeness. The inanities. The trivia.” I told him I agreed with much of his assessment. But, I wondered, what about your world? What insights did you glean from your time alone? I had been trying to ask him these questions every visit, but now I pushed the point harder. Anyone who reveals what he’s learned, Chris told me, is not by his definition a true hermit. Chris had come around on the idea of himself as a hermit, and eventually embraced it. When I mentioned Thoreau, who spent two years at Walden, Chris dismissed him with a single word: “dilettante.” True hermits, according to Chris, do not write books, do not have friends, and do not answer questions. I asked why he didn’t at least keep a journal in the woods. Chris sco≠ed. “I expected to die out there. Who would read my journal? You? I’d rather take it to my grave.” The only reason he was talking to me now, he said, is because he was locked in jail and needed practice interacting with others. “But you must have thought about things,” I said. “About your life, about the human condition.” Chris became surprisingly introspective. “I did examine myself,” he said. “Solitude did increase my perception. But here’s the tricky thing—when I applied my increased perception to myself, I lost my identity. With no audience, no one to perform for, I was just there. There was no need to define myself; I became irrelevant. The moon was the minute hand, 278 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

the seasons the hour hand. I didn’t even have a name. I never felt lonely. To put it romantically: I was completely free.” That was nice. But still, I pressed on, there must have been some grand insight revealed to him in the wild. He returned to silence. Whether he was thinking or fuming or both, I couldn’t tell. Though he did arrive at an answer. I felt like some great mystic was about to reveal the Meaning of Life. “Get enough sleep.” He set his jaw in a way that conveyed he wouldn’t be saying more. This is what he’d learned. I accepted it as truth. “What I miss most,” he eventually continued, “is somewhere between quiet and solitude. What I miss most is stillness.” He said he’d watched for years as a shelf mushroom grew on the trunk of a Douglas ﬁr in his camp. I’d noticed the mushroom when I visited—it was enormous—and he asked me with evident concern if anyone had knocked it down. I assured him it was still there. In the height of summer, he said, he’d sometimes sneak down to the lake at night. “I’d stretch out in the water, ﬂoat on my back, and look at the stars.” At the very end of each of our visits, I’d always asked him the same question. An essential question: Why did he disappear? He never had a satisfying answer. “I don’t have a reason.” “I can’t explain why.” “Give me

more time to think about it.” “It’s a mystery to me, too.” Then he became annoyed: “Why? That question bores me.” But during our ﬁnal visit, he was more reﬂective. Isn’t everybody, he said, seeking the same thing in life? Aren’t we all looking for contentment? He was never happy in his youth—not in high school, not with a job, not being around other people. Then he discovered his camp in the woods. “I found a place where I was content,” he said. His own perfect spot. The only place in the world he felt at peace. That was all he had to tell me. He’d grown weary of my visits. Please, he begged, leave me alone; we are not friends. I don’t want to be your friend, he said, I don’t want to be anyone’s friend. “I’m not going to miss you at all,” he added. I liked Chris, a great deal. I liked the way his mind worked; I liked the lyricism of his language. But he was a true hermit. He could no longer disappear into the wild, so he wished to melt away into the world. “Good-bye, Chris,” I said. A guard had appeared to escort him away, but there was time for Chris to express a last thought. He did not. He hung up the phone. No wave; no nod. He stood, turned his back on me, and walked out of the visitors’ booth and down a corridor of the jail. michael finkel is the author of True Story.

H I P - H O P ’S MO ST N OTO RIO US LA BEL where it would be dangerous. In retrospect, we probably should’ve just been safer. • • • 8. Bad Boy for Life Mase: After Big died, we were searching to see who was gonna carry the torch. Everybody would’ve had the right to get out of contracts because of the violence. Instead, we rolled together. If I had a verse or beat that was better for you, I’d just give it up. My verses on Pu≠ ’s ﬁrst few singles from No Way Out were records I wrote in that one-bedroom apartment in Harlem before I even got to the label. I gave them to Pu≠, because he was the one with the hot hand. Harris: When Pu≠ put out that ﬁrst song, “Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down,” it wasn’t clear just how important he was going to be as an artist—that he was going to do an album himself that would sell 7 million units. Nobody saw that. Anybody who tells you they did, they’re lying. Including him! Combs: For maybe like seven years, I was the

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see this, because Big and Pac were considered MC heavyweights at that time. Later on, when I heard about the beef, it was a total mystery to me. I was like, “Yo, what happened? We was just in the studio.” Matty C: There was a period when a couple other sparks ﬂew o≠, due to the natural jealousy and envy that occur when someone is on his way to the top. But that kind of posturing is just par for the course. It’s bravado. That’s all I see it as. And to be honest, that’s the way I saw Suge’s potshot at the Source Awards that supposedly started it all, where he said, “Any artist who wants to be an artist and wants to stay a star and don’t want to worry about the producer trying to be all in the video, all on the record, dancing, come to Death Row.” Combs: The West Coast thing was heavy on our minds. It was worldwide news that we were supposedly having this musical war or whatever. But there have always been di≠erent rivalries in hip-hop. You would never think any of them would go in the direction

hip-hop artist with the most No. 1’s in history. It was like I couldn’t miss a shot. Funkmaster Flex: I’ve been on the radio and in the clubs for every movement that’s ever happened in hip-hop—from Sleeping Bag Records to Young Money/Cash Money. I’m telling you, ain’t nothing shine brighter than that Bad Boy. Nothing had that energy.

craigh barboza is a New York City–based journalist who has been writing about hiphop since the mid-1990s.

“M E N DON ’ T G E T R A P E D ” obsessive-compulsive disorder. The high for me was getting away with it, being in control. • • • V I . “ Yo u s e e u s i n g r o u p , i t ’s l i k e w e’ r e e a c h i n d i v i d u a l l y w r a p p e d in a burlap sack.” Men who have been sexually assaulted avoid treatment for the same reason they avoid so much else in their lives: because it makes them feel threatened. “We’re asking them to talk about the one thing they’ll do anything to keep other people from knowing about them,” says Asbrand. The irony is that PTSD is highly treatable, even if the damage it does over time to families and professional lives may not be. Unfortunately for male victims, the VA’s facilities for MST focus largely on women. In fact, the statute that establishes these programs makes mention only of female victims. Interviewees for this story indicate that the quality and availability of outpatient treatment for men is spotty at best. Some men report being denied care altogether. Matthews Come to my VA, they don’t have counselors for men. There’s no standard across the VA. Phillips The questionnaires are designed for women. They were asking, “How many times were you violated in your vagina?” Jones You see us in group, it’s like we’re each individually wrapped in a burlap sack. We don’t want to touch anybody. We’re all just very leery of each other. Lewis I don’t want to discuss in a room full of women how there’s nerve damage to my prostate from the attack, and I’m sure they don’t really want to discuss their reproductive organs in a room full of men. Ronald Abrams Joint executive director, National Veterans Legal Services Program

The VA has a real quality problem. They say they have a 90 percent accuracy rate [in processing claims], but we do their quality checks, and the error rate in the last year was over 50 percent. In over 70 percent of all appeals, the board reverses or remands the VA’s decisions. No one understands what the VA is doing. Phillips I went to the VA from 1994 to 2010 for severe chronic PTSD due to military sexual trauma. But one day I was denied service, and I’m like, “What the heck?” My VA rep said I had slipped through the cracks—they were never supposed to have seen me in the ﬁrst place, because I have an other-than-honorable discharge [for repeatedly going AWOL to avoid being attacked]. I go to this lady’s o∞ce: “You guys are not denying that I was sexually assaulted, but now you’re telling me I can’t see an MST counselor?” She says, “That’s correct.” Stovey I’ve got a PTSD diagnosis from my doctor. I’ve written my testimony down, ﬁlled out the paperwork, and sent it in, and it got denied. It just feels like another betrayal. Welch I’ve been turned down several times. There’s this wall that says, “That couldn’t have happened to you—you’re a man.”

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Welch I drank myself crazy and did street drugs— methamphetamine, codeine, morphine. At night I still have four or ﬁve drinks of vodka. It helps me relax. Owen I can turn o≠ my love for a person like a light switch. If my current wife made me distrust her in any way, I could walk out the door and not miss her. My kids told me my head was always in my work. Which was true. I don’t feel any loss of not being part of their life. Bob Hunter Navy, 1980–84

I’m emotionally numb all the time. I’m not feeling love. I don’t feel. Stovey As a man, I can’t perform the way I used to. I just feel damaged. All I remember, along with the pain, is the slapping sound of being raped. I try to make love to my wife, but I can’t—I’m triggered. I’m traumatized by that sound.

• • • V. T h e C a s e o f M i k e T h o m s o n Marines, 1997–99

In infantry training, I tore ligaments in my ankle. It wasn’t a visible injury, so I was accused of faking it. After I was assigned to base, three individuals started singling me out. They would intentionally bump into me. When I was asleep, somebody punched me in the face. A month later, I was pulled out of the shower. They kicked me and beat me with a plunger, and I don’t know if I lost consciousness or not, but the next thing I remember is my wrists were taped to the bedframe and they were holding a knife to my throat. Then they took turns sexually assaulting me. As the company clerk, part of my job was to sort the mail, and I started stealing magazines, Christmas cards: I’m the one that’s in charge, you only get your mail when I decide. After the military, I worked undercover security for department stores. I would go in the back room and steal cash before it went in the vault—not just ﬁfty bucks here and there but $2,000 in one night. They couldn’t prove it was me, because I’m the one controlling where the cameras go. Later on, working at a small business, I would print up high amounts of postage [on the in-house postage meter] and sell it—over seven years, probably $30,000 worth. I got more daring, and I ﬁnally stole a couple checks. I got caught for that and was sentenced to a year in jail. I was able to serve on house arrest, and I sought help from the VA. The psychiatrist diagnosed me with

Whistle-blowers have alleged that the VA’s regional o∞ces routinely destroy veterans’ medical records in an e≠ort to escape a massive systemic backlog. Nearly 60,000 new patients have been made to wait ninety days or more since 2004, with some 65,000 others never getting to see a doctor at all. At least twenty-three veterans have died while waiting for care. In May, Eric Shinseki, the head of Veterans A≠airs, resigned under pressure. Ted Skovranek Army, 2003–05

When I ﬁrst got out, I tried to seek treatment with the VA. It became an issue where every time I came back, it was a di≠erent person; they had interns ﬁlling in. Every time, I had to relive telling the story again. It just became too much. It’s a joke. Lewis There was a period of years where I wanted to die on a daily basis, every minute of every day. The VA’s pill cocktails simply did not work. Jones I take a handful of Skittles every fucking morning—for the anxiety and the nightmares and the insomnia. Taste the rainbow, dude.

In March, Senator Kirsten Gillibrand of New York sought to pass the Military Justice Improvement Act, a bill that would strip commanders of the power to determine whether to prosecute sex assaults. The MJIA would instead delegate that power to independent military prosecutors. The bill won a narrow majority in the Senate but fell short of the votes required to beat a promised ﬁlibuster. At the same time, Senator Claire McCaskill of Missouri o≠ered a competing bill that MSTvictim advocates attacked because it seemed to rea∞rm the status quo. Worse, it didn’t address victims’ fears of a Kafkaesque bureaucracy that, to put it mildly, deters reporting. “You know McCaskill’s bill ain’t gonna work,” says MST victim Michael Matthews, “because the Pentagon likes her bill.” For commanders, it’s a nuanced matter to decide whether or not to refer a rape case for trial. The decision requires judgment calls about consent. It demands empathy for a victim who has been made to feel profoundly unsoldierlike. It calls for unsparing scrutiny of one’s own complicity, because the failure of “good order and discipline”—a canonical 239-year-old military concept—is the commander’s own failure. MST-victim advocates argue that people with specialized training should be making these decisions, not commanders. McCaskill’s bill was passed unanimously and currently awaits action in a House subcommittee. Gillibrand has vowed to revive the MJIA later in 2014. Meanwhile, the number of reported sexual assaults rose for a third consecutive year. The Pentagon interprets this to mean that a greater proportion of victims are reporting. Veterans believe it just means there are more victims. SEPTEMBER 2014 GQ.COM 279

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JE F F GO L DBLUM

A DA M DRIVER

V I I . “ I c a n’ t b l a m e t h e w h o l e military for what one person did.” Ken Falke Founder, Boulder Crest Retreat for Military and Veteran Wellness, Bluemont, Virginia

It’s funny. Even people who have the most horriﬁc experience, at some stage in their life—it may take them till they’re 75 years old— the best memories of their lives will come back to [their service time]. I can’t tell you exactly why. The brotherhood, the camaraderie, goes deeper than the worst trauma. Alexander I can’t blame the whole military for what one person did. I liked the structure—having a sense of I knew what I was doing, what my job was going to be. I would go back in a heartbeat, even after everything that happened. I would love to. Jones I liked the routine. I liked the work. I liked the beneﬁts. I liked the freedom of being young and not under my parents’ rules anymore. I wanted to travel and to go up in rank and to store away money for an education when I got out. It only takes twenty years. I wanted to stay in the military. Smith I just wanted to stay in the Air Force. Being in the Air Force makes me happy. I didn’t want him to take that last thing away from me. I feel like this is where I really belong. But obviously it’s not an option.

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• • • VIII. The Case of Matthew Owen Army, 1976–80

I was from the Midwest, and they said they hated “Yankees.” At night they’d pull the covers over me and beat me with a bar of soap in a sock. They would push me out of my bunk onto the floor. They would mess up my locker during inspection. One night I was getting ready to go into my room in the barracks when a blanket was put over my head. I heard five di≠erent male voices, which I recognized, because I had heard these voices when they harassed me every day. They beat me down onto the floor and forced my legs open. Then they took the end of a broomstick and forced it into me again and again. Each time it felt like my insides were coming out. The blood was a blessing, because it seemed to lubricate the broomstick. In order to heal, I’m supposed to forgive; I’ve been told that many times. But how do you forgive somebody that’s done that to you? You tell me that. Could you? I know the identity of the ringleader, and two of the others came back to me a year ago. I searched online, and there was no trace. There’s millions of people that have those last names. My thought of what I would do to them is, I would first tie ’em down to a table. Then I would take a blowtorch, and I would slowly roast them from their toes to the top of their fucking head. You know how long that’s been on my mind? nathaniel penn is a gq correspondent. 280 GQ.COM SEPTEMBER 2014

exchange niceties for half a minute or so. Then, unexpectedly, he extends his arm, Vanna White–style, toward me: “Jessica! Of course you know Lauren?” Jessica Biel and I do not know each other. Or rather: I know of Jessica Biel, but there is no reason Jessica Biel should know of me. “No, I don’t believe so…,” she says, a tad confused but very gracious. “But you’re both young women!” Je≠ Goldblum exclaims, like it makes all the sense in the world. Je≠ Goldblum wasn’t always like this. Just kidding, of course he was. Je≠ Goldblum–ness is something you’re born with, not something you learn. He grew up in Pittsburgh in the 1960s, the son of a doctor, and every morning as a teenager he would write “Please, God, let me be an actor” with his ﬁnger on the steamed-up shower door, then erase it frantically before stepping out. Acting, it seems, is the only thing he isn’t carefree and whimsical about. “I am, as you may have heard, meticulous about preparation,” he says. We run through his movies. For The Fly, he captured a house ﬂy in a plastic bag and studied it for weeks. Before doing Adam Resurrected, he asked director Paul Schrader to make a list of movies for him to watch. Schrader gave him sixty; he watched all of them. A moment later, Je≠ Goldblum notices that I’m wearing an engagement ring. He grabs my hand and purrs. It’s such a long and perfectly trilled emanation that the person who will later transcribe the audio recording of our interview writes it down as “[veritably purrs].” “I love that little thing!” Goldblum exclaims. “Who’s this Moses of yours? I should be crying. But I love his taste in rings. I’m opposed to the...” Je≠ Goldblum scrunches his nose and rolls his eyes back into his head. Blood diamonds? He sort of nods. “I like something…modest, un-bling-y, anti-bourgeois, should we say? More bohemian, artist.” He asks me what my plans are for “the big amazing thing.” Somehow, though, we end up sidetracked by a conversation about Ingmar Bergman’s Persona for ten minutes. Then Je≠ Goldblum circles back. “Oh! I’d like to be there—at your wedding, if that’s all right— and sing ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ by the Carpenters. Do you know that song?” He sings it: “We’ve only just begun to live / White lace and promises / A kiss for luck and we’re on our way. I will have baby’s breath in my hair. And I’ll be wearing peach. Something peach-colored, if that’s okay with you.” lauren bans is a writer living in Los Angeles who wrote about the new rules of chivalry about one hundred pages ago.

This will be easy.” He was working as a security guard at a warehouse in Mishawaka when he heard he’d been accepted. To make going to school in New York City even more of a challenge, Driver devised a militaristic routine for personal and intellectual growth. “I wanted to make it extreme,” he says. To stay ﬁt, he’d run from his apartment in Queens to the school’s Manhattan campus. He’d often start his day with six eggs and later prepare and consume an entire chicken. Nights he spent binge-watching classic movies or at the library reading plays. Since he’d been a lousy student and grew up sheltered from a lot of secular art and music, “I felt like I was behind,” he says. To most of Driver’s classmates, he was an oddity. He didn’t have much patience for them, either. “I think he thought other people weren’t as committed,” says Richard Feldman, a professor at Juilliard. “I made a lot of people cry,” says Driver regretfully. At the same time, he was drifting apart from his friends in the Marines. “We all got together in Texas; a friend of ours had passed away,” Driver says. “And I was trying to explain to them what I was doing at Juilliard. And I’m like, ‘Yeah, we wear pajamas, and we talk about our inner colors, and there was this exercise where we all gave birth to ourselves….’ And they’re like, ‘What the fuck are you doing? ’ ” • • • Driver says, pointing from the helicopter, launching into an anecdote about a friend from Juilliard who spent a sweaty afternoon in period dress churning butter for a historicalreenactment gig. Though Driver’s ﬁrst big reenactment gig, on the other hand, would come opposite Daniel Day-Lewis in Lincoln, success wasn’t exactly immediate for Driver in the years after college. He did a few O≠-Broadway plays, the obligatory Law & Order episode, a couple of easily missed movies. After Lincoln came a small but charming part in the Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis, and of course Girls, and before he knew it, he was getting calls from Martin Scorsese and posing shirtless with a live sheep draped over his shoulders for Vogue. “It’s very nice,” he says, cringing like he did before, like he’s embarrassed both by his success and for complaining about it.“But in a way, I don’t feel like I’ve really put in my dues. Like it doesn’t feel earned.” Driver puts a premium on things that take a lot of work. It’s one reason he hates the Internet. “Not to get on, like, a stomping pedestal about the culture or anything,” he tells me at one point. “But everyone is so used to having everything “THERE’S GOVERNORS ISLAND,”

ADAM DRIVER CONTINUED

A DDITIO N A L CREDITS love cheerleaders. I could watch cheerleaders all day long. But I felt like the military could handle something a little more thoughtprovoking.” They decided on simple, relatable monologues about the human experience. “When I think of my military experience, I don’t think of the drills and discipline and pain,” says Driver. “I think of these, like, really intimate, human moments of people wanting to go AWOL because they missed their wives, or someone’s dead and they can’t deal with it. And that’s what I wanted to show.” After the group’s first performance, at his old training camp, Driver received more than a few slaps on the back from the troops. “They were like, ‘Fuckin’ loved it, bro,’ ” he says, a≠ecting a macho voice. Someone once described acting to Driver as a service, and it stuck with him. “That made sense to me,” he says. Even now, “in the midst of all this fuckin’...you know, take pictures with a sheep on my shoulder,” he still feels this way. “Here’s the thing,” he says, and pauses to take a bite of a hamburger. “Life’s shitty, and we’re all gonna die. You have friends, and they die. You have a disease, someone you care about has a disease, Wall Street people are scamming everyone, the poor get poorer, the rich get richer. That’s what we’re surrounded by all the time. We don’t understand why we’re here, no one’s giving us an answer, religion is vague, your parents can’t help because they’re just people, and it’s all terrible, and there’s no meaning to anything. What a terrible thing to process! Every. Day. And then you go to sleep. But then sometimes,” he says, leaning forward, “things can suspend themselves for like a minute, and then every once in a while there’s something where you find a connection.” It may not be the same as wasting terrorists, but it’s something. “It’s a good, hard responsibility,” he says, crinkling up his napkin. “Maybe that’s self-indulgent, that I think I can really do something. But the potential is there.” Adam Driver is nothing if not up for a challenge. Now he stands. He has to go meet Joanne, who’s joining him as he heads back to the Star Wars set in London. Last summer they got married. Driver’s parents were at the wedding, circulating among the Juilliard people. He still doesn’t talk to them about what he does, but he knows they’re proud. The feedback from his friends in the Marines has been a little more direct. “They were like, ‘So, I saw your fuckin’ show,’ ” Driver says in his bro-y voice. “ ‘And you’re fuckin’ naked a lot. So, okay. Tell me when the next thing comes out.’ ” jessica pressler profiled Adam Levine for the July issue of gq. Page 234. On her, beaded necklace: Satya. Long chain necklace: her own. Gold bracelet: Cartier. Beaded bracelet: Astley Clarke. Black thin bracelet (beneath other bracelets): Eva Fehren. Ring on her right middle finger: Hoorsenbuhs. All other rings: Cartier. Page 240. Shirt: Band of Outsiders. Tie: Ovadia & Sons. Tie bar (throughout): The Tie Bar. Pocket square: Metro Retro. Page 241. Shirt: Eton. Tie: Charvet. Pocket square: The Tie Bar. Page 242. Shirt: Hamilton Shirts. Tie: Gant Rugger. Pocket square: Boss. Page 243. Top left, shirt: Turnbull & Asser. Tie: Ralph Lauren Black Label. Pocket square: Isaia. Key fob (bottle opener): Coach Men’s. Top right, shirt: Kent and Curwen. Tie: Robert Graham. Pocket square: Robert Talbott. Bottom left, shirt: J.Lindeberg. Tie: Bottega Veneta. Pocket square: Canali. Bottom right, shirt: Ledbury. Tie: The Knottery. Pocket square: Brooks Brothers. Pages 252–253. From left, on Tom, shirt: Reiss. On Jack, shirt: Theory. Loafers: Tod’s. On Jake, shirt: Burberry London. Shoes: Grenson. On Grant, shirt: Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane. Page 254. Bottom left, jeans: J Brand. Chelsea boots: ASOS. Center, jeans: Nudie Jeans. Right, pants: Gucci. Shoes: Grenson. Page 255. From left, on Grant, shirt: Bespoken. Tie: Alexander Olch. Pants: Topman. Sunglasses: Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane. Umbrella (throughout): Lockwood. On Jake, sweater vest, shirt, and tie: Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane. Shoes: Grenson. Sunglasses: Oliver Goldsmith. On Jack (front), shirt and pants: Patrik Ervell. Tie: Fahlgren. Sunglasses: Salt Optics. Socks: Falke. On Tom, shirt: Maison Martin Margiela. Tie: Hugo. Tie bar: The Tie Bar. Pants: Topman. Pages 256–257. From left, on Tom, tie: Black Fleece by Brooks Brothers. Suede shoes: Underground at Trash and Vaudeville. On Jack, tie: Michael Bastian. Shoes: John Varvatos. Socks: Pantherella. Watch: Rolex. On Grant, tie: The Hill-Side. Pocket square: Paul Stuart. Boots: Underground at Trash and Vaudeville. On Jake, shoes: Grenson. Page 258. From far left, on Grant, shirt: Band of Outsiders. Tie: Dolce & Gabbana. Pants: Gucci. On Jake, shirt: Band of Outsiders. Jeans: Dior Homme. On Tom, shirt: Dior Homme. Tie: Apolis. Jeans: J Brand. Boots: Jack Erwin. On Jack (far right), shirt: Shipley & Halmos. Page 259. On Jack (inside booth), suede boots: Topman. Pages 268–269. Hair: Jordan M for Bumble and bumble. Makeup: Carrie LaMarca at ABTP. Manicure: Elisa Ferri using NARS Cosmetics. Prop stylist: Michael Bednark. Cardigan: Burberry London. Bra: Cosabella. Short necklace: Tiffany & Co. Long necklace: her own. Page 282. Top left, stadium lights: George Gojkovich/ Getty Images. Stadium: Darrin Klimek/Getty Images. Manziel hands: Eric Gay/AP Photo. Hot tub: Mark Boulton/ Alamy. Women with bunny ears: Stockbyte/Getty Images. Woman, right: Asia Images/Getty Images. Manziel uniform: Diamond Images/Getty Images. Bottom left, Manziel: Wenzelberg/NYPost/Splash News/Corbis. Ross: Charles Eshelman/FilmMagic/Getty Images. Pumpkin patch: Gunter Marx/Alamy. Top right, bodies: Alberto Pomares/ Getty Images. Pope Francis head: Franco Origlia/Getty Images. Pope Benedict head: Ronaldo Schemidt/AFP/ Getty Images. Manziel head: Mark Duncan/AP Photo. Center right, dreidels: Rusian Dashinsky/Getty Images. Drake body: David Wolff-Patrick/Redferns/Getty Images. Drake head: Chelsea Lauren/WireImage/Getty Images. Drake hands: Rich Kane/Icon SMI/Corbis. Manziel body: Phil Long/AP Photo. Manziel head: Wenzelberg/NYPost/ Splash News/Corbis. Manziel hands: Dave Martin/ AP Photo. Stage: Monalyn Gracia/Corbis. Bottom right, hand: E+/Getty Images. Manziel: David J. Philips/AP Photo. Cartons: D-Base/Getty Images.

immediately, and that doesn’t seem to lend itself to things being good. You know? The things on there, they’re just mediocre. There’s not really a lot of work or weight involved.” Driver applies the discipline acquired in the military to everything he does, from the quotidian details of existence to his work. “I think it’s good to live an artful life,” he says, sipping a pink smoothie in the Brooklyn café we’ve safely landed in after our helicopter ride. “I like everything I do to have some kind of meaning.” To attain something worthwhile, one must experience a certain amount of su≠ering: “The more masochistic the part, the more appealing.” When it comes to his work, he can get a little obsessive—which is why he never actually watches himself on-screen. He decided to stop after Lena Dunham invited him over to her parents’ apartment in Tribeca to watch the pilot of Girls. “I just saw all the things I wanted to change or make better,” he says. “And I worried from then on I would just be thinking about how it looks as opposed to what’s happening, and that’s, like, not a good way to work, because after a while it’s a little bit masturbatory.” Driver knows that talking about Acting is a good way to sound like “a pretentious fucking asshole,” he says. But he does have lofty ideas about The Craft. “He’s one of those actors,” says Baumbach, who watched him on the set of While We’re Young. “Like they became the part, you couldn’t get them out of it, nobody could look him in the eye.… ” He doesn’t mean this in a look-out-ga≠ers-here-comes-thenext-Christian-Bale way. “He’s not a brooder,” Baumbach says. “But it’s important to him.” Back when he was at Juilliard, in one of his learning jags, Driver came across Ajax, the ﬁfth-century Greek tragedy about a soldier who, slighted by his superiors, erupts in a blind fury and decides to kill them all. “It’s a play about someone who su≠ers from PTSD,” he says. At the time, Driver was su≠ering from his own far milder version of PTSD, in the form of the guilt he felt about leaving the military. “Like, I dropped the ball and got out and then became a fuckin’ actor,” he says. The play gave him an idea about how to reconcile those feelings and give what he was doing at Juilliard some meaning. With the help of the school and Joanne Tucker, his classmate turned girlfriend, Driver founded Arts in the Armed Forces, an organization he still runs, which deploys actors to perform at military bases. When he was in the service, “they were always trying to bring in, like, the Dallas cheerleaders,” he says. “And I

gq is a registered trademark of advance magazine publishers inc. copyright © 2014 condé nast. all rights reserved. printed in the u.s.a. VOLUME 84, NO. 9. GQ (ISSN 0016-6979) is published monthly by Condé Nast, which is a division of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. PRINCIPAL OFFICE: The Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY 10036. S. I. Newhouse, Jr., Chairman; Charles H. Townsend, Chief Executive O∞cer; Robert A. Sauerberg, Jr., President; John W. Bellando, Chief Operating O∞cer and Chief Financial O∞cer; Jill Bright, Chief Administrative O∞cer. Periodicals postage paid at New York, NY, and at additional mailing o∞ces. Canada Post Publications Mail Agreement No. 40644503. Canadian Goods and Services Tax Registration No. 123242885-RT0001. Canada Post: return undeliverable Canadian addresses to: P.O. Box 874, Station Main, Markham, ON L3P 8L4. POSTMASTER: SEND ALL UAA TO CFS (SEE DMM 707.4.12.5); NON-POSTAL AND MILITARY FACILITIES: Send address corrections to GQ, P.O. Box 37675, Boone, IA 50037-0675. FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, ADDRESS CHANGES, ADJUSTMENTS, OR BACK ISSUE INQUIRIES: Please write to GQ, P.O. Box 37675, Boone, IA 50037-0675, call 800-289-9330, or e-mail subscriptions@gq.com. Please give both new and old addresses as printed on most recent label. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks after receipt of order. Address all editorial, business, and production correspondence to GQ Magazine, 4 Times Square, New York, NY 10036. For reprints, please e-mail reprints@condenast.com or call Wright’s Media 877-652-5295. For reuse permissions, please e-mail contentlicensing@condenast.com or call 800-897-8666. Visit us online at www.gq.com. To subscribe to other Condé Nast magazines on the World Wide Web, visit www.condenastdigital.com. Occasionally, we make our subscriber list available to carefully screened companies that o≠er products and services that we believe would interest our readers. If you do not want to receive these o≠ers and/or information, please advise us at P.O. Box 37675, Boone, IA 50037-0675 or call 800-289-9330. GQ IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OR LOSS OF, OR FOR DAMAGE OR ANY OTHER INJURY TO, UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPTS, UNSOLICITED ART WORK (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, DRAWINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND TRANSPARENCIES), OR ANY OTHER UNSOLICITED MATERIALS. THOSE SUBMITTING MANUSCRIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHS, ART WORK, OR OTHER MATERIALS FOR CONSIDERATION SHOULD NOT SEND ORIGINALS, UNLESS SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED TO DO SO BY GQ IN WRITING. MANUSCRIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND OTHER MATERIALS SUBMITTED MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY A SELF-ADDRESSED STAMPED ENVELOPE.

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2014

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↑ Parting Shot

The Most Instagramic Rookie Season Ever! COME AT ME BRO DROP BASS NOT S BOMB

Johnny Manziel’s first season in the NFL promises to be electric, historic, champagne-soaked, and probably pretty shirtless. We’re just looking forward to the pictures

SUN’S OUT GUNS OUT