It's called a balmacaan

John Long came into the Red Cup this morning wearing a black fedora and a tan overcoat. The black fedora was similar to the one worn by Republican bagman Jack Abramoff, but since John was wearing one that fit instead of being a size and a half too small like Jacko's, it looked rakish rather than like part of the costume for Luca Brasi in a community theater production of "The Godfather."

But it was the topcoat that caught my attention. I almost bought a similar one years ago at McCall's in Edmond. I knew this particular coat had a name, but I couldn't think of it this morning. So I Googled it and after much searching, came up with the name: balmacaan.

The balmacaan, as the name suggests, is of Scottish origin. It has raglan sleeves and what I think is known as a half-collar, ie, more like a shirt than a suit coat with lapels. They're single-breasted, no belt, little or no ornamentation.

I think it implies a certain degree of self-confidence to wear such a plain coat. It's much safer, sartorially speaking, to wrap oneself up in Burberry belts and buckles and epaulets and button-on throat flaps.

(Speaking of which: I looked at the Burberry web site this morning while doing my research. Is Burberry turning into another Abercrombie & Fitch? Anyone who was ever in a real Abercrombie & Fitch knows what a travesty the current incarnation is. Good lord.)

A balmacaan is too 'country' in the British sense of the word to be worn with something as dressy as that black fedora. Something like a driving cap or even a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker would be more like it. But John, as always, made it work.

John revealed that he had acquired his balmacaan in a thrift store in New Orleans for six dollars. And it looked like a million bucks. If I wore a six-dollar coat from a thrift store, people would be wondering where my shopping cart was.

Some guys can wear clothes, and John is one of them.

I am not. Well, yeah, I wear clothes -- lots of them, as a public service if nothing else. But they're just covering skin -- that's the most I can say.

I once loved clothes. One time back in the eighties, I totalled up all the clothing store receipts from the previous year, and they ran to about $6,000. And that was just the ones I could find.

But although I loved clothes, the clothes did not love me. They refused to make me look like Cary Grant, or the brooding, squinting models in GQ or Esquire. I still looked like a big, lumpy guy.

I could buy a suit at Harold's and make it look like it came from C.R. Anthony. Or a dumpster behind C.R. Anthony. "Hey, is that thing wash and wear?" That was my magic. That was my mojo.

As I write this I am wearing:

• a pair of eleven-year-old Gap jeans


• a Banana Republic henley that's older than the jeans


• an 'unconstructed' khaki blazer from Target (Target! I went in to buy light bulbs and toilet paper, and came out with a blazer)


• a black fake suede ball cap from SteinMart


• a pair of Birkenstock mules whose heels are worn down to the cork


• no socks

which, on John Long, would probably like a catalog ad. On me, it looks like... well, it looks like me.

But at least the PowerBook kicks ass.