We all need a space in our lives that’s just ours and no one else’s. For some guys, that space is making time to go running or participating in a once-a-week jam session. For other guys it’s a near obsession with cooking. This excerpt from

Once his baby’s born, and brought home, a young father discovers that his daily life now offers a lot of time for reflective thought. Not that you’re capable of having any thoughts–too little sleep–but hour upon hour passes with nobody really interested in the content of your mind. Sort of amazing: you go from perfect intimacy, claiming that girl’s attention for yourself, to zero intimacy, as the baby’s claim takes over. Weirder still, the breastfeeding wife looks terrific, thinning down under the immense caloric demands of nursing even as her breasts grow to record sizes, and yet it does her man no good whatsoever. Throw in a dog and it’s not long before it occurs to you that your own needs fall well below even those of the canine, in the family’s prioritization scheme. In fact, you are the sole member of the household with zero needs scheduled to be met by any other member of the household. And that’s the context in which I began flipping cookbook pages uneasily: first in The Bombay Kitchen and A Spoonful of Ginger, pondering the idea that I might somehow become a truly accomplished cook of either Chinese or Indian cuisine, during the dark passage ahead. Rick Bayless’s Authentic Mexican Kitchen presented a similar new identity–Guacamole King–but when taken together these options felt too painfully similar to the cultural anomie that had driven my fellow Californian, John Walker Lindh, growing up across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County, to become the American Taliban: Wow, gee, I mean, I guess I could be a Buddhist if I wanted–shave my head, wear pink robes, all that cool Zen shit–or wait! I know! I’ll go Muslim! That’ll show my dumb-ass hippie parents!

I’d done my share of yoga, in other words, but not nearly enough to justify still more simmering of onions and tomatoes, nor the endless employment of the same dried-up and dusty spices shipped across the planet to make the only kind of Indian cuisine I knew. Ditto for Thai: I liked that Kung Pao just fine, but national cuisines occupy value niches somewhere down in our lizard brains; they have emotional meaning, such that an upper-middle-class white kid’s fervent allegiance for, say, Ethiopian food, cannot be interpreted as a mere fondness for flat-bread. I probably could’ve dabbled in Spanish cuisine, see, because that would’ve satisfied my trained preference for all things European; Italian would’ve been better; German, not so much…

After the word “yuppie” was coined around 1980, it gave rise to such  derivatives as buppies (black urban professionals) and guppies (gay urban professionals). There were more to come. Many yuppies enjoyed spendthrift lifestyles in the early years of their marriages because they were DINKs, which meant Double Income, No Kids. As time went by and one spouse traded his or her career (usually hers) for homemaking, some free-spending DINKs became ORCHIDs: One Recent Child, Hideously In Debt. ORCHIDS sometimes became the SITCOMs: Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Marriage. So went the alphabet-soup sociology of the day.

Yuppies, distinguished not only by their age and their occupations, were people who had to buy to live, just as sharks had to swim to breathe. But they couldn’t buy just ordinary stuff. Theirs was a restless and creative materialism, a constant search to find the most distinctive and expensive version of just about anything. They favored $2 Dove Bars over 50-cent Eskimo Pies. Their beer was Anchor Steam instead of Budweiser. They chose Macallan single malt over J&B, Camembert over Kaukauna Club, Air Jordans over sneakers, Starbucks over Dunkin’ Donuts, Perrier and San Pellegrino over tap water. And so on. By buying upscale versions of everything, they separated themselves from the unenlightened, the uneducated, and the unwashed. And they were proud of it.

Yuppie pride surfaced one night in the late 1980s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, when four young friends went out for a beer. After a couple rounds, one of them, a software developer, blurted out, “Listen, I get up in the morning, put on my French-cut suit, climb into my BMW, and drive to my high-tech job. Now, I ask you, what do I have in common with you people?” Not much after that outburst, as it turned out.

Most of our most recognizable styles descended from British military and noble fashions, and the British Isles don’t face the same kinds of summer that much of the United States does, to say nothing of warmer parts of the world.

So when traditional worsted wool suits and cotton dress shirts become unbearable, what should a fashionable man wear?

We’ve seen a couple different articles and style guides for warm weather dressing, but none of them complete or detailed enough to pass for a real comprehensive resource.

This guide is our attempt at a full hot-weather clothing resource. Everything in it should be functional at temperatures into the 90s (32+ C) and even hotter. The overall style is Western, but draws on knowledge from places like South and Central America, the Middle East, and East Asia for heat-beating fabrics and garments.

Part I: Priorities

What matters when it’s hot, and what doesn’t. The things you should think about when you buy hot-weather clothing.

Looks are always important, but the line has to be drawn somewhere. When the mercury climbs up above 80 degrees (26.6 C) you need functional clothing. Consider these the most essential characteristics for hot weather menswear:

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Here, Jude Law proves that even dudes who tend toward the douche-y can indeed pull off a hat.

His friend is like, “I wish he’d stop going on about his stupid hat.”

1. Start by painting the nails white.
2. Using the DIY sticker method we showed you a couple weeks ago, paint blue, pink, green or whatever color you love on a piece of tape. Wait for it to dry and cut it into thin strips. You’ll need 6-10 strips per finger.
3. Lay 3-5 strips horizontally on the nail.
4. Then lay the other 3-5 strips vertically.
5. Trim the excess with cuticle nippers. (I decided to add one more blue strip at the tip of the nail at this point because I thought it looked better with blue at the top!)
6. Apply a quick drying top coat to seal your gingham pattern.

You can do all your nails or just one. I didn’t want an overwhelming sense of this pretty lil’ pattern, so I just stuck to one.

Auchentoshan 12 Year has a vibrant, refreshing aroma that will evoke the back room in a florist’s shop. There are the floral notes but also a whiff of the green, stemmy parts and a distinct bit of clove. It smells snappy and clean. This clean sensation continues on the palate into a very spirity, sweet menthol infused finish. The colour of this 12 year is a pale honey, and although it is bottled at 40% and does finish well balanced, the pure spirit character and lack of sweetness makes it seem  a little stronger than it is. An invigourating dram that could be a gateway for gin martini drinkers.

There are ways of pulling it off, and then there ways that, well, you should avoid at all costs. To help you get it right, we rounded up some photos of men — both normal guys and celebs — who are getting it right.

Pictured here:
Lobster-print pants are not for every guy, but the lesson here is clear: Pairing a classic denim jacket with a bolder print (be it on your pants or elsewhere) helps balance things out.

Read more: http://ca.askmen.com/fashion/galleries/pulling-off-jeans.html#ixzz1tpDAFOfA

This article originally appeared on Harvard Business Review.

The author of this article, Ron Ashkenas is a managing partner of Schaffer Consulting and a co-author of The GE Work-Out and The Boundaryless Organization. His latest book is Simply Effective.

Here in the U.S., the Super Bowl showed us the power of 30-second advertisements, and how influential they can be in promoting a company’s awareness. But how often do we craft our own 30-second spots with audiences that we want to influence?

Most of us are not in the business of making TV commercials, but in conversations there is almost always a 30-second moment that can make the meeting memorable.

Malcolm Gladwell touches on this phenomenon in his book, Blink. He talks about “thin-slicing,” or “the ability of our unconscious to find patterns in situations and behavior based on very narrow slices of experience.” He explains how too much information can cloud an individual’s ability to accurately analyze a situation, and how “in good decision making, frugality matters.” In other words, mini-impressions do count. And although you never get a second chance to make a first impression, you do get many chances to make the next impression.

So how do you turn your moment into an award-winning spot? Let’s look to advertisers for guidance:

Capture your audience’s attention. Think about one of your favorite commercials (or you can pick one from the game). Which part of that commercial stays with you? What technique did the advertiser use to draw you in — humor, aesthetics, emotions, surprise, or something else? Think about how you could incorporate that technique into your next important conversation.

Convey a clear message. Consider the key message for the target audience. What did the company try to convey, and how did the advertiser use that to connect with viewers? How did they frame the message to make this point? Now, think about your own messaging — what is the most critical takeaway you would like your viewers to receive? How might you deliver your message to ensure your audience walks away with this understanding?

Focus on differentiation. Think about what distinguishes your advertiser from the rest. How did the company use the commercial to portray its unique brand? Think about the same for yourself: What sets you apart from others? How can you highlight your distinctive qualities?

When you combine these three elements, you’ve got the potential for an influential “spot.” The key is having these components ready so that you can recall them when needed. For example, the best salespeople are always prepared to connect with potential customers who say that they don’t have time to talk. Similarly, the best leaders often are not those who speak the longest or the loudest, but those who convey their ideas in a memorable way, and can do it over and over again.

Our world is filled with noise, information, and distractions; so having someone’s undivided attention — even for 30 seconds — is an opportunity that shouldn’t be wasted. If you can use those 30 seconds to capture their attention, deliver your message, and distinguish yourself from others, you’re likely to be heard, understood, and remembered. What sponsor wouldn’t want that?

Inspirations from fashion designers (including Carmen Marc Valvo and Betsey Johnson) who participated in choosing next season’s on-trend colors include love potions, sunsets, and fantasy worlds, among others.

“By playing to consumers’ practical side with versatile neutrals, and boosting their confidence with bold, spirited hues, this skillfully balanced palette has something for everyone,” said Leatrice Eiseman, executive director, during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, when the new season’s colors are routinely debuted.

The Pantone Fashion Color Report for Fall 2012

• French Roast 19-1012
• Honey Gold 15-1142
• Pink Flambe 18-2133
• Tangerine Tango 17-1463
• Ultramarine Green 18-5338
• Bright Chartreuse 14-0445
• Olympian Blue 19-4056
• Titanium 17-4014
• Rhapsody 16-3817
• Rose Smoke 14-1506

Excerpted from

The air temperature is minus twenty degrees. I wiggle my fingers but they’re still freezing cold. Old frostnip injuries never let you forget. I blame Everest for that.

“You set, buddy?” cameraman Simon asks me, smiling. His rig is all prepped and ready.

I smile back. I am unusually nervous. Something doesn’t quite feel right. But I don’t listen to the inner voice. It is time to go to work.

The crew tell me that the crisp northern Canadian Rockies look spectacular this morning. I don’t really notice.

It is time to get into my secret space. A rare part of me that is focused, clear, brave, precise. It is the part of me I know the best but visit the least.

I only like to use it sparingly. Like now.

Beneath me is three hundred feet of steep snow and ice. Steep but manageable.

I have done this sort of fast descent many, many times. Never be complacent, the voice says. The voice is always right.

A last deep breath. A look to Simon. A silent acknowledgment back.

Yet we have cut a vital corner. I know it. But I do nothing.

I leap.

I am instantly taken by the speed. Normally I love it. This time I am worried.
I never feel worried in the moment. I know something is wrong.

I am soon traveling at over 40 mph. Feet first down the mountain. The ice races past only inches from my head. This is my world.

I gain even more speed. The edge of the peak gets closer. Time to arrest the fall.

I flip nimbly onto my front and drive the ice axe into the snow. A cloud of white spray and ice soars into the air. I can feel the rapid deceleration as I grind the axe deep into the mountain with all my power. It works like it always does. Like clockwork. Total confidence. One of those rare moments of lucidity. It is fleeting. Then it is gone. I am now static.

The world hangs still. Then—bang.

Simon, his heavy wooden sled, plus solid metal camera housing, piles straight into my left thigh. He is doing in excess of 45 mph.

There is an instant explosion of pain and noise and white.

It is like a freight train. And I am thrown down the mountain like a doll. Life stands still. I feel and see it all in slow motion.

Yet in that split second I have only one realization: a one-degree different course and the sled’s impact would have been with my head. Without doubt, it would have been my last living thought.

Instead, I am in agony, writhing. I am crying. They are tears of relief. I am injured, but I am alive.

I see a helicopter but hear no sound. Then the hospital. I have been in a few since Man vs. Wild began. I hate them.

I can see them all through closed eyes. The dirty, bloodstained emergency room in Vietnam, after I severed half my finger in the jungle. No bedside graces there. Then the rockfall in the Yukon. Not to mention the way worse boulder fall in Costa Rica. The mineshaft collapse in Montana or that saltwater croc in Oz. Or the sixteen-foot tiger that I landed on in the Pacific versus the snakebite in Borneo.

Countless close shaves. They all blur. All bad.

Yet all good. I am alive.

There are too many to hold grudges. Life is all about the living. I am smiling.

The next day, I forget the crash. To me, it is past. Accidents happen, it was no one’s fault. Lessons learned. Listen to the voice. I move on.

“Hey, Si, I’m cool. Just buy me a piña colada when we get out of here. Oh, and I’ll be sending you the evac, doc, and physio bills.”

He reaches for my hand. I love this man.

We’ve lived some life out there.

I look down to the floor: at my ripped mountain bib pants, bloodstained jacket, smashed Minicam, and broken goggles.
I quietly wonder: when did all this craziness become my world?