Jack The Scribbler

Despite differences in age, class, race, and underwear, modern males everywhere pretty much share traditions and activities unique to their gender.
Besides being invariably predisposed to indiscriminate spitting and tasteless nose-picking (especially in public), most men at some point in their lives are required to choose, purchase, and wear formal dinner jackets.
Unfortunately, of the many useless talents I currently have at my disposal, none pertain to fashion, let alone anything vaguely relating to choosing and wearing formal outfits.
After all, since I will never be invited to parties organized by Manila’s well-connected impresarios — none of whom have the rare privilege of my acquaintance — I have chosen to believe that formal fashion apparel is merely a small and artificial aspect of human life.
An invention of the style police, fashion is a form of tyranny to which every teenager — male or female, gay or lesbian — have willingly succumbed, just ask Kuya Germs or Brother Mike Velarde.
However, a recent event has recently disabused me of this notion.
Not only did it make my attendance mandatory, formal clothing was also required, thereby forcing me to capitulate lest I lose my young, pretty, and talented wife to her coterie of male admirers.
So the minute C. received the invitation for a formal sit-down dinner with artists and intellectuals, she and I rushed off to the nearest department store and got myself the cheapest formal-looking dinner jacket that our small income could afford.
Despite its price, the blazer — a dark and handsome two-button affair — brought about my significant social transformation.
Previously a half-assed drunken bum with a crass sense of humor, I — with the jacket on — suddenly looked like I was a sophisticated, witty, and charming member of the Philippine intelligentsia, knowledgeable in the fields of industry and the arts.
But the delusion was short-lived.
The minute I tried the jacket on at home and took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror, I knew, without a doubt, that it was the wrong fit.
Although it was warm and comfortable, the jacket was one size larger, no thanks to shoulder pads the size of bread loaves.
In short, the jacket was the latest — and perhaps the most expensive — sartorial mistake I have ever made ever since I became obsessed with a pair of rubber-soled, tan-colored, faux leather shoes that looked fabulous while I was wearing it inside the store.
Which is why as soon as that dinner is over, I am going to have the jacket repaired.
Failing that, I’ll probably even consider selling it. Used clothes, anyone?
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From the Clarifications Dept. This was written more than two years ago in November 2007. Picture on the upper right shows the protagonist at the Malpensa airport, doing his best to make productive use of his time.

No records indicate whether Imelda Marcos has visited Daslu, the world’s most luxurious store, located in Sao Paolo.
But then again, who knows?
The woman with the famous footwear fetish may have already gone on a secret Brazilian shopping expedition when she was powerful enough to commandeer jumbo jets at a snap of a finger.
In any case, easy access to planes wouldn’t have mattered that much to Daslu’s visitors, including imeldific individuals.
For all its offerings — three car dealerships, a yacht broker, and yes, haute couture for men and women — Daslu doesn’t have its own private airport.
Or at least not just yet.
Its high-flying clients don’t seem to mind.
After all, they can always touch down on the five-storey building’s helipad, safe from Sao Paolo’s notorious carjackers, known for stealing autos at gunpoint, even in broad daylight.
Customers who still prefer to go by car can do so as long as they pass muster at not just one but two of the compound’s gates, designed to keep out the have-nots and the hoi polloi.
Indeed, security and privacy are just a few of the many things that set Daslu apart from regular luxury establishments around the world.

Trade paperback cover of "Deluxe" from Amazon.com

Take Daslu’s second floor, where the women’s section is located: It doesn’t have a fitting room. Female clients can just strip off their garments and try on dresses in any corner since no males—whether customers or employees—are allowed on the floor.
“It’s natural for Brazilians. You aren’t ashamed if men aren’t around,” said Eliana Tranchesi, Daslu’s owner, as quoted by Dana Thomas in her book entitled Deluxe: How Luxury Lost its Luster (Penguin Books, 2007).
Established in 1958, Daslu began in the living room of Lucia Piva de Albuquerque, Tranchesi’s mother, who sold clothes and accessories she brought from abroad since Brazil at that time was closed to imports.
Its origins explain its name: Daslu is Portuguese for in Lu’s house.
Even though advertisement was only through word of mouth, the store would become immensely popular, later occupying a whole stretch of 23 houses — either rented or owned — in the posh neighborhood where it began.
When parked limousines of the rich and famous began to clog the streets and upset the neighbors, management decided to move to an area just a few blocks away from its old location.
Some fifty years later, Daslu has certainly outgrown its origins.
Besides featuring a Japanese restaurant (considered as the city’s best), Daslu also has a champagne bar, a hairdresser, a bank, a pharmacy, a stationery store, a wedding chapel, and a ballroom, among others.
Of course, it also has men’s and children’s departments on the third and fourth floors.
By far, the store is famous for its Dasluzettes — female shopping assistants from Brazil’s rich families who offer personalized services to each of the store’s 70,000 clients.
“The salesgirls live the life the customers live,” Tranchesi was quoted by the book as saying. “So they understand.”
While Daslu may very well represent the ultimate in luxury shopping, it also stands out as an exception in an industry as bloodthirsty as any.
Or at least it does in Thomas’ view.
Other luxury brands always intend to make a quick buck off its customers, even fooling them as to the provenance of their items, including handbags to which she devotes a chapter. (“Brands that deny outright that their bags are made in China make their bags in China, not in Italy, not in France, not in the United Kingdom,” Thomas says.) But not Daslu.
The store established by Tranchesi’s mother knows and cares about its customers because they are guests, first and foremost.
“Chances are, you’ll run into [Tranchesi] while you are shopping, and she’ll ask you how the kids are, help you pick out a few things, or assist in fittings,” Thomas says of the daughter of Daslu’s founder.
As expected, the personal touch of Daslu is not left unrewarded.
“When you go to Daslu, it’s not to buy a new pair of shoes. It’s to see your friends,” said one customer whose husband owns a local Mercedes dealership. “You can’t find this service anywhere in the world.”
So who says money can’t buy happiness?
Not Daslu customers obviously.