On my last day in Tokyo, I momentarily caught  myself in the tourist shuffle: wandering into an alley, then another, searching for any hint of address, doubling back, pacing in square circles, swearing that the café we researched had to be right around here.  I took a moment at the buzzing Harajuku intersection to grasp any sense of direction.  Waiting at the crosswalk, I saw no less than:

• One pastel woman in Doc Marten boots and a Victorian wig
• Two of four perfectly chromed hubs bouncing to the hydraulic initiations of a lowrider impala
• A corner shop dedicated to a rainbow of prophylactics, appropriately called Condomania

I bet everyone has caught their own version of this scene in Japan, a self-contained ecosystem of idiosyncratic flairs.  The Galápagos of style.

In the metro, the cavalier mode above contrasts with everyday businessmen, commuting in hues as muted as the subway cars that transport them.  Gray, navy, black.  Crisp, polished, deft.  It was as if the underground spreads of Brooks Brothers surfaced into bubbles of cosplay.  Except here, there’s no sign of caricature or false characterizations.

For whatever reason – be it the lifelong reverence to improving upon one’s craft, or the flawless execution of foreign signatures, at-times to the point of succeeding its progenitor – Japan has always been able to embody an assortment of styles on any given day with breathless ownership.

And I think that’s what’s kept Ring Jacket relevant through its sixty-one years.