Ring Jacket is a house whose members serve as the color guards for a company of eclectic tastes.   The company and Instagram feed depict classic styles, modern inspirations, and looks that defy categorization.

The sixty-one year old company endearingly tags their staff as “Ring People,” a title each wears with pride.  At Ring Jacket Aoyama, I had the chance to meet and speak to Mr. Keiju Tsuda. I followed the frayed edges of a tear that epauled the shoulder of his veteran Barbour Bedale to a café near the flagship.

On our way for a reviving cup, he admitted that although his English was the best of the team, it was nowhere near good enough to hold a conversation with me.

“When I lived in Scotland, I had to drink to be able to speak English to the locals in the pub.”

“How was that?” I inquired.

“Well, I drank a lot!”

Over a much more sober tap, Keiju shared stories of his beginnings as a fashionista, a favorite suit, lessons from a local mentor, and a long-established love for surfing.

Please meet Keiju Tsuda, a Ring Person.

Chris Tuazon: Keiju, how long have you been with Ring Jacket?

Keiju Tsuda: I have been working with them for two years now.

CT: And how long have you been working with suits?

KT: About, ten years. I graduated from university in 1997, and my first job was with agnès b.  I worked for there for five years, and then went to UK to study English for 8 months.   When I came back, I worked for Prada for two years. I then worked for a Japanese tailor here for seven years.

CT: I have noticed a range of styles here in Japan, with a noticeably international flavor from look to look. What do you think is the Japanese style of suits?

KT: Typically, people here prefer the British style. The more knowledgeable in fashion like Italian.

CT: And I guess you prefer Italian as well?

KT: Yes, it’s very nice!

If you’re ever doing something you’ve never done before, or no one has done before, and you are hesitating in fear and self-doubt, try this: in a simple Google search, type “Eugene Tssui.” There you will find all the encouragement you need.

My first trip to China in 2009 was for a children’s summer English program, created by Dr. Tssui’s wife, Elisabeth Montgomery. I arrived at the Hong Kong Airport, Elisabeth greeting me with a smile that felt like home. Since her husband was to arrive as well, we figured to have a meal and trade stories while we waited.

Over coffee, Beth shared how a boy in Minnesota would circle in and out of her life from middle school to a chance encounter that began their marriage. Oh yeah, and about how Dr. Tssui, an architect by trade, found it worthwhile to design his own unique clothes. Well before my own interest in men’s clothing began, I thought nothing of this particular aspect of his life. Neat, I guess.

An hour later, Eugene made his way through Exit B of Hong Kong International in a pair of white pleated trousers with red piping running down the legs, a light off-white cotton shirt that gently billowed through the row of “gills” cut across the chest, and a thirty-year-old pair of Crayola multi-colored Reebok sneakers in need of retirement.

What. The. Hell?

Over the years that I‘ve known Eugene, variations of this question have followed his every outfit and building proposal. I suppose it will continue to follow him through his 150^th birthday, which he is determined to see. From a skeptic’s guffaw or cynic’s retort, Eugene welcomes it as fuel to stoke the fire of his unwavering conviction.

“I take it as being the example of a guy who has the guts enough to try something new. And I like being that person. People have come up to me and said, ‘I really like your gutsiness, and I really like the fact that you’re doing this.’ That support is really nice, even though they themselves won’t quite do it.”

In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,

– “Fern Hill,” Dylan Thomas

Clockenflap flew in and out of Hong Kong’s West Kowloon Cultural District for a seventh time last week.  And for another late November weekend, Clockenflap proved  what an arts & music festival can be.

My friends and I purchased early bird tickets to Sunday for the lineup alone.  When you see names like DJ Jazzy Jeff and Tenacious D on the schedule, it’s hard to justify not going.  Monday’s 7:40 punch-in at work be damned.  Ultimately, the music is nice and all, but Clockenflap is something more than music.

Clockenflap is community at its most youthful.

I’ve written before about my appreciation for community in its power to inspire and share the experience of wonder and creativity.  At its core, this is what Clockenflap does for Hong Kong; it turns a piece of open industrial land into shades of expression and appreciation for the moment.  And nobody does this better than the kids.

Teaching is usually a pulverizing profession.  Take for instance, Thanksgiving week of 2009.  Three months into my first year of teaching, I was burning myself straight out the gate with dog and pony shows.  With no creativity left, I resorted to leading the class into making hand-turkeys for their parents, which is fine if you’re teaching third grade.  But not ninth.  Not at all.

I outlined my open hand on the whiteboard to create the turkey’s body, just as a regular pair of tormentors decided to begin distractions for the day.  Frustrated with the students’ general unwillingness to pay attention, disgusted with conceiving such a stupid idea, I reached my breaking point to the tune of “We’re drawing a TURKEY!”  I know what I said because it was also the day I had to videotape my lesson for professional development.  I “calmly” returned to drawing an orange beak on the thumb and have tried forgetting that blunder ever since.

My first summer in this city was in 2010. At that time, I would only sneak over to my wife’s apartment building, into which I moved two years later. It’s been four years since that summer, and from the time I got lost looking for Mrs. Tuazon’s address for our first date to last Friday’s walk back home from work, one feature remained constant: Mr. Lù and his roadside shoe repair shop.

Saturday afternoons in the Tuazon household were a lazy affair for most, but the scene of a years-long ritual for its patriarch.

“Jaaaaaaaahn!” he bellowed in order to reach my attention from any part of the house.  Papa always used my middle name whenever he was making a request.  I reciprocated accordingly.

“What?”

“Ice Water!”

Almost always it was ice water.  In later years we thought we solved the problem by stocking a mini-fridge in his room to hold bottles of water and other snacks; even then he’d call me over to hand him a bottle, rather than get out of bed to get one himself.

A tall, cool glass in hand, I went to his room to drop off his order, right on the ironing board, which was Valentino’s workspace for the entire Saturday afternoon.  At his feet were hampers of laundry from the dryer, on the ottoman were crisply folded tees, and from the shutters, bedposts, and anywhere he could manage hung freshly pressed polos and dress shirts.  My dad would grab his glass of ice water, whose condensation formed a fat ring on the ironing board, took a sip, and went back to work like a machine.  Grab a shirt.  Ring it out.  Sweep it flat.  Smooth out folds.  Make passes of the iron.  Flip the shirt around.  Make passes again.  Iron hissing with steam.  Fold it if it’s a T-shirt.   Hang it if it’s nicer.  Grab another shirt.

Is it a uniquely male crisis to fear being forgotten?  Every stop of Derek Jeter’s farewell tour sizes up his contributions to the New York Yankees and his place in the club of men to throw on the pinstripes. As every POTUS before him, Mr. Obama is followed by debate of being remembered in history books as the “_______________” president.  Hell, every damnable act Lord Tywin orders is for the sake of the Lannister name (well at least he says).  So, if being forgotten is man’s fear, then how does man not become forgotten?  An easy answer, I think, is to be something bigger than man.