November 26, 2011 • 78 notes

This is Nat. I met him at a small house party in San Francisco a few months ago off Divisidero. 

By day he brings solar-powered energy into homes across America, working in brand marketing at a hot residential solar startup in the Bay Area. By night, he flips up his cuffs and lets loose.

Sometimes he also grabs the nearest alcoholic bottle as a photo prop.

Nat is a symbol of just how far the brazen ankle has come: from the runways of Paris, to the streets of New York, and now to kitchens with blue tiled floors. Men across the nation have been awakened to both the utility (cool ankles!) and fashion sensibility of the rolled cuff. 

Thank you Nat for showing us how real men roll. 

July 15, 2011 • 4 notes
I couldn’t tell you when my love for the cuffed jean started, but I can tell you the person who made my love official.  Back in college in Eugene, Ore., my friends and I would go out dancing a few nights a week to a bar/music venue called the Indigo District. I’m pretty sure this place is now patroned by overzealous frat boys, but back then it was the place to be: overtaken by beautiful, fashionable, hip college kids who listened to RATATAT, wore black and drank whiskey shots like water.  There was this guy I always saw there. He was tall, had curly crazy black locks and without fail was always wearing a white Hanes tee with vintage worn-in, perfectly fitted  jeans and black dress shoes. And always, always that boy donned rolled cuffs like it was his job. He was lovely, intriguing and likely given his belligerently fierce dancing, a raging alcoholic. But still, I loved that boy from afar for years. It was never a sexual thing. It was pure adoration. It was somehow comforting to know that a boy like this existed, and made the world feel right at a time when in fact we were at war and everything was going very, very wrong.  After graduation, I moved to Portland, got a job and didn’t give Indigo boy another thought. That is, until a year or so later when a mediocre Thai food place opened up a few blocks from my apartment. Out of curiosity, one day I peered through the window to see what was inside and poof, like a vision, there he was. Sweaty, wiping his brow over the hot stove in the back: it was Indigo boy. And although he had gone from a fierce, fashionable dancer to a 6-on-a-scale-of-10 Thai food cook extraordinaire, that boy still made my heart jump every time I saw him. During the months that followed, I’d routinely peer through the windows slyly as I passed just to make sure that he was still there. Alive. That he still existed. That he still was wearing his white Hanes shirt, and his hair was still big and black, and his jeans were still rolled.   And then one day, just as fast as he showed up on my street, he disappeared.  I wonder sometimes where he is now. I wonder if he knows how lovely and special he is. I wonder what his name is. 

I couldn’t tell you when my love for the cuffed jean started, but I can tell you the person who made my love official. 

Back in college in Eugene, Ore., my friends and I would go out dancing a few nights a week to a bar/music venue called the Indigo District. I’m pretty sure this place is now patroned by overzealous frat boys, but back then it was the place to be: overtaken by beautiful, fashionable, hip college kids who listened to RATATAT, wore black and drank whiskey shots like water. 

There was this guy I always saw there. He was tall, had curly crazy black locks and without fail was always wearing a white Hanes tee with vintage worn-in, perfectly fitted  jeans and black dress shoes. And always, always that boy donned rolled cuffs like it was his job.

He was lovely, intriguing and likely given his belligerently fierce dancing, a raging alcoholic. But still, I loved that boy from afar for years.

It was never a sexual thing. It was pure adoration. It was somehow comforting to know that a boy like this existed, and made the world feel right at a time when in fact we were at war and everything was going very, very wrong. 

After graduation, I moved to Portland, got a job and didn’t give Indigo boy another thought. That is, until a year or so later when a mediocre Thai food place opened up a few blocks from my apartment. Out of curiosity, one day I peered through the window to see what was inside and poof, like a vision, there he was. Sweaty, wiping his brow over the hot stove in the back: it was Indigo boy. And although he had gone from a fierce, fashionable dancer to a 6-on-a-scale-of-10 Thai food cook extraordinaire, that boy still made my heart jump every time I saw him. During the months that followed, I’d routinely peer through the windows slyly as I passed just to make sure that he was still there. Alive. That he still existed. That he still was wearing his white Hanes shirt, and his hair was still big and black, and his jeans were still rolled.  

And then one day, just as fast as he showed up on my street, he disappeared. 

I wonder sometimes where he is now.

I wonder if he knows how lovely and special he is.

I wonder what his name is. 

June 28, 2011 • 12 notes • flickr.com
Bare ankles are like the Original Oatmeal. That shit is tasty, nostalgic and perfect in every way. But sometimes when life is giving you lemons, you need some Peaches and Cream to start of your day. Or Apples & Cinnamon. Or Maple & Brown Sugar if you’re feeling extra sassy.  Sure, you don’t veer from the Original every day, but damn if it doesn’t make you feel spectacular when you do. What is life with out a little variety now and then?  Same thing goes for the anke’s. Barren beauties like ankles don’t necessarily need a lot of adornment but if you’re gonna stray from the Original, GO BIG OR GO HOME. Put the cream in them peaches. Anagram the ample in your maple.  This guy gets that. Where’s Waldo is not Lost, he is Found on the ankles of a superior styled Spaniard. 

Bare ankles are like the Original Oatmeal. That shit is tasty, nostalgic and perfect in every way. But sometimes when life is giving you lemons, you need some Peaches and Cream to start of your day. Or Apples & Cinnamon. Or Maple & Brown Sugar if you’re feeling extra sassy. 

Sure, you don’t veer from the Original every day, but damn if it doesn’t make you feel spectacular when you do. What is life with out a little variety now and then? 

Same thing goes for the anke’s. Barren beauties like ankles don’t necessarily need a lot of adornment but if you’re gonna stray from the Original, GO BIG OR GO HOME. Put the cream in them peaches. Anagram the ample in your maple. 

This guy gets that. Where’s Waldo is not Lost, he is Found on the ankles of a superior styled Spaniard. 

June 25, 2011 • 3 notes
You know how I roll, and I sure like how you do.  

You know how I roll, and I sure like how you do.  

June 25, 2011
I know, I know, this is a blurry photo but you’ll have to trust me that these puppies - as seen at a house party in the Mission last night - were totes brazen. 

I know, I know, this is a blurry photo but you’ll have to trust me that these puppies - as seen at a house party in the Mission last night - were totes brazen. 

June 25, 2011 • 5 notes
While not nearly as sartorially displayed as the gentleman below, this boy shows us his Power Asset by embracing the beauty of the single cuff roll. And you thought it could not be done with skinny jeans! Calf muscle-less men, rejoice! 

While not nearly as sartorially displayed as the gentleman below, this boy shows us his Power Asset by embracing the beauty of the single cuff roll. And you thought it could not be done with skinny jeans! Calf muscle-less men, rejoice! 

June 25, 2011 • 4 notes
Welcome to Boys With Brazen Ankles, a place where we share our appreciation for men who tastefully display What God Gave Them.  Just like modestly dressed female cleavage, male ankles are best accentuated by slightly teasing at what lies beneath. In the case of ankles, this can be accomplished through a strategically rolled cuff that hints at the powerful legs that lie underneath, as masterfully shown on what I can only assume is an exceptionally handsome gentleman to our left.   Werk it boys. 

Welcome to Boys With Brazen Ankles, a place where we share our appreciation for men who tastefully display What God Gave Them. 

Just like modestly dressed female cleavage, male ankles are best accentuated by slightly teasing at what lies beneath. In the case of ankles, this can be accomplished through a strategically rolled cuff that hints at the powerful legs that lie underneath, as masterfully shown on what I can only assume is an exceptionally handsome gentleman to our left.  

Werk it boys.