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Frank On Letting Your Freak Flag Fly

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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for almost two years. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.

Dear Wayne,

(This guy's name has to be Wayne, right?)

So, sorry for snapping that photo of you on the M train—fact is, I couldn't not. You were too good to be true.

You're a person who loves wolves so much you're reading about them on the train. This is New York: There are people who won't read Jonathan Franzen on the train because they might look too mainstream or might be construed as someone who takes literary cues from Oprah. And you're just hanging out—studying a glossy coffee table book about your chosen power animal.

All while wearing that majestic wolf tee shirt!

And it's all part of a complete look—a sort of chain gang-contemporary spin on your chosen My Side of the Mountain aesthetic. To wit: The washed-out Lee jean jacket; this-close-to-matching Levi's; western-looking wooden beads; serious shit-kicking motorcycle boots; and that Stetson—it's leather!

You do your own thing, Wayne. And you don't give two hoots about how totally insane you look. We at Racked wholeheartedly approve.

Wayne, you remind us of two Purple People we recently encountered.

(If you're unfamiliar, Purple People, like, just wear purple. There are message boards. And e-commerce situations. And the kings and queens of the Purple People seriously have enough clout and buying power behind them to meet with development people at places like Dr. Marten's re: Special edition items in specific shades of purple sold exclusively through selected purple-friendly retailers.)

The first rung me up at Pittsburgh's Aviary gift shop (I needed a penguin-shaped corkscrew). He was wearing a probably-flammable purple argyle; a very-wrinkled purple pin-striped shirt; and purplish corduroys. Also, I'm willing to guess the purpley-mauvey Korean econo-bubble in the parking lot belonged to him.

Spotting my purple Swatch his eyes widened—he was this close to grabbing my wrist: "Where did you get that? I've been looking for one forever!"

"Um, at Swatch?"

And just yesterday, shopping (work shopping, don't judge), we spotted this impossibly tall, impossibly elegant man in an impeccably-fitting purple suit (Paul Smith?) accessorized with a perfectly-matched and expertly-knotted scarf; transparent Oliver Peoples shades and Italian lace-ups in black. He was awe-inspiring.

And, frankly, he probably wasn't a Purple Person. He was probably just a Paul Smith person. The fact is—like you and your wolf shirt, like Purple Pittsburgher Bird Man, he was wearing exactly what he wanted to wear. He was owning it and he was loving it.

Point is, Wayne, we should all take a lesson from you, and the Purple People of this world: Enjoy your clothes, express yourself, and don't worry what anyone else thinks.

Life is too short and clothes are way too much fun.

(This is also a really great excuse for buying really stupid shit you don't need. Just sayin'.)

· Love, Frank [Racked]