Preppy Homeless Friday and Redux: Duo-Dials-The Doctor Will See You Now

If ever there was a day that had me manifesting the preppy homeless man guise it’s today. Baseball hat day at the office…slumming it is an understatement-we’re dressed for comfort not for show.

My complaints about inconsistent weather have now been heard. It was about twenty six degrees when I rolled out of the Casa this morning. My sixty dollar military surplus overcoat served me well in tandem with Flusser silk and J. McLaughlin cashmere gloves from last year-at 65% off. Nothing better than buying gloves in June for a deal.

Do not fear pink. The only thing that I don’t like about this fifteen year old J. Crew pink cashmere turtleneck is that the neckband is so tight that it gives me a bit of a double chin. And I don’t have a double anything actually. Shut up.

 No shave and a delayed shower-“situational hygiene” I call it. I’ll shower before bed tonight. However, when I’ve got an old baseball cap on there’s a good chance that the situational hygiene strategy is in play. I know that I should throw this hat away but I can’t-I love it and we have memories together. Shut Up. My momma still can’t believe that they even let me take one course at this Baltimore Based community college. I noticed one of my favorite watercolours after I snapped the hat picture and it reminded me of how I take most of my caricature buddies here in the office for granted. 

This is an original extant-preparatory watercolour of Prince Alfred-Duke of Edinburgh-younger brother of the Prince of Wales-later Edward VII. It was done by Carlo Pellegrini-“Ape” of Vanity Fair fame. I love this little image as well as the two prints that were rendered from Pellegrini’s original watercolour caricatures of the Duke.

I've got one of the prints here in my office-the Duke Bowling at the Marlborough Club in St James-1873.  

And here’s another of the Duke by Pellegrini

 Fair Isle socks and Ralph shell cordovan tassels. Admit it-you like ‘em both. And yes, I’ve worn these Cordings moleskin pants a million times in the last month. I don’t have much to choose from.

Ok, I’ve gotta wrap this up for now. Have a blessed weekend.

ADG with no LFG.

Duo-Dials

I’ve always loved duo dial-doctor’s watches with the segregated second hand functioning independently. The lore says that physicians could better view the segregated second hand while taking a pulse. Perhaps my affinity for them goes back to all the freelance OBGYN work that I did in undergrad.

The Rolex Prince is in my opinion, the most elegant version but they also go for about fifteen thousand dollars these days. That’s a bit out of my price range and the cantankerous nature of vintage watches is something that doesn’t intrigue me.

Enter the Hamilton Seckron. Hamilton created some of the greatest watches in America. Founded in Lancaster Pa. in the late 1800’s, Hamilton created watches that vintage collectors would later call the “American Pateks”. That still left me out of the game until about 1989. Hamilton revived many of the classic watches from their early 20th century catalogue, including the Seckron. I bought three of them and still have one remaining. I lost one and gave one away.

I don’t buy expensive watches but I damn sure won’t wear a fake, street corner knockoff either. My Seckrons served me well until I encountered a watchmaker in

England who crafts faithfully, a Doctor’s Watch in the spirit of the Rolex Prince.

Barrie Law at Waterman’s sells in my opinion, some of the best value in vintage inspired timepieces. I have three of them.

Speaking of time…I’m out of it!

Viagra-Wet Beach Towels-R.M. Williams

Man-I’ve never been happier to be back at Casa Minimus. I’m not a nervous flyer but the weather yesterday was dodgy and the air was thick. I had a bumpy ride all the way back to DC and I’m not a nervous flyer in the least. I crossed the moat and into the house a bit after one in the morning. I remain tucked into bed with strong coffee and three Chips Ahoy cookies to prime the pump before ambling over to the office. No need to rush this morning and the grip of my down featherbed has me nicely swaddled.

Toad insisted early on that I drop the code word verification thing on the comments page and I readily saw the merit in doing so. I don’t mind too much having to type in said code when commenting on posts but it is nice when one doesn’t have to do it. However, I’ve been getting scores of junk comments over the last few weeks-all of them offer great deals on Viagra. This my friends, makes me paranoid. I remember getting junk emails before spam filters and firewalls were so effective and they were all the same things-erectile solutions-credit score improvements and lower interest rate refi offers. I used to think….”damn…they must be mind readers”!

So here’s my deal. I’m not going to implement the code word thingy. I’ll just keep deleting the comments when the spammers send them. As for Viagra-The day I can no longer pass the wet beach towel test, I’ll gladly line up for the amazing interventions that the pharmaceutical industry offers mankind.

I think it was about ten years ago. Walking in Gotham I spotted a great pair of boots in the window of some shop that specializes in Australian goods. The boots are obviously made for all types of weather but the thing that caught my eye was that they looked streamlined enough to wear with dress clothes in bad weather. I’d been searching for something like that. My closet at that time housed Red Wing boots and various versions of our Trad standard-the L.L. Bean blucher. To me though, these really didn’t fit the bill for a foul weather “dressier boot”.

So I’m talking to the guy that runs the shop and he’s spreading Crocodile Dundee lore thick. “You can’t get these boots anywhere else mate. Made by R. M. Williams-single piece of leather-unique to the antipodean realm. As a matter of fact, I don’t even think I’m gonna sell you a pair. And if I do decide to allow procurement-they are four hundred dollars”. This guy was good.

Now I wanted the boots. And in this rare instance, I could almost rationalize needing them. Four hundred bucks is a lot of dough today and was certainly a fair amount a decade ago. My appetite for the boots waned in a nanosecond. E-commerce was evolving at a fair pace ten years ago-even pre Google I was able to find a place called the Stitching Horse Bootery in Australia that sells R.M. Williams boots. The dollar was really strong at the time and long story short-I was able to get the boots for less than two hundred bucks. 

I also picked up a d-ring kangaroo belt at the same time. When I wear it I’m jumpy as hell.

I’d say that the R.M. Williams boots have been one of my all time best purchases. Still holding up well albeit with a few character building nicks here and there. They saw me off to Indianapolis this week-accompanying my J. Press crewneck Fair Isle sweater vest and moleskin trousers. I probably couldn’t have picked better togs for the dodgy weather manifest this week. I snapped this pic at five thirty the other morning before heading to the airport. Not sure what you look like at five thirty so be gentle in your observations. Shut up.

Meg over at Pigtown asked me if mine were Blundstones. Indeed they are not. Now I’m not knocking Blunnies but the R. M. Williams boot is less clunky-a bit more streamlined and it’s the little details that usually sway me. See the difference?

I had some time when I landed at the airport in Indy-which by the way sports a nice new terminal that was almost like a ghost town. Indy-very beige city. It’s a Camry. Ok, I know you are starting to drift a bit-my Adderall hasn’t quite kicked in yet. My R.M. shoddings were in need of a shine so I had one of the Indy airport shinemeisters work a number on ‘em. I wear suede shoes 99% of the time so the proverbial shine stand doesn’t see too much of me.

Guess the airport carpet and you win ten bucks. The Flusser three-two…notch lapel…open pleated patch pockets is a winter time fave. As LFG would say-“It’s cuddly”. Sounds a bit twee but it really is sort of like a blanket. I think every trad wardrobe should include hair of the camel.

Ok…I’ve gotta end this sleep-in sartorial drivel and head to the shower.

Onward-with antipodean kicks.

ADG

Holiday Fun

LFG and I have now declared the Christmas Season to be in full swing. We hope that you had as fun and festive a weekend as we did. After weeks of weather that kept us confused about how to dress, we finally have winter weather. This was a Barbour-Cordings-LL Bean-RM Williams weekend for certain.

We began Friday evening with LFG and her Cotillion minions reveling at their special Holiday Soiree. Typical I suppose of a nine year old little gal’s nature, LFG didn’t want me to come early and take tons of pictures-you know-like I wanted to do.

I missed her so much this week and was so excited to see her-having heard her tell me on the phone how pretty her special dress was. So I decided to dress up a bit just to go and pick her up. Flusser gray flannel trousers, Ralph cordovan tassels and a camel hair sportcoat.

 LFG and her Cotillion carpool buddy DB looked stunning as usual. LFG told me about a boy “who was shorter than me daddy and had sweaty hands and couldn’t dance”. Sounds just like your daddy when he was in Cotillion honey.

We dropped DB off and LFG and I headed to …. You guessed it….Cactus Cantina for our Friday night date. “Daddy I’m overdressed”…the girly stuff is manifesting full force. I told her that she would be a little show stopper and she was. Ok, ok…I’m biased.

Home by nine and we are both exhausted. Time for LFG to slip into her new cupcake flannel pjs.

The ten minute walk to the south wing of Casa Minimus.A little dose of telly and we are both headed to bed in short order. Big Saturday coming up. We’ve got the Scottish Walk-LFG Tree Trimming Party and finally, the Parade of Lights Saturday night.

LFG's little dress hanging amidst books, a Richard Merkin New Yorker cover and a model that LFG and I built of Richard Petty's #43 Ford-the year he defected from Plymouth. I told you we were rednecks. Shut up.

LFG's little sweater and the pleated-open patch pocket of my Flusser camel hair sportcoat. Three-two roll and a deviation from my usual peak lapel.

Saturday morning sees us with rainy-snowy precip in Old Town. Just above freezing by one degree so the cold slush is bone chilling. We’ve got Barbour-Cordings tweed cap-Flusser silk scarf and other accoutrement to gird us from the cold.

RM Williams boots on my feet and LFG has those ghastly green Uggs that I’ve long since become weary of seeing. Remember these green things? They won’t last the day. Thankfully.

Nothing like a parade to lift your spirits. The Scottish Walk was predictably briefer this year due to the weather. The Scottish organizations are proud though and for the most part, they showed up and regaled in style.

Santa always concludes the Scottish Walk-ambulating on the litter of a vintage Fire Engine.

LFG had a tree trimming party which gave me a three hour window to enjoy the weather and do a bit of shopping. The neighborhood are finally showing some winter signs.

We had zero extra time to get back to Old Town for the Parade of Lights but LFG’s Uggs were soaked with muddy-icy-snowy gunk and we had no other boots. I think we might have set a world record for stopping at Rack Room Shoes and buying little snow boots and socks. In and out…fifteen minutes max. Twenty bucks…why pay more? She’s gonna outgrow them in a week-that is if they survive that long.

We lasted for about twenty minutes as the boats were announced-floating past the city dock in Old Town. Union Street Pub is two hundred yards away and they have what we want. Shirley Temples-Stoli-comfort food. It’s all good.

Gumbo for me…not as good as mine but pretty darned warming after our long day.

Baked Ziti for the Pootist. She's tired.

It was shocking to see Carlos Santa working at Union Street Pub. I was certain that his career was flourishing but in this economy you never know. Little Carlos was bussing tables and seemed happy to have the work.

LFG declared that we needed a new ornament or two for our tree and the Christmas Shop is right next door to Union Street Pub. It’s always fun to walk through the shop during Christmas. I don’t know how they stay in business during the off season. Who buys nutcrackers in July? Who buys nutcrackers any time?

“Look daddy, it’s Darth Cracker” LFG declared. We both agreed that a Darth Vader nutcracker just didn’t seem right. “Darth Cracker”. Sounds to me like a white boy from Effingham South Carolina who’s seen too many Star Wars movies.

Wet boots off. Slippers on.

Sunday sees us out the door to procure out Christmas Tree. These beat up khakis manifest my newest sartorial randomosity-the Unicuff. One cuff. You'll be wearing some just like these in no time. Shut Up-with LL Bean bluchers.

LFG wanted a train to circumnavigate our tree this year. She got one.

These pictures are not blurry-it’s my new artistic lens through which I snap images when all I have handy is my phone camera. Shut up and Happy Holidays.

Onward. ADG and LFG

Friday Sartorial Randomanalia and Body Jewelry Redux

Greetings from the Maxminimus Global Nerve Center. Handling some Friday odds and ends before gearing up for the big LFG weekend. Just call me Chauffeur Daddio. Christmas Cotillion tonight-Alexandria Scottish Walk in the morning-Trim the Tree Party in the afternoon…daddies aren’t invited. The Alexandria Holiday Parade of Boats Saturday night and the LFG-ADG Christmas tree procurement on Sunday. Stay tuned as I should have one heck of a weekend update for you on Monday.

 LFG and I did a collage for our 2009 Holiday card. Email us your mailing address if you want one.

So, how about some sartorial randomness till Monday ok? First I’m pleased to say that the back issues of The Rake Magazine arrived. I’ll report more on the magazine later but I can tell you for now that it’s top rate in terms of layout-materials-as well as content. I worry though for the future of any print media these days.

Sharp Suits also arrived. I’m not disappointed since my expectations weren’t too high. It’s long since been reconciled that I’m biased but the Flusser and Bernhard Roetzel books pretty much have the sartorial erudition-mission complete.

 I took a quick gander at it and snapped a few images for you. Here's one of you know who...replete in yet another interpretation of windowpane.

Check out the blades on this vintage Ralph image. I bet he'd probably soften the shoulders on this contrivance today. 

In the spirit of giving the green flannel blazer another go-I donned it yesterday with jeans. Two things are going to help mitigate my inability to figure out how to rig this baby. 

First, the other buttons are en route from Flusser and that should help matters a bit. Second, I have so rarely worn this coat that the “new” remains fully part of this garment. LFG will do some grape stomping on it for me this weekend in an effort to further the cause.

Today its Levis 501s-Flusser navy with light gray windowpane…peak lapels three-two roll and pleated open patch pockets. 

Step back please. There's nothing here that concerns you.

Alden shell cordovans with cashmere blend yellow socks. No extree charge for the little pills on the hosiery-just take 'em with a full glass of water-thank you. Shut up.

On a final note before I turn you over to Body Jewelry redux…I had dinner the other night at Bistrot du Coin and I’m facing this completely out of context little tin sign on the wall. I think it’s a cruel joke of fate to make me stare at this numeric reminder of my current state of celibacy.

Onward…at sixty nine miles per hour.

ADG

Body Jewelry

Kinda like the old Brylcream slogan…”A little dab'll do ya”. Wearing body jewelry is a bit like wearing cowboy boots. It’s a perilous endeavour and a slippery slope, even for the most facile participant. Be careful. Be very careful.We don’t use much of it around here. Other than one pierced nipple anchoring a simple gold loop, we have a watch, a ring and a necklace. A simple gold chain holds a cross and a Masonic talisman. My sister gave me the cross when I was in high school and I’ve worn it ever since. It has bite marks on it-I used to have a nervous habit of clinching it between my teeth while taking tests in college. I know, Freud would have a field day with that one. The Masonic charm belonged to my grandfather. And yes, before the question is asked, I am a Mason. I wouldn’t wear the emblem if I wasn’t.
My code says that other than a wedding band, you may wear one ring…ONLY. Mine is a carnelian crest ring. I opted for something a bit more unique than the typical gold crest ring. My family crest includes a double wide, some plastic flamingos and a lion with his mane cut in a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet. You know, “business up front-party in the back”. I had a black onyx fraternity ring in college. I never wanted my college ring…ours looked too much like high school.
My watches are reasonably priced tank watches…duo dials…I’ve posted about them before. Leather or grosgrain watchbands. My wrists are too skinny for metal bands and clunky watches.Now, regarding pinky rings. I’d say that there is about .001% of the population who can pull this look off and most of them have titles and live over “there”. Don’t even try it. Nothing good will come of it.

Remember, less is more. And no, I don't have, nor intend to have anything pierced. Maybe I'll risk my heart again one day but that's about it on the piercing front

Israelis-Glocks and Slippers: Redux

I’m working today from CasaMinimus. The Global Nerve Center doesn’t need my presence for anything and my couch is inviting. I should be completely recharged after my lazy Thanksgiving replenishment and I was-but my give and take for five hours with an Israeli biotech client yesterday left me spent. As my paternal grandfather would say though…it’s a “good tired”-the kind of fatigue resultant from doing good work. In his case it was operating the family farm. In my case it’s peddling …whatever.

I’ve approached the main entrance of most pharma, device, diagnostic and biotech companies here in the States. Fairly standard processes regarding sign in-identification-sometimes a photo for their records etc. Some corporate campuses are more dutiful in their security processes than others-no big deal. Yesterday was a first though. The security guy at my Israeli client’s U.S. headquarters was holstering a freakin’ Glock. Now mind you, this guy was not a law enforcement officer-he was a corporate security employee. Nice as he could be but make no mistake about it-the Glock was not there just for show.  I understand the need to protect corporate intellectual property but geez. The Israelis are not to be trifled with.

The no nonsense Israelis rolled out the beige carpet for me as evidenced here in a quick pic that I snapped before Mr. Glock escorted my cavalry twilled and Flusser hosed-Ferragamo bluchered little self back to the workout room.

I have great respect for Israelis-really... I mean if I went to bed every night with the fairly well documented assumption that there were those nearby who wanted to destroy me and push me into the sea, I’d be a fairly intense fella myself. One of my business partners who is a former fighter pilot and U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds jockey says that the Israeli pilots were the only ones that he and his peers felt like that in a one on one fight-they would lose. That’s high praise.

Now I’m a pretty good pitch man-It’s a strength of mine and I like being in front of a group. Goes back to my Chippendales days. I like the pressure and the larger the audience the better. We all have our strengths no? I can bring the group along with me when I’m on stage-just don’t ask me to balance a checkbook or be the final due diligence vote in validating a revenue model. Why would I need those skills? We have other niche experts for those deliverables and as long as Excel spreadsheets exist-I don’t care to hone my skills there.

I rehearsed and reworked my presentation and created a list of questions and challenges that may be posed and worked out answers to each. I was reconciled to the 90^th percentile which is about as good as I’m gonna be-ever. It’s that other 10 percent that will get-cha during a pitch. Sun Tzu teaches us in The Art of War that … all success is realized in the temple rehearsal”. I agree and subscribe to this wisdom to a fair degree. However, my temple’s ass gets bored after a while and subsequent to about a zillion dry runs I’m thinkin’ cocktails. There were executives that flew over from Tel Aviv on Sunday to be a part of this meeting and they showed no signs of jet lag. My presentation was a success and we’ll have some additional work to do with our Israeli client as a result. Some people did say that perhaps I shouldn’t have opened my presentation with…  “I hope y’all had a nice Thanksgiving. What are y’alls’ plans for Christmas?  Ok, I’m coachable. It won’t happen again.

Now speaking of hubris and cocksurety-let’s revisit slippers. Want to? Let me just say again that there’s a fine line between candor and stupidity. I like being a bit edgy and candor is a big part of being confident with your personal style. However-I ain’t stupid…much. When LFG and I head to my mom’s for Christmas, the slippers will stay in Washington. There are still a few places that I’ll wanna frequent in my hometown that if you roll in wearing a pair of slippers-even if you roll in hot and full of yourself, you’re gonna get your ass beat.

I found another picture of Bobby Kennedy sporting his slippers and figured I’d pass it along. Funny though, he’s wearing said slippies with funny trousers and no belt. I suppose that it’s a reasonable enough outfit to don while working the phones with baby brother Teddy.

I began to ponder what my mother might say to Bobby if she saw him in such a get up…. "Now Bobby, all us women down here in South Carolina think you are one fine specimen of a man. However honey, you gotta get your hands out of the back of those checkiddy britches and put a belt on”. To which Bobby, if he was smart, woulda said to my mamma…. "Yes ma’am Miss Minimus…right away"”.

Slippers-Time To Man Up Again

Saturday afternoon...I wrote this post earlier in the week but it got pushed by other more pressing irrelevance. I hope that everyone is having a great weekend.

I admonished guys a few months ago to “Man Up” regarding the decision to wear Belgian shoes.
Now on to a similar sentiment regarding slippers. You are gonna have to Man Up and then some. Unlike Belgians that when confronted with confidence will settle down and become compliant, slippers must be slapped a few times just to let them know you mean business. If you think Belgians can smell fear a mile away, slippers can suss out even the most trace elements of fear so fast it’ll make your head spin. And the consequences are much more severe.

While Belgians will simply giggle at you, causing you to become a bit nervous and self conscious, slippers will howl, cackle, hoot, cat-call at you and seriously…they’ll summons some good ole boy to come over and just whip your ascot. This slipper business is not for the faint of heart or the sexually ambiguous. On second thought, they may be just the thing for guys who haven’t yet sorted themselves out.

I WILL draw the line on these real girlie looking ones with the bow...the Opera Pump version...not my bag. I'll wear something called a "slipper" but I ain't wearin' nothin' refered to as a "pump". Cecil Beaton here on the other hand, looks right at home in them. One should realize though, that Cecil never manifested any ambiguity regarding his "nature". What is more interesting about this picture is his friend Elsa Maxwell sitting on his left flank, slamming a glass of hooch, smoking a cig. Looks like she took a punch in the face...trace elements of a shiner lingering under that right eye. No surprise there. I bet she won the fight...defending Cecil.

Strap on a dose of don’t give a shitake and get on with it. I was married in a pair of Stubbs and Wootton needlepoint slippers with gold bees on them.

I’m sitting in my office now, shod a pair of RL Purple Label wool needlepoints. I walked the ten blocks to work and didn’t get a single whistle, cat-call or sexual preference questioning shout-out from the roadcrew. Honestly, I really think the key to pulling these kinds of looks off is not really caring too much if your look for the day is “correct” or what people think. Granted, I don’t have any client meetings for the balance of the week. Otherwise, I’d be a bit more reigned in. Tomorrow, I think I’ll wear another pair.

David Niven sported them with unrivaled style.

Fred Astaire and artist William Nicholson seemed to prefer the Grecian Slipper.

Here's Nicholson dressed for work in his Apple Tree Yard Studio. I'm gonna do a post on Nicholson soon. He lived and worked in Apple Tree Yard...one block away from Jermyn Streetin London. Nice. I'd be perpetually broke(er) if I could walk out of my office into St. James...the Mother Church of sartorial aplomb. By the way, the top hat in the photo...Nicholson's brush bucket...was formerly the property of his dandy good friend Max Beerbohm.

Here's a guy who can pull the slippers routine off with a decent amount of style...no?

Ok...a day later. Levi's 501 jeans and another pair of needlpoint slippers.

And yes...I should have wiped the dust from them but hey...I'm a guy. Really. I have references.

Steve McQueen wore them. So did Bobby Kennedy. Go ahead, let your inner bon vivant manifest. Give your wife or girlfriend the most passionate kiss you can muster. This assures them that you aren't on the cusp of asking to next wear their garments. Bust out in your slippers 'cause you know you want to. I'd only suggest avoiding them as part of your ensemble if your travels are taking you to Dillon, South Carolina or Hahira, Georgia. Walk into any 7-11 store in either one of those towns without Elsa Maxwell to protect you and you're gonna get injured-injured bad.

Literary Slothiosity and Charleston Redux

I trust that everyone remains amidst all that is important to you and your holiday traditions…family, food, friends, football games-college or neighborhood. I remain happily exiled in a weekend of restoration. I’ll have LFG for the Christmas holiday so Thanksgiving has me happily alone. I begged off of a solo trip to South Carolina for the simple and selfish reason of needing a recharge.

I don’t necessarily enjoy solitude over camaraderie even though I’ve gotten a lot better at being alone with my thoughts over these past seven and a half years. However, I’ve hit the proverbial wall of business travel burnout and being at home-essentially alone for a long weekend of slumming is a welcome respite. I might see LFG for a bit on Sunday but otherwise I’m reveling in my slothiosity.

I’ve eschewed this morning my Charvet silk dressing gown for sweatpants-rubber flip flops and a t-shirt. LFG owes me another round with the PedEgg. I've got gnarly runner's feet.Shut Up.

More formal efforts at donning loungewear have usually resulted in complexity that I choose this weekend to not invite. As evidenced here-even with a milk moustache-when I rig up in loungewear, women can't keep their hands off of me. Remember those pyjamas with the tight-knit cuffs-on the legs? My Aunt Inez gave me a pair every year-along with a robe.

William Gillette as Sherlock Holmes. I can't imagine Holmes not being dressed this way when lounging at home. Sherlock-not John.

 The l.b. t-shirt is an oldie-from the late 1980’s when my weekends were spent in Gotham. Not sure what the status of Live Bait is today but in 1988 it was our standard pre-whatever cocktail joint. Pre-dinner, pre-more drinks…usually at the Surf Club.

It was a heady time for a lad from South Carolina to be hanging out in Gotham.

No deadlines per-se. No sense of urgency around here. I did finally get around to folding some laundry that had been sitting on the kilim chaise for three weeks. Shut up.

 I have nothing to hide around here but every now and then I’ll find an errant talisman or remnant of a female visitor. Could be an earring-back that has languished in the corner for god only knows how many years. I do have a small lost-and-found cache of items too valuable to throw away but not valuable enough to call around and ask former lodgers if they might be missing a bauble. I did though, in the midst of sorting out shoes in my bedroom, stumble upon these little shoddings amidst Gucci and R.M. Williams. Who in the world might have padded into my chamber and left these behind? Do tell.

Do you re-read books? I’ve been thinking about Richard Merkin quite a bit this weekend after re-reading some of his columns from the late 1980’s and it motivated me to tap back in with two of his friends-George Frazier and Tom Wolfe. Merkin was friends with both and all three manifest sartorial proclivities that impress me-as if any would give a damn. Here’s a quote from Frazier that hit me head-on this morning…

“It is my own conviction that there can be no style without a certain aloofness, a certain inaccessibility, an immense honesty and inviolability in the manner of one’s craft, a relentless being-true-to-one’s-own-image.”

Frazier sums up for me the moral tension associated with balancing the desire to fit in with the appetite for individuality and why so many people f_ck up in their quest for said balance. Butcept me. Shhhhh.

If you are interested in knowing Tom Wolfe beyond his Bonfire of the Vanities persona you might enjoy this compilation…Conversations with Tom Wolfe. There's a lot more to know.

 I dawdled for a bit with South of Broad before getting fully sucked in but when I did-I was as usual-completely caught up in the Conroy craziness. I’m a language dilettante so the much criticized style of Conroy and…that of Tom Wolfe’s fiction by the way…is fine by me. I love Conroy and his latest takes me back home to South Carolina and Charleston particularly. To that end-I resurrect (or re-run as my erudite buddy Tintin calls it) my Charleston post from the summer.

Slothingly,

ADG

Robert E. Lee stated that “Duty is the most sublime word in the English language”. I did my duty as a son last week in South Carolina. LFG and I spent a week doting on my mom. She’s seventy eight years old-lives alone and does a pretty good job of managing lupus-a very ugly chronic disease of the immune system. She remains fairly independent-Still drives her car and steadfastly refuses to move out of my childhood home and into a “retirement villa”. Trust me, we’ve tried. 

Miyamato Musashi in The Book of Five Rings teaches that “there are walled cities that aren’t meant to be attacked”. My sibs and I have long since given up on attacking the wall of resistance that our mother has mounted regarding a move out of her home. I understand it. All of her identity is attached to her home-she raised three of us there. Outlived two husbands there. She’ll only leave kicking and screaming. 
The lupus has ravaged her physically. A once beautiful woman with dark hair and blue eyes-she’s a frail shell of her physical self now. 
Understand that I love my mother-like all Southern boys. Like all good boys I suppose-it’s not a regional thing. However, I have to gear up for these visits. My reservoir of emotional resolve and what Thich Nhat Hahn, the Buddhist monk so aptly defines-loving kindness, was at an all time low. Mostly because I’d just come off of that manic ass two week business jaunt and hadn’t really replenished the reservoir from that effort. (God-I know you are listening. I’m not complaining-I know how blessed I am. I’m just stating facts) Additionally, I have to get LFG prepped for these visits. My sister has four kids and they had a different “Grandma Frances” than LFG has. My mom was younger and healthier and was able to really engage with them. The “F” in LFG is Frances so they do have a special connection. However, I have to let LFG know that my mom can’t move fast-that she gets fatigued easily-that she may have to go to bed during the day and finally, that we can’t go and visit her and then leave her alone while we visit friends. It’s a tall order for a nine year old who doesn’t understand chronic disease. 

I have to say that LFG once again demonstrated to me what a child we’ve been blessed with. Not one time in five days did she complain about anything. She was lovely to say the least. She was so sweet to my mother-even though my mom who is hard of hearing and slow moving can’t engage but to a certain degree. Lupus is a mutha of a disease. I told LFG a million times on the way home how proud I was of her. I mailed her a letter with a surprise in it before I left for NJ this week-recognizing again her maturity and kindness. 

We pack a couple of LL Bean duffles and head to see my mom. We roll in and after a day at my mom’s I decide that we need a dose of Charleston.I book us at the Mills House Hotel and begin the hour and thirty minute jaunt. The weather is hot as blazes this time a year in the South and Charleston particularly. I fully expect my mom to spend more time in the room than out and about but that’s ok-she just needed a change of scenery and I know that LFG and I damn sure did.Now I don’t mean to be sexist or racist or provincial or xenophobic or whatever the hell else I might be accused of in this next observation but…What is it about elderly Southern White Ladies and their cars? They drive tanks and in my mother’s case-a Cadillac tank. I drive a Saab that lets you feel every bump in the road-you know-the “European Ride” …the one that in marketing parlance allows you to be “one hundred percent engaged in the driving experience”. Cadillacs take you out of the driving experience and transport you to marshmallow land. They float.And float in my mom’s Caddy we did-Driving Miss Daisy style. Me in the front and my two charges in the back.We rolled in just in time for a late lunch in the Barbados Room at the Mills House.I love She Crab soup and even when it’s hot outside and not necessarily optimal for heavy-cream based soups, I’m going to have it. Trust me, it will kill you and moderation is key.

After strolling through the Market and doing a couple of other walking around the shops kind of things, my mom and LFG retired to the room. I then had the opportunity to scoot over to King Street for my sartorial reconnoiter. Charleston is a superb Trad Town. Charleston is a superb town in many ways and to me, the only elegant enclave in South Carolina-save Hilton Head, Kiawah and a few other coastal patches.Ben Silver was my first stop. Always the best quality stuff and the two college student guys working in there when I rolled in were cordial. I would have taken more pics at Ben Silver but didn’t feel comfortable doing so. It was sweltering hot outside and the store was empty so I kinda caught these guys off guard. They were throwing coins “to the line”…tossing them down a kilim runner seeing who could land closest without going over. The three of us had a good laugh as I shared with them stories of doing the exact same thing in the old haberdashery that I worked in during college. We had two old Morgan silver dollars from the 1800’s that lived on a shelf in the store. When nobody was around, we’d toss those Morgans “to the line”.

Next stop-M. Dumas and Son. Been on King Street for 92 years. I worry that independents like Dumas won’t be there when I return. I feel this way about all small retailers who are struggling. M. Dumas has been around forever. They evolved from kind of an upscale Army-Navy Levis type store to super duper Trad Central. Again, I didn’t feel too comfortable taking pictures while inside but the place is heaven. It’s kind of a Perlis-Vineyard Vines-J. McLaughlin hybrid.

When I was a kid, we’d go to Charleston to get our corduroy and denim Red Tag Levis-M. Dumas was the destination. Don’t let the modest storefront fool you. The place is packed to the gills with good Trad loot.

They even have a shoe department especially devoted to the Tintin style of Tutti Frutti Topsiders.

Speaking of loot. I pounced on two Berle items. I was pleased to purchase things with some South Carolina legacy. Berle was started by a Charleston family in 1948. I was more pleased to get these mini seersucker flat front trousers and the pink martini shorts for half price.

Gotta love not only the linining in these trousers but the marketing jargon as well...."Washed-Stoned and Beaten". Sounds Biblical to me.

The Pink Martini Shorts are still full price in the Orvis Catalogue

Now for a sad story-Berlins. I think that Berlins has “jumped the shark”. They seem to have gone “disco”. It’s especially tragic given their tenure and legacy. Fritz Hollings-James F. Byrnes and my great uncle for whom I am named all bought their clothes at Berlins.

You know that I love FBI lore and I used to listen  an old FBI man tell the story about arresting the gangster Trigger Burke at Folly Beach. They got a tip from Berlins on Burke, who was renting a Folly Beach cottage. It seems that not only Senators, Governors and Supreme Court Justices shopped at Berlins. Trigger Burke re-kitted himself there as well. Here’s an excerpt from the headlines:

TRIGGER' BURKE TRAPPED BY F. B. I. By The Associated Press. August 28, 1955, Sunday Page 1, 391 words WASHINGTON, Aug. 27 -- The Federal Bureau of Investigation announced the arrest at Folly Beach, S. C., tonight of Elmer Francis (Trigger) Burke, 37 years old, described as a "self-professed New York killer." 

Lovely old sign. Nothing inside to complement the Trad origins seen here though.

Room service for my mom and LFG that early evening. A couple of cocktails back down in the Barbados Room later in the evening for me and that brings us to Room Service in the morning. What is it about Room Service that little kids love so much?

I eat lots of things when I’m home in S.C. that I just don’t pursue otherwise. Country Ham is one of them. I love it and the salty slab you see here was divine. Along with Grits….Redneck Risotto. Shut up.

LFG and I walked down to the bookstore at Charleston Place. I bought a book on the history of Charleston Sea Grass Basketry and snagged the quintessential Charleston cookbookfor my mom.

Mom and LFG on the verge of giddying up for a Charleston Carriage Tour.

Our carriage tour was fun. I’ve been on these a zillion times but this guide was very good and I can pretty much discern the truth v. fiction on these Charleston tours. This guy was a great mix of historian, architectural history devotee, and gardener-agronomist because his mélange included all of it. Really nice.

Meet Shirley Manigault. The Sea Grass-Sweetgrass basket makers are a special group of South Carolinians. These Geechee Gullah folks are mostly descendants of West African slaves and have been plying their wares in Charleston for over a hundred and fifty years. LFG got her first basket while visiting Charleston. Shirley was sweet and ebullient and so kind to LFG. We visited with her for about an hour. She regaled LFG with stories about learning to make baskets and how she to this day, will not go out and harvest from the tidal areas, the three types of grasses she uses. She’s scared of snakes and critters and says that gathering the grasses is “man oriented work”. Her mother in law has a fanner basket in the Smithsonian. If you’ve never heard these beautiful people speak in their dialect, get your ass to Charleston soon because it’s fading away.

Geechee youngsters with grass baskets atop. "Head Porterage" was a West African skill that naturally stayed with them.Charleston Watercolour by Alive Ravenel Huger Smith. Huger by the way, is pronounced "Hugh-Gee". Difficult to mention Charleston without mentioning the Charleston Renaissance artists…my favorites include Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, Elizabeth O’Neil Verner and Alfred Hutty. I love what Hutty said about Charleston when wiring his wife to urge her haste in coming down…."Come quickly, have found heaven."

Pastel on Silk by E.O. Verner.

Quintessentially Charleston-to me.

I wanted to buy this for my mom but they weren't open.

Alfred Hutty-Charleston Drypoint. 

Either A.R.H. Smith or Verner.

And finally Dubose Heyward, a son of Charleston wrote Porgy. Porgy and Bess then became a George and Ira Gershwin contrived opera.

The Dubose Heyward Home in Charleston. 

Onward. 
ADG 

Pilgrim Shoes

I think one of the most repulsive sartorial turns was made when the square toed clunky men’s shoes stumbled on the scene. I remember discussing their obtuseness with the Flusseroids and naming said shoes “Miles Standish Shoes” much to everyone’s amusement.

No offense to Standish but the shoes are just butt ugly. It isn’t surprising that they all look cheap as hell too. Shoemakers who take pride in a high quality creation wouldn’t spend time crafting such an aberration. The guy who would wear such things probably wouldn’t pay any more than eighty bucks for a pair of shoes anyway. The best evidence that Cole Haan has jumped the shark is the Nike influenced “Air-Standish” looking shoes.

I’ll take the output of the Cleverly inspired toes of the Edward Green-Purple Label shoddings any day.

Maybe the Pilgrims-in the midst of escaping the oppression flung upon them by the Church of England had other things top of mind than shoe selection so let’s leave the square toe pedal contrivances to Colonial Williamsburg re-enactors and misguided fellas trying to channel the spirit of The Backside Boys or the boy stars of Beverly Hills 90210. You know the look-clunky shoes-two day beard-all sleeves too long-shirt and coat-shirt cuffs unbuttoned. The American Indians should shoot ‘em on sight.

So what are you thankful for this year? Here’s my list:

I’m thankful for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloons. They represent to me the culmination of my childhood Thanksgiving Day memories. The den of my family home-smells of my mom’s incredible Thanksgiving meal in progress-the dichotomy of seeing everyone on television swathed in coats-hats and scarves while the sun of a sometimes seventy degree Thanksgiving Day tumbled through the window.

I’m thankful for the health of LFG. Nothing else really matters in my world than the wellbeing of my child.

I’m thankful for a family that loves me-regardless of the sometimes infrequent communication and visits.

I’m thankful for the very few long time friends who still for some reason-take the lead in staying in touch in

ways that define friendship other than the silly ass Facebook version of a “friend”.

I’m thankful for Alden and Edward Green who provide non Miles Standish looking shoes.

I’m thankful for solvency. Seriously-this economy has been nothing short of frightening for an entrepreneur.

I’m thankful for the commitment the LFG’s mom and I have to showing our daughter that even though we

don’t live together anymore-we can remain mature-respectful and focused on the well being of our precious gift of a daughter.

I’m thankful for my business partners who put up with my rants and tantrums that I disguise as creative outbursts that are part and parcel of my genius. They know better.

I’m thankful for the camaraderie of fellow bloggers. Kindness and sincerity can’t be faked for long and there are tons of kind, sincere and just really cool people in the blogosphere.

So I wish for all of you a superb Thanksgiving Day. And for our non-U.S. friends-take the damn day off. Tell your boss that Miles Standish said you could.

Onward Pilgrims.

ADG

Greenery-Yallery

Not sure how this yellow theme manifested but it began yesterday. Our weather remains the twain of moderate-chilly-wet-dry…wreaking havoc on the sartorial decision model. I threw on green cords yesterday with yellow wool socks and Ralph shell cordovan tassels. 

While walking to lunch I began channeling the line from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience…."greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery". Ever get a line intractably stuck in your head? The more you attempt extrication, at least for me, the more recalcitrant and embedded the mutha becomes. The greenery yallery line quickly became tenaciously sticky-more so than echoes of bad 1970’s songs and admonishments from LFG’s mom that used to hang on forever.

I loved learning about the genesis of The Grosvenor Gallery-late of Bond Street in London. A serious retort to the establishment centric and traditionally ensconced Royal Academy. The infamous Whistler-Ruskin spat manifested courtesy of a Whistler exhibition at the Grosvenor Gallery.

Ruskin was a crotchety mutton chopped crank by the time he and my boy Jimmy Whistler had a run in. Proof positive of my assertion is reflected in the Vanity Fair image of Ruskin.

As opposed to the jaunty ass style of white forelocked Whistler...here captured for Vanity Fair by Sir Leslie Ward "Spy". Whistler's mama was from North Carolina.

Ruskin said of this Whistler painting…. “For Mr. Whistler’s own sake, no less than for the protection of the purchaser, Sir Coutts Lindsay ought not to have admitted works into the gallery in which the ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approached the aspect of willful imposture. I have seen, and heard, much of cockney impudence before now; but never expected a coxcomb to ask two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face”

Nocturne in Black and Gold – The Falling Rocket

Bottom line on the controversial painting-at least for me is this…If you can’t see that this is a view of Battersea Bridge then you are flat out not smoking enough dope or drinking enough hooch. I mean come on-anyone can see it. WTF was up with Ruskin?

The Freer Gallery here in D.C. had a brilliant show many years ago that faithfully reproduced two rooms of the Grosvenor Gallery and displayed authentically the identical Whistler works in the exact locations on the same yellow washed Grosvenor Gallery-esque walls. I visited the exhibition three times.

Read At the Temple of Art: The Grosvenor Gallery, 1877-1890 by Colleen Denny if the late 19^th century London art scene and its key players interests you. No, you can’t borrow my copy-I don’t lend my books.

Yellow ... and Green-who knows-I sure don’t. I do know that yellow isn’t a flattering color. Wait till I muster the courage to finally post my senior prom pictures and you’ll see what I mean. I looked like a damned banana. Not sure what yellow evokes but it seems to evoke something.

I love my Macintosh and actually had the Flusseroids create one in a shade brighter than the de rigueur yaller offered. Shut up. 

It's obvious that I like women in yellow. 

Big women and regular sized honeys. I just like women...damn.

Since I accidentally contrived yesterday’s rig-I’ve seen green and yellow…mostly yellow… everywhere.Gearshift knobs included.

 I think I’m coming down with something. 

Shit man-malaria? Yellow Fever?

I'm seeing it on LFG-Halloween

LFG-Yellow Pajamas

LFG Caricature of Me-Daddy in Yellow

Yellow and Green Merkin

I unknowingly began the yellow and green thing years ago it seems.

Yellow shirt-baseball hat from two weeks ago...help me. Shut up.

Oh...and we've got green suede Flusser shoddings over here as well.

Even my two sartorial mistakes…or at least one of the two lands in the “greenery yallery” realm…

“….many a smile you put on my face. But I paid dearly with the tears I taste….” 

Marvin Gaye

My Mistake….I can remember the song playing on the jukebox at the fratty house. Three in the morning, soggy waxed paper cup of draft beer in hand, navy blue Weejuns on the south end of my contrivance. I'm belting out lyrics with Marvin, Diana and some date. I was, at that moment, seriously in love with my date. Can’t remember who she was but I’m sure at that instant I wasn’t thinking about making mistakes.

My regrets are few. Hindsight is breathtakingly arrogant methinks. I do have two rather pricey clothing gaffes. I wish I could take a mulligan on these two sportcoats. Seemed like good ideas at the time. Funny how that changes when they arrive from the tailor. Both of these sartorial boondoggles come from Mssrs. Flusser et al. Not blaming them in the least for these indiscretions. My bad. They just executed my requests.

Mistake Number One-Bottle Green Flannel Blazer

I'm a walking snooker table in this thing. Alan Flusser did an article a zillion years ago highlighting best dressed men. Phil Miller, then CEO of Saks was featured in a bottle green blazer. I’m thinking I gotta have one of these. It also harkened back to the days of the green flannel staple at Brooks Brothers. They offered this alternative to the navy flannel blazer for years.
Part of the tragedy of this one is the fact that it fits better than almost anything in my closet. Something about how the fabric and thread came together for this one that just fits like a glove. My “house” model-single breasted peak lapels. Three button rolled to the second. Open patch pockets. Side vents. Simple enough alternative to navy right? I don’t know. It’s departed my home maybe three times since I took possession of it in 2000. Bottom line on both of these babies is that I can’t accessories them. Don’t know how to rig it up and trust me-riggin’ ain’t a defined weakness of mine.

The guy who wrote this was lying his a*s off.

Mistake Number Two-Orange Sherbet Shady Acres Retirement Sportcoat

What a cluster fox trot this one turned out to be. This thing just begs a complementary Full Cleveland. Ditto the model and almost ditto the fit of the abovementioned Green Hornet. I wanted a solid color summer sportcoat. Something a bit less wrinkly than 100% linen so out comes the wool-silk-linen swatch book. Seems to me that in swatch ganders past; the size of the cloth scrap was large enough to be representative of the impending creation. This one showed up and was much more “orange” than I figured it would be. Bottom line, it’s too “resorty” looking and I don’t hang out in South Florida enough to warrant this one. Powder blue cotton lisle knit shirt and white linen trousers knock this one out of the ballpark. But only if you are chairman of the social committee at Club Del Boca Vista. And I ain’t ready for the Del scene yet.
This one also has a vaguely redeeming element. The hand felled button holes are stellar. LBJ Gallbladder keloid and then some.

Ralph Colony Model cream gabardine couldn't resurrect this retirement party rig. Oy.

Alas, I’ll keep them both and who knows, one day I’ll have a breakthrough and suddenly land on a reason, destination or rationale for rigging these bad boys up again.

Enjoy Marvin and Diana….

Redux: Weejuns Redux-Again-With Roofing Tar

I’ve decided that I’ll probably never be finished blogging about Weejuns. After sharing the Navy Blue Weejun lore with the world I figured the Weejun story bucket was empty. Alas, here’s another one.

Certainly I’m not the only one who has returned to their childhood home only to have mom say … “either you take this stuff from the attic or I’m throwing it away”. Well, LFG and I just returned from the home of my upbringing with a trove of random artifacts from my earlier years. Several other things will make their way to future blog posts but for now-my checkbook from college sparks this Weejun entry. What a trip down memory lane my checkbook register was. I’m amazed at the number of checks I wrote for five and ten bucks…beer money-going out money. ATM machines were just getting traction back then and I was and remain a Luddite when it comes to technology. So I wrote a butt load of small dollar checks.
The most intriguing entry that I found was the Navy Blue Weejun purchase. A whopping $39.69 when I only had $62.39 to my name. I’ve always had my priorities in order. There are few things that I’ve managed to hold onto since college. Funny enough, both pairs of college Weejuns remain in my closet. They’ve been re-soled scores of times and I suppose one could argue that the cost of resoling has long since surpassed the cost of a new pair. The Navy ones aside, I recon I could buy another pair but these babies are original-made in the USA. God only knows what contract vendor makes Weejuns today.

The Weejuns made today just don’t look “right” to me. They look too shiny. Almost laquered.

My brown Weejuns caused me to recollect a story that I won’t be able to accurately portray in a blog post. It’s one of those… “You had to be there” kind of things but here goes. I graduated from college and frankly, didn’t know what I wanted to do….sound familiar? I toyed with the graduate program in Architectural History at the University of South Carolina. My late father’s best friend admonished me to go to law school and promised to get me in if I’d go to summer school and tweak my grades a bit. I thought that I wanted to teach school for a year or two-one of the most honorable professions in my opinion. The starting salary for South Carolina public school teachers in 1983 was $9,600.00 a year. Any wonder why my home state is always 48th or so in education? The saving grace is that we are always in the top three for reported cases of gonorrhea. I don’t think we have more of it-I just think the epidemiological reporting prowess is greater in the Palmetto State.

Ok…back to the story. The owner of the clothing store-my after school haberdashery job said that I could work there for as long as I wished while figuring out next steps. He was a surrogate father and mentor….great guy. At the time, I was driving an orange 1970 Super Beetle convertible. Fun car…looked pristine…looks though can be deceiving. While esthetically eye catching, the bottom pans-floorboards were rusted almost completely out. For those who’ve owned VW’s, you know what I’m talking about. This car was a deathtrap-you could see the highway through the holes in the floor board.

The sartorially elegant-shade tree car body repair man in me prevailed. My buddies and I would get old license plates or sheet tin scraps and sandwich a piece inside the car and a piece on the bottom and screw the pieces together. Damn, it’s a wonder I’m still here. Then, I’d take roofing tar and smear it around the edges both on the inside of the car and on the bottom in a feeble attempt to keep water out. Plop the carpet back on top and I’m good to go. This photo says it all...The Inevitable-Proverbial....VW floorpan rust out.

Carpet-like a full lining in a suit-hides a mulititude of structural sins.

Ok…so I’m working at the clothing store and a regular customer said, after realizing that I was in the post graduation-no job prospect twain, “Dust, you would be a natural in the pharmaceutical business”. This was before big pharma was the devil and when repping for a big pharma was an almost guarantee for a life of upper middle class existence if you plied your wares in the South. However, I was under the assumption that you had to be a pharmacist to work for a drug company. I’m a liberal arts man through and through…a marketer and historian by training so how the hell am I gonna land a job in pharmaceuticals? The regular customer-a pharma exec arranged an interview for me.

Bottom line is this. I interviewed on a whim-not thinking that I would be offered the job and therefore, not being uptight about the interview. Not caring too much is a great modulator of adrenaline and cortisol. I know, you are wondering what the hell this has to do with Weejuns. Hang with me.

I am scheduled to interview for this position on a June morning at nine am. June can be hot as blazes in South Carolina and this June day was no exception. My VW bug had no air-conditioning except the breeze when the top was down. So I dressed for the weather, not for the interview. I can remember exactly what I had on that day-Haspel Olive Poplin three button sack suit. Flat front trousers-hemmed a bit too short as most South Carolina preps are known to do. Identical suit to the one above except for a blue shirt and regimental tie.

Blue oxford cloth button down and a 1st Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders regimental tie. Finally, I’m shod in the very pair of brown Weejuns you see in these pictures.Everything is fine. I’m cruising over to Columbia for the interview-not really giving a damn because I don’t think I’m qualified for the job.Driving back roads because I know them and prefer driving them in the early mornings. I’m speeding a bit-as much as a VW can speed and I bottom out in a large body of standing water on said back road. I almost hydroplaned but not quite. All is good after I gained control of the car with one exception. When I hit the water, the force of pressure caused water to gush at lightning speed through the gaps in my sheet metal-roofing tar repairs. Muddy water with pellets of roofing tar blew all over my pants legs. The velocity scared me. I’m now an olive poplin pile of mud and tar. Flecks of tar are all over my suit pants and that shit doesn’t come off.

By now I really don’t give a hoot about the interview. I get to the hotel and try to towel off as much of the mess as I can. The tar ain’t budging. The Weejuns have to this day, little black flecks from that incident. I rolled into the interview, explained my condition and then engaged in two hours of irrelevant discussions. The irrelevant discussion ultimately landed me a job offer.

The hiring manager is to this day, one of my mentors and surrogate fathers. I went on to be blessed with a 13 year career and various professional responsibilities that took me all over the world and afforded me graduate education at fancy name schools-courtesy of my employer. I gained the skills that allow me to practice my craft as a consultant today. God bless roofing tar.

I had to throw the trousers away but the Weejuns will be with me forever.

Onward

Diagonality and Redux: British Tan-Bow Ties and Lymphoma

 Cup number two of my Café Bustelo espresso sits in fellowship with a slice of banana nut bread. Life is bliss this weekend-seriously. LFG and I remain in the midst of a fun weekend and I hope that she’ll sleep in this morning. LFG-like scores of overscheduled kids has to wake up so early during the week that she naturally wakes early on the weekend. If she wakes before eight this morning I’ll go back in with her and see if she won’t go back down for another little while. “Go back down…” You’d think she’s still an infant.

LFG and her best friend DG accompanied me to Dave and Busters yesterday. What a racket…I MUST discover a business model similar to this racket or something akin to the $385.00 Dolphin Hug that LFG wrested from my wallet a couple of summers ago. 

Thirty bucks (each) later and the LFG/DG duo had a pair of cows. LFG’s mom will revel once again in another plush animal adornment at their house. DG is my favorite friend and LFG feels the same way. She’s funny and smart and they are two peas in the proverbial pod.

We walked through Bloomingdales en route to our car from Dave and Busters and I spied these pedal adornments. This has gotten out of hand and coming from me-that’s saying something. You’ve probably already surmised that if anyone can put the “double wide/fuzzy dice” treatment on otherwise sound sartorial contrivances-dat be me. Diagonality just doesn’t fit my sock-view. 

I do though-love my new word…“Diagonality”. Say it three times with me now…Diagonality- Diagonality- Diagonality…with a crisp little southern twang accompanying it. Diagonality- Diagonality- Diagonality. 

Oh yeah-and I bumped into a pyrex lid from a piece of All Clad cookware on the way out the door-it shattered in a million pieces.

We dropped DG off and headed to Cactus Cantina for our standing Saturday night date. Four rounds of pre-entrée Crazy Eights ended in a draw. Then a foursome rolled in to the table beside us-two bald headed babies in tow. The little girl and LFG share the same first name and LFG and I had a great time talking with the very young parents and playing with the babies. The little gal was teething but not cranky about it and she was gnawing on everything in sight-including the table cloth-funny as hell and good for her immune system.

I couldn’t get a good shot of the little guy on the other side of the table but he was equally cute and his parents-equally young. They had already declared that these two tots were gonna be a couple and why not-all four of the parents have been friends since they were in kindergarten-I kid you not. What a great story about a great set of childhood friends who are now married and growing little families. It resonates with me on many fronts but probably to a great degree because I failed at the same effort.

They were far from indigent but with little people in tow-I’m certain they weren’t flush with dough. To that end, LFG and I paid for their evening out.

Onward-Diagonality Not-Before the Pootist hollers from her bed…. “Daddy…I’m not sleepy anymore…” Bliss. Pure bliss.

via Maxminimus by ADG on 7/8/09

I spent yesterday up at Johns Hopkins attending their weekly lymphoma conference and interviewing a few oncologists for a project I’m working on. I always look for lessons in gratitude and God never fails to provide me with examples that ground me in what remains my incredibly fortunate and gifted world. Yesterday was no exception.
Oncology and hematology fellows present their most challenging cases during these conferences. Community based specialists as well as the teaching staffs are invited to show up for and contribute to these exchanges and they are nothing short of fascinating. The patients discussed are not your run of the mill cases. They’ve presented with a plethora of challenges and the goal is to debate best options for the next steps in the continuum of care. The intellectual energy in the room is right down my alley. The sobering reality of death isn’t. Five cases were presented. Three of the five are being lateralled over to hospice as a result of the discussions. Game over. Two of those three have about ninety days.

Ok, so all of my vacations in 2009 will be domestic…I think I will survive. I’m still here and healthy, LFG is healthy, my bills are paid for another month, my liver enzymes-post July 4thare settling back into a normal range and I have business prospects and projects that will keep me solvent for the remainder of the year. I’m blessed beyond measure and I need the record to reflect my gratitude.

So, now that I’ve dropped that mood buster on you, let’s talk about clothes. First, I’d like to reiterate my stance on quality. While this tropical weight suit is beginning to show some signs of wear, realize that I had this suit made by Flusser in 1990. It’s on the cusp of a twentieth birthday. A bow tie was de rigeur for the academic ego-turgid Hopkins-esque environment yesterday. Also, a bit more conservative getup was prudent, given the mob mentality regarding pharma and biotech company profits and the evils of their contribution to healthcare. That’s another post for another site. I just needed to not be so flashy as I was there as a guest of Hopkins and under the auspices of a biotech client who realizes a rather healthy revenue stream from said teaching hospital and research facility. On balance, let me also say that Hopkins realizes a shitload of revenue from industry. I’ll stop with that statement as I’m taking this down a rat hole at warp speed.

This suit was one of my first Flusser custom contrivances and the coat styling reflects it. Two button as opposed to three. Lower yoke-button stance and notch lapels. Double vented.

These almost twenty year old trousers are beginning to pull a bit. I'm essentially the same size-weight as I was in college but these pleats are pulling a tad. Not enough to warrant altering though. No braces yesterday...I kept this rig a bit simpler. End on end dress shirt from Paul Stuart in NYC....about 15 years old. You can't see it in the picture but the collar is scarred from years of pushing collar pins through it. Clip on collar pins are in the same sartorial no-no camp as clip on bow ties and clip on suspenders.

When I was little, my mother wore clip on "ear bobs" as I called them. I remember her removing one of them from time to time during church and rubbing her ear lobe-I recon those clips kinda hurt after a while. Then when I was about eight or nine-she had her ears pierced. When did your momma pierce hers?

Note to self: Get out the Windex and clean the mirror before shooting another "shoe-picture". Help? Where's the housecleaning help? We got none.Oy.

I could have pimped this thing out with some crazy socks but I needed to be taken seriously at this meeting. So I kept it to darker choices finally settling on charcoal gray pinstripe socks. And as always with me, when I have to wear big boy shoes for work, brown suede is the only choice. Monk straps yesterday that are starting to show some wear as well. Another bit of evidence regarding the age of this suit. If I made this one today-the cuffs would be half again as big. These look a little skinny. See that little gray strip of fabric stitched on to the inside of the trouser cuff? That's a little touch that comes with bespoken trousers. It provides weight to the back of the trouser leg so that it hangs properly. Essential.

Speaking of showing wear-I'm really a lot happier than this bathroom mirror self portrait reflects. I take shitty pictures and am a shitty subject-Annie Leibovitz again, was unavailable for this impromptu shoot. I think that the residual sequelae from the 4th of July hooch consumption was still showing a bit as well. And finally, I left all of my pimp ass multicoloured pocket squares at home and opted for white linen courtesy of Ralph. Under no circumstance would I ever have a coat pocket sans pocket square. I even resorted one time to donning a vacant pocket with those brownish-industrial grit paper towels from a dispenser in a men's restroom. It was a hit.

So my friends...have a blessed balance of the week. Have some fun-suck a little marrow out the bones of this life we are living. Hug your kids. Take a cleansing breath and count to three before flipping off someone in traffic. Don't text and drive. Wear sunscreen but not so much that you don't get some healthy color. Have one alcohol free night sometime over the next week but ONLY one. Call your mamma even if it is a pain in the ass to do so. Skip one night out over the next ten days but ONLY one. Take the money that you'd spend on that night and help restock your local food bank. Pay the final sessions fees for one underserved child to finish summer camp. 

Give anonymously. These are the things that I'm doing this summer to keep my materialistic,self indulgent, hedonistic soul reasonably pure.

Onward

Orthodontia and Christmas

I've had a few hours of solitude while LFG sleeps. Yesterday was a day as close to bliss as I’ve had in months. It opened the way for an unfettered weekend with my child. I’ve either been rolling in late on Friday evenings from business or have been encumbered with planning for a Sunday departure that my recent LFG weekends have been fun but incomplete. This weekend gets us back to how our weekends should be. No Sunday departure-no packing-no stealing away a moment here and there to do work stuff while she plays or sleeps.

Yesterday was bliss in spite of our breathtakingly expensive initial cash outlay at the Orthodontist. No financing-no layaway plan (anybody remember putting stuff on layaway?) –just good ole pony up the checkbook and let this teeth straightening journey begin.

First Orthodontic dollar installment could have bought us three pairs of shell cordovan loafers.

The process might have evolved a bit but the good old “breathe through your nose” process of taking impressions hasn’t changed one bit.

LFG had all members of the high dollar teeth straightening team charmed in no time.

After this brief but expensive intervention it was off to school-with impression gunk still clinging to a molar or two.

I loved the kindergarten artwork that serves as a backdrop for the school food drive staging area.

The best way for me to not have unwanted surprises at Christmas is to orchestrate purchases on my behalf. It’s an understatement to say that I’m a bit tough to buy for at Christmas. My mother says to my strategy of precise direction regarding what to buy me… "but you’ll know what you are getting-you won’t be surprised”. Exactly.

My LFG after school gift sortie landed us at Polo-J. Crew-J. Press-Rugby and J.Mclaughlin. Lots of “J’s” in those names now that I list our destinations.

One of the first things I noticed at Polo in Georgetown was the patchwork rug. I suppose that old-frayed-ripped-faded rugs are acceptable candidates for such contrivances but it bothers me a little bit to know that the handwork of peasant artisans meets such fate. Ralph et al did get some grief about twenty years ago for cutting up Navaho blankets.

Two blocks down the street finds us at Rugby where said patchwork strategy was manifest yet again. Rugby doesn’t give a damn that I’m not their target market. Even so, LFG bought me two pairs of corduroys at Ralph’s answer to J. Crew. J. Crew with a jagged edge I’d say.

Blue slippers with silver wire embroidery of the overused skull as well as crossed umbrellas and an “R”. Interesting and for some reason-I like ‘em-even in the midst of their wrongness. It’s the fuzzy dice of slippers methinks.

The corduroy straight legs are right out of the old corduroy Levis playbook from my high school years. Butcept the colors are great. Purple-red-green-yellow. 

Yep-you guessed it-LFG approved the canary yellow ones for me. I’m concerned about not being noticed. Red flat front corduroys rounded out or Rugby foray.

Who the hell is this middle aged man taking pictures of himself in the Rugby dressing room? They usually call Security when these behaviors are manifest.

Our Polo visit was brief-mainly because I can’t afford anything other than a pair of socks. Let me tell you though-their shoe sale is full on and their Edward Green contrived stuff is a superb value right now…if you are in the market for a dressy shoe. I didn’t get a picture but there is a perforated toe monk strap in tobacco suede that is killer. Their casual shoes are on sale too.

J. Crew is the go-to destination for horizontals right now. They’ve also got a decent navy blue large pattern gingham button down-for Christmas-for me. Thanks LFG.

But horizontality isn’t limited to J. Crew. One of the other J.s … McLaughlin also had an interesting horizontal interpretation. Poor picture as usual but these are horizontal corduroys.

Gingham isn’t lost on J. McLaughlin this season either. LFG bought me a great button down here as well.

Gingham pocket squares. I’ve gotta be careful or I’m gonna be over-gingham-ed.

Cashmere blend socks at J. Mc...great colors but too delicate and expensive for my wallet. Reminds me of  a date or two I've had.

J. Press had a predictable array of shaggy dog sweaters and other items in the purist of trad traditions but we bought nothing during our brief stop in. 

I do like this crew neck Fair Isle sweater though. Maybe after Christmas.

Oh yeah. Toad-they did have a patch-silk scarf in the J. Press window.

It's getting dark early here in our patch of the world. The temps wouldn't tell you that winter is around the corner.

So here is the Christmas contrivance courtesy of LFG. Can I wear any of it before the big day? The old Bokhara on which all this loot rests is my first rug. I bought it at a yard sale in Charlotte North Carolina in 1985 for twenty bucks.

Onward-as little Miss Orthodontia awakes and beckons me.

ADG and LFG

Redux:Barbour-Books and Soccer

LFG and one of her bestest friends connected before walking into Cotillion the other evening. The horror…already beginning at age nine. She and D.B. had on the identical dress. Notice that LFG is holding her mandatory tights in her hand. Yes, her dad is not the most dialed in guy when it comes to getting little girls buttoned up for more formal things. Mandatory-I’ve also had since birth, a slight problem with authority. LFG put the tights on in the bathroom and was then locked and loaded for Cotillion.

LFG on the way home from Cotillion with Beary and The Indian in the Cupboard. It's all good.

 Saturday started early with soccer game number two accompanied by misty rain. No cancellations for these gals unless the ball floats on the field. It’s early so I am only half assed prepared for the day beyond soccer. LFG has no rain gear with her and my Briggs brolly is MIA so we are winging it at best. I’m in my typical weekend rig-Trad Homeless Man. No shave-no shower-baseball cap this time accompanied by the old Banana Republic Gurkha shorts and a popped collar-pink knit. My L.L. Bean bluchers still look kinda new-having not encountered anything more than rain on sidewalks to date. By bedtime Saturday night-they’d be fully initiated. If I would wait for the Adderall to kick in before getting dressed-I might do better on all fronts. LFG snapped this one of me at the soccer parking lot-iPhone camera is not a differentiating attribute for said device.

I love my Flusser Mac but it shames LFG when I wear it. My next go-to raingear is Barbour. Ultra Trad-gets better with age. Like me-shut up.

LFG is the smallest girl on her team but a scrappy little one none the less. Reminds me of me at that age. I finally ran track and cross country in high school-having eventually become just too damned little to play other sports.

LFG is kinda like a "player-mascot" on her team-with water.

We love books at our house and we have lots of them-but never enough. The National Book Festival is where my inner nerd just explodes into an external badge of honor. Why? Because there are three thousand other nerds with me-shoulder to shoulder. LFG and I had to haul ass from Chevy Chase to the Mall in order to make the book signing line for Daniel Silva before it closed. LFG could tell how excited I was to meet Silva and she was beyond compliant with my sense of urgency-she was rooting for us to get there in time. “Hurry daddy-hurry”. If you know anything about the Mall in D.C. then you know what a bitch parking down there usually is and especially during a festival. We usually take the Metro but this wasn’t an option. So, I park on a street adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial. The signing tents are at the far end of the Mall-nearest the U.S. Capitol. This is a trek, in the misty rain that is a haul for an adult-I was worried that LFG was going to start crying any minute. She’s a bit too heavy to ride on my shoulders-where she was a fixture for about five years.

My child is so cool. Her dad is a scatterbrained nerd. She had no other clothes to change in to but in retrospect, her soccer gear sans sin guards ended up being the perfect rig for the muddy grass and misty rain. She ended up with my Barbour and I ended up with nothing-as it should be.

Lady Barbour

We get to the queue for Daniel Silva and there are at least fifty people ahead of me and he’s been signing for almost an hour. There’s ten minutes left. All that hustling from one end of the Mall to the other and I’m not gonna get my book signed. One of the volunteers told me that he agreed to stay for an additional fifteen minutes-most authors are nice that way. I had to talk to him-there are a couple of characters in his novels that need some immediate attention and I had suggestions for him. I think LFG was as excited for me as I was proud to have my book signed.

Southern Cooking Maven Paul Deen is a really nice lady. Here you can see the back of her silver haired head as she is shuttled away from her signing. She had more security around her than the President usually has. Again, she’s a fine person but really-what’s gonna happen to her? Is some assassin gonna bean her with a ham hock?

Now this is a cool thing about hanging out with a nine year old who likes books. We then go over to the lecture tent and listen to Daniel Silva speak about his latest book as well as his approach to writing the spy thrillers that I so love. LFG is good with this but we have a conflict. Jeff Kinney-author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books is speaking at the Children’s Pavilion. Kinney trumps Silva so we head over there.

Jeff Kinney has an overflow crowd and I’m not gonna let my little LFG down. I stand her on a table while gathering a stabilizing fistful of Barbour in my hand and we are good. Jeff Kinney is magic with these kids. ADG cannot nudge under the tent awning so I’m keeping my child stable while standing precisely where the water is running off the tent. I needed a shower anyway. I looked like a wet t-shirt contestant and not a pretty one.

Kinney has already signed books for an hour and agrees to go back to signing tent number 13 and sign more books for the kids. LFG and I haul ass over to the sales tent-buy his latest and then run to the queue. LFG meets Jeff Kinney-gets her book signed and it’s all good. What a guy.

LFG gets attacked while cloaked in Barbour. We had to make up all kinds of fun and games to sojourn back to the car without crying from dampness and exhaustion.

 I do think we tend to take the Monuments on the Mall for granted sometimes. The Lincoln Memorial at sunset is to me, the most spectacular view as you had over the Memorial Bridge-for us it was going home time.

Pre Book Festival Bean shoddings.

Post Festival-Now Broken In

So yes, the walk back to the car was grueling. Twice as long it seems when you are tired and wet. Home to Old Town and comfort food prepared by dad before we crash. Went to the early Handlin’ and reveled in a lazy day yesterday. Five Guys post Handlin’. Gotta keep those arteries clear.

We had a blessed weekend and hope that you have a blessed week.

Onward-wet with signed books

Travel-Carpet Update and Redux: The Man Cave

Greetings from Le Roi of Randomosity-and before I get rolling-let me say once again how smitten I am with the words being posited over at Mon Avis Mes Amis....   Only the Brits can cobble such tight little observational quips like...."Our postal system is up the spout, commie bastards….".

I rolled out of National Airport on Monday and had enough time to hang out in the Continental President’s Club before departing. Certainly a bit of a step up in décor but not as posh as the clubs used to be prior to the airlines’ tenuous financial situation.

The Continental Club is on the periphery of what used to be the original terminal at Washington National. There remains a hint or two of the deco-esque bones that used to characterize the terminal. I can see the terminal in the late 1930’s through the 1950’s as the venue of only those who travelled on business or those families wealthy enough to use air travel for pleasure. I see everyone dressed properly for travel and I see lots of cigarettes and cocktails. Mad Men…I’m channeling Mad Men.

I’m prone to nostalgia and I worry that when I’m an old man-the nostalgia will morph into curmudgeonly melancholia. Young people will hide from me when I attempt to regale them with stories of the good old days. LFG will have to give her kids a pep talk before they visit me at Shady Acres. “Be nice and let him hug you-I know he smells funny and wears his pants beyond his nipples but he is your grandfather. Yes-I know he smells funny but if you aren’t nice, I’m gonna make you spend two entire days with your great uncle Tintin. Now you pick your poison. And shut up”

I’m semi-slumming for the flight up to NJ. Levis 501s-Paul Stuart Gingham spread collar shirt-Flusser Cavalry Twill bellows pockets-three/two-chest pocket flap…could I have tarted this thing up with any more bells and whistles?

It’s the small touches that make sartorial pursuits interesting.

Side seam gussets on the Paul Stuart gingham would support not only the seam but my assertion.

Paul Stuart Man on the Fence embroidered on the shirt tail.

It seems that I'm not the only one sporting horizontal stripes these days.

Brown shell cordovan tassels from Ralph. Yes, shell cordovan comes in colors other than the classic Alden color 8. Stand back-these shoes will hurt you. Socks? Not so much today.

Floor and ceiling appointments in the President’s Club are a bit nicer than in the terminal. Wonder if these guys could come over to my pad and finish my crown moulding?

I’m not sure what’s going on in NJ that has booked all of the typical convention-business traveler hotels that I usually frequent. They were all booked this week so I had to seek other lodging options. I ended up abut twenty miles south of my client’s office in Bernardsville, N.J. as a guest at the Bernards Inn.

 I know the area well-having friends from my N.J. days who used to live just around the corner.

I need scores of electrical outlets-strong water pressure for a quick hot shower...you know-the typical requirements of one who is on the road for business-not pleasure. Ambiance is manifest at the Bernards Inn but not road warrior amenities. Slow to warm shower water propelled like five year old kiddies doing slow tumbles in gym class is what you get here.

The Bernards Inn opened in 1907 so there's tons of history and patina but...Two electrical outlets which had to be traded from time to time for various appliances accompanying my visit. I had to inflate my blow up doll manually.

The Somerset Hills area of New Jersey is beautiful and especially so this time of year. Those who have settled on an opinion of N.J. based solely on the visual offense registered when landing at Newark airport need to take a drive out to Bernardsville. The adjacent towns of Peapack-Gladstone-Bedminster-Far Hills etc are quaint and lovely. Golf House-The USGA Headquarters is out here as well. Great way to spend a few hours if you happen to be in the neighborhood.

The USGA moved out here from its Murray Hill townhouse sometime in the 1950’s I think.

Ok…it’s off to the shower and one more day of Renal Medicine Service Line Strategies. Then I get to go home.

Onward-with brown shell cordovan and a turn down truffle from the Bernards Inn.

Our buddy Longwing recently commented on my “Man Cave” and thus the genesis for this post…..
Every man needs a space. A study, a library, a workshop…whatever. My office in Old Town has always been the repository for things that weren’t “allowed” in the house…caricatures...old toy soldiers…vintage military stuff…guy stuff. A guy needs a room with which he can do whatever…décor wise…tidy or not tidy…you know. My office was my principal man cave until I became "re-single". Then, it was “man cave central” at home too. Oh, with one exception…LFG has a cute pink bedroom.

It’s obvious that my stuff at home is the manifestation of a former life. Too much stuff in a much smaller space. Dividing the stuff wasn’t too difficult. There were only a few pieces of furniture that I insisted on and the premarital stuff was a no brainer. Interestingly, there was a bumper crop of kilim, heriz, bohkara, hamadan etc. carpets. I'm a bit of a slob and I've gotta tell you, persian/oriental carpets are a sloppy guy's best friend. They show nothing. Red wine spills actually enhance some of the coloring! You can go years without using a vacuum. Just pick up the big pieces and let it roll!

So, here’s a random display...mostly art... of the Man Cave Collection…

Kilim Chaise....bought at an auction when I lived in New Orleans. I'm glad this thing can't talk.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. Pre-Raphaelite hanger on...weak chin...kinky hair. Decadent poet.
Hall bathroom...bad wallpaper...Cartier Bresson, Cecil Beaton portraits of Max Beerbohm, family pics and a pic of the Allison Brothers and Cale Yarborough...signed by all three...the legendary Daytona Speedway Fist Fight all on one wall. Yes, we have problems over here. Shut up. The Spoon-Nose Trick....Can you do it?Carlo Pellegrini... the caricaturist "Ape" from Vanity Fair. Beerbohm idolized him. So do I. We don't drink cocktails. The booze is for guests only.Papier-mâché-plaster Penfold Golfball advertising display from the 1940's. Just noticed that his hat needs dusting. I ain't doin' it. The Help....where's the Help? I got none. Drypoints of Whistler by Menpes and Rajon. My old office...caricatures....LFG's mom used to call them "baseball cards for big boys".

Helleu, Pellegrini, Haden, Sir Leslie Ward, unk. artists pencil sketches and drypoints.
Andre Plumot Self Portrait-1862. Ebay...
Plumot
Carlo Pellegrini, William Nicholson, Rockwell Kent....lithographs, watercolours, etchings and pencil studies.
Watercolour of W. G. Grace, M.D. ...the "Babe Ruth of Cricket"

Vanity Fair prints including the Prince of Wales at the top. Pre-Edward VII and Duke of Wallis....no wonder he reteated to that maternal-erotically inclined twice divorced acrobat from Baltimore. They dressed his a_s in sailor suits till he was a grown man/boy.
Great little 19th century oil painting on board from Boris Wilnitsky in Vienna. Wilnitsky has an impressive inventory and I think, very fair prices with shipping fees from Europe that are quite reasonable.

Ok...that's enough of the Man Cave for one day. There's at least one more post on this theme. Wait till you see the kitchen. It's scary as hell in there.

Tata from the Cave. Have a blessed day.

Sartorial and Biblio Randomanalia

First day back day-errand day-missing my child palpably day-silence at home is deafening day-need to stay in and relax day. The intensity of my recent workdays...fully charged on all fronts-I’ve been “on” for three weeks and the downtime this weekend will do me good. It’s just such a rapid decrease in cycle speed and inputs than my previous three weeks have delivered. There was a time after my marriage ended that I would not under any circumstances come home until bedtime-I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.

I travel a couple of days next week but the manic coast to coast barnstorming is over for 2009. What I really have missed more than anything these past three weeks is extended time with LFG. This is one of my favorite pictures. I love bald headed babies and LFG was such a sweet little lump at six months. Blue eyes wide open all the time. She remained a baldy until almost two.

LPC asked me to “deconstruct” the horizontal striped sock thing and I told her I would. I now need to say without equivocation that I cannot. All I can do is offer a couple of historical examples of horizontal hosiery cognoscenti and then cop out on further erudition regarding its genesis and rationale.

I can speak clearly to my dilettante-ish behavior that includes horizontal stripes mainly because my pathos’ aren’t complex and I’m a redneck. Pretty much splains why I have such items here in Casa Minimus. I like to be a bit edgy-dubious-obtuse and horizontal stripes just sweeten that mélange nicely.

G.K. Chesterton wore them as evidenced in his Vanity Fair caricature.  He was a renowned apologist but obviously didn’t apologize for wearing striped socks and slippers. Chesterton was a big boy too. Shhh…if anyone is “up-there” and listening-it’s Gilbert Keith. He and Jesus were tighter than a fat girl’s socks.

The world’s most famous house guest wore them as well. I think that woman-Mrs. Simpson-put some kind of Kama Sutra-Eleven Knob Back Buddy juju on him that precipitated the abdication. Why would you give up Buckingham Palace for that? Additionally-it wasn’t exactly a zero sum decision. He could have had Buckingham Palace and all of that Kama Sutra Back Buddy stuff too….. Ok, I’ll just stop right here. Jesus and Gilbert Keith are witnessing me write this. Shhhhh. Shut up.

Here’s a poorly captured photo of Gary Cooper wearing horizontal stripes. You should hear Alan Flusser tell stories about interviewing Cooper’s daughter and learning about Cooper’s sartorial habits. I think I’ve shared the story about Cooper buying cloth and taking it out to his beach house in Malibu to fade in the sun-then bespeaking creations from thusly sun-drenched textiles. Damn.

Ok…on to the latest Amazon.com delivery. I can rationalize anything but book buying has always been easy to equivocate. The acquisition of knowledge is the unending business of the soul and how the hell-pray tell do you expect me to perpetuate the unending business without books? Shut up.

So in order to keep the soul perpetuating efforts moving forward-three books awaited my arrival from Seattle. By the way, that “One-Click” option on Amazon is dangerous-and I love it. Kinda like the first girl that I dated after my marriage ended. Butcept I didn’t really love her dangerous ass-I just loved her…mind and the way she and that mind abetted my unending business of the soul-knowledge acquisition thang-efforts. Ok, ok I’ll leave that ramble right there. Shhhhh.

Book One- Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon. Mrs. Blandings suggested that I read it and that’s all I need for a recommendation. She’s rock solid and I’ve long since learned to do what I’m told when the orders come from women. I’ve not read any of Chabon’s fiction but his autobiographical essays, I can tell already, are going to be right down my alley. Our mutual friend Toad turned me on to Cutty-One Rock a couple of months ago and I knocked that one out in a few nights.

Book Two-The Queen Mother-the Official Biography by William Shawcross.

One thousand and ninety six pages including the bibliography and index. I’ll report back on this one sometime in the Spring of 2010-seriously.

I always loved the plucky Queen Mother. I liked the fact that she and her husband stayed in London during the blitz while Ambassador to the Court of St. James Joseph P. Kennedy when not hinting that appeasement woulda been a good idea was heading out to the country at night so to avoid any Nazi ordnance. When a bomb landed on the grounds of Buckingham Palace, then Queen Elizabeth said…. "I'm glad we've been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face."

I also liked the fact that she took a strong drink or three every day and that like me-she loved collecting Vanity Fair caricatures.

She covered the walls with them at Birkhall in Scotland.

Book Three-Horton Foote: America’s Story Teller by Wilborn Hampton.

I don’t know where to begin admiring Horton Foote. He was a Texan who told stories-through screenwriting and playwriting. He loved the same woman his entire adult life and raised a bunch of young’uns and enjoyed being with his family as much as anything and that’s enough right there to admire.

But mostly I’m envious. Envious that I can’t assemble a paucity of words in ways that create such poignant and sublime feelings. He wrote the screenplay-adaptation for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The simplicity of this dialogue gives me goosebumps and makes me choke up a bit. How can anyone witness such gifts and not believe in God?

This is what I’m talking about. Here-read this:

Scout: Jem?

Jem: Yes?

Scout: How old was I when Mama died?

Jem: Two.

Scout: And how old were you?

Jem: Six.

Scout: Old as I am now?

Jem: Uh-huh.

Scout: Was Mama pretty?

Jem: Uh-huh.

Scout: Was Mama nice?

Jem: Uh-huh.

Scout: Did you love her?

Jem: Yes.

Scout: Did I love her?

Jem: Yes.

Scout: Do you miss her?

Jem: Uh-huh.

Onward.

ADG

Home from Seattle and...Redux: Bellows Pockets-Poacher Pockets...

I slept in my own bed last night. So glad to be home but at the risk of redundancy-need to publicly say again how blessed I am to have consulting projects in the midst of ten percent unemployment in this crazy country of ours. Consultants get laid off before employees so I’m doubly grateful. From the looks of my little patch in Old Town-it appears that we had a touch of rain while I was gone.

We all have our passions. I’ve tried to subdue or limit mine. Can’t spread yourself too thin. I collect a few things-19^th century caricature and antique toy soldiers and we all know that I have a weakness for clothes. A life without passion is one that I don’t want to ponder.

One of my business partners appreciates the level of erudition and passion I have for collecting but he could give two hoots and a damn about clothes. He plays it safe-Brooks Brethren-Alden etc. Never did I think I’d be shooting picks of him in the Seattle airport for a posting. Considering his lack of interest in clothes and the fact that he’s colorblind makes it even less likely.

His Orvis Harris Tweed jacket was worthy of note however. Bi-Swing back-elbow patches-poacher pockets and a wind tab on the lapel. Pretty strong for him and the off the peg creation from Orvis.

Nice jacket. I’d have selected something other than a brown Ralph shirt but he gets a seven on the sartorial ten scale just because most people these days look like shit. He’s also got on Alden suede tassels which help the cause.

Onward to soccer.

ADG

…whatever you want to call ‘em….I love ‘em.

Consistent with my fuzzy dice lack of restraint, bellows pockets have made their way on to several of my winter sportcoats and one of my suits…the Flusser Cavalry Twill that I made last Fall.As the Washington area temps hovered around a blissful ninety degrees this weekend, I began to swap wool for linen in earnest. I’ve been flirting with summer fabrics for the past couple of weeks but the time is right for a full fledged commitment. Seersucker passed tweed and twill in the hallway during the closet swap-out. It was during this hostage trade that I decided to do a farewell post to winter. Specifically, the military inspired pocket treatments that work so well on tweed-country coats.I have a colleague that aptly depicts a man’s sportcoat as a purse. Makes sense to me as I usually fill more than one pocket with my random paraphernalia. Poacher pockets just provide a more ample venue to tote stuff around. I could pack for a 3 day weekendIf I'd received an invitation from Mallory for the Everest jaunt, I think I'd have worn this one. No climbing for me though. I'd be at base camp making cocktails.

Cheers

Seattle and...Redux: I Am the Man from…Nantucket Reds

Greetings from the Fairmont in Seattle-again. Rolled in here after a 5.5 hour flight from New Jersey...middle seat...coach class. If I don't get the Swine after this week I'm probably ok for the long haul. Headwinds coming out here were strong. I just hope that the tailwinds going home will be just as strong.

Have you ever been so tired that you just dropped your kit and fell into bed?

Ever done the East coast-West coast thing and awoke at 430 PST ready for coffee? The Fairmont knows about this phenomenon and thus offers room service 24-7.

I always bring diversity to my reading queue when travelling. I knocked out a few pages of both my right and left brain books for this week’s travel…

Differential Diagnoses: A Comparative History of Health Care Problems and Solutions in the United States and France and Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast: Sketches from the Author’s Life in Paris in the Twenties. After reading a few pages involving comparative healthcare economies it quickly becomes time to read about Hemingway et al in Paris.

So Fall is upon us and I figured that an oldie abut summer time togs would be fun. You better have your Reds put away for the winter. (And Gail-Northern Cal....I promise that I didn't steam my blazer for hours at the Roosevelt!)


Onward.
ADG



Ok folks. We’re gonna tackle a subject that is loaded with lore and forthwith, tethered by my rules. Now I love lore but am not much of a rules guy. I’ve had a brooding-low grade problem with authority that goes back to toddler-hood. I’m the poster child-passing all evidentiary muster that spanking is not efficacious. However, Nantucket Red in general andNantucket Reds particularly, must be rule bound. Now these are my rules and I’m sure that there will be those that take issue with one or two of them but that’s ok. This is my Code and you aren’t bound to it. However, if you don’t and I see you out and about-I’ll make fun of you.

I remember my first pair-I got them long before I set foot on Nantucket and even longer before the internet. My friend here in Old Town; N.S. came home with them and I quickly called Murray’s to order mine. Murray’s has been peddling these sailcloth babies, made in Georgia by the way, since the 1940’s. I like the incongruence of their manufacture in an inelegant rural Georgia plant and the final destination being elegant-preppy-casual-salty New England. Mr. Phillip Murray above pictured is the gent that started it all.

Rule Number One: The ONLY source of true-authentic Reds is Murray’s on Nantucket. Sure-you can find similar togs and analogous fabric but you’ll be a poseur if you aren’t willing to admit publicly that your ersatz trews are just that-ersatz. And by the way, that’s ok. I own some hybrids too but make certain that you own up to it.

Rule Number Two: Only ONE Nantucket Red element may be worn at a time. Your rig must NEVER contain two-ever. As a matter of fact, if you break this rule you should be banned from wearing any Reds item ever again. This rule is so crucial that I’ve gotta add an amendment-after wearing even ONE Red item on a particular day, a one day NO REDS sabbatical must result. Please, avoid the “I’ve been to Nantucket once in my life and I bought every freakin’ thing I could find even loosely associated with Murray’s original Nantucket Red sailcloth pants and look-I have all of it on right now-as a matter of fact my wife and I just ordered a Nantucket Red Mini Cooper with Nantucket Red sailcloth upholstery and convertible top” visage. And this rule is coming from the redneck fuzzy dice guy who rarely practices restraint. The belt in the photo is from the Nobby Clothes Shop on Nantucket. Nice enough place. They'll sell you a pair of "Breton Reds". Don't.

Rule Number Three: You MUST allow your Nantucket Reds to fade over time. I know this is contradictory to my behavior of getting the “Jos.A.Bank” out of my patch madras sportcoat(wait till you see what our latest step was in that effort) but this is a different proposition. If you add a tad of bleach and wash them repeatedly they just don’t look the same as ones that have faded from a couple of seasons of regular washing. Your trou will scream…. “LOOK at me; I have on what I want you to believe are ten year old Nantucket Reds but really-I just got them in the mail yesterday!!” The shoes are Sperry-the shorts are from Brooks courtesy of LFG and the sweater is Ralph. All good pieces but rule bound as well. The sweater is a summer only ....just off the beach-sunburned-time for a cocktail covering.Only.

Be patient. Allow them to become what they’ll become. Like your children, their journey will be seasoned with wonderment, pride and a tinge of disappointment. Disappointment you say. How? It happens when you are at happy hour in Newport or similar environs and you see someone whose Reds are either older than yours or have faded differently. There’s beauty in the flaws and differences-just like in kids and adults for that matter. Don’t be jealous of what you don’t have. You've no idea what the owner of those Reds has gone or is going through. If you can snake his date though, that’s a different matter. Any of you guys remember date snaking? Any gals willing to admit that you’ve blown off a date midstream for a more exciting evening’s option? The shorts above were involved in date snaking in the early 1990's. Shut up.

Rule Number Four: Put ‘em up after Labor Day-all of it-including the socks and the shoes and the belt and the sweater and the….whatever the hell else you bought. The shoes are good. The shoes worn with any other Red item-not good.

And finally-a suggestion-not a rule: I don’t rush the aging process but I do buy them one size too large and boil them one time in a big crawfish-crab type pot for about a half hour. No bleach-no soap. Nothing but boiling water. Why? It does a better job of getting the excess first round of sizing and dye out of the togs than machine washing them. It also shrinks them in toto appropriately for the requisite hemming and waist alteration as needed. Hem ‘em a little short with cuffs or if you are a Nantucket Redneck like me-have one pair cuffed and one pair frayed-no hem. Reds belt with seersucker-good. Reds belt with seersucker and the socks and shoes-you are blackballed. Banned for life.

Here's an example of one Reds component. Only one. Along with vintage patch mad and an old Champion sweatshirt and some gal I picked up.

Neither you nor I "am the man from Nantucket". Pick up the hat-try it on-turn to your better half and smirk-then right before she slaps your ass into next week-put it back on the rack. Nothing good will come from you owning this hat.

This is all I have for today.

Tata.

Randomanalia on the Road

Blessed mania. That’s how I would characterize this week and last. I rolled in last Friday night from Seattle and enjoyed a very brief weekend with LFG and was then off to Gotham on Sunday early evening. New Jersey now and then back out to Seattle for Thursday and Friday. It’s simply a crazy flurry of business deliverables here in the final quarter and I’m beyond gratified to be stretched thin with work.

The downside of course, is that I miss my child and our weekend was too short due to my late re-entry and rapid departure for another week of travel. Saturday morning found me killing some time while LFG attended a birthday party. Birthday parties-I don’t remember so many of them when I was a kid and certainly-don’t recall them being nearly as elaborate as the ones my gal attends. Whatever happened to ice cream-cake-Pin the Tail on the Donkey’s ass and go home?

I killed some of my birthday party downtime by browsing through Steinmart in Chevy Chase. Richard at Wasp 101 made a remark about Flusser’s Steinmart line and I have to respectfully disagree. You must consider the context when assessing the tastiness of Flusser’s Steinmart garments. Steinmart is an off-price discounter with a more refined offering than Filene’s Basement-Marshall’s-Ross and certainly TJ Max. To that end-the goods are fairly tasty looking when you consider the typical shopper who rolls in to buy the stuff.

The Flusser cashmere sweaters look really nice for the money-less than a hundred bucks. Quality? … less than a hundred bucks. The Steinmart customer isn’t going to pay five hundred bucks for a Paul Stuart sweater-generally.

There are hints of Etro and Pucci et al in some of these contrivances. Etro and Pucci? Most people who roll into Steinmart won’t make the connection. "Pucci? That's something my wife pays big bucks to the Dermatologist to make her lips look".

Soccer after the birthday party resulting in a tie with the Pinky Team. No hot mamma coaches on the other side this week. Where’s my babe in the yellow coat?

I’m trad homeless by soccer time after my week of travelling. Alden Flex Welt tassels-old frayed khakis-PRL denim western shirt and Flusser green gator waist pageantry.

Shut the _____up. Thank you.

LFG wanted to have dinner at home and I was more than eager to “nest” after being gone all week. I haven’t had a travel schedule like this since I danced lead years ago...with The Chippendales.  LFG prepared a starchy dinner of Chicken Curry-Lentils-Basmati Rice and Corn. She Hoovered down an entire plate and asked for seconds. Fun.

Peace Pajamas on a freshly scrubbed little gal. Courtesy of Target.

Sunday morning we ended up doing the Green Shoe Walk of Shame. Folks-I didn’t intend this. I’m tired and a bit distracted and I didn’t notice that we both had on green shoes until we were walking down King Street to have brunch at La Madeleine. Guess who was embarrassed? She’s getting to that age I suppose.

National Airport Sunday night and the shuttle to NYC. Alden Flex Welt tassel loafer for this week’s sortie. It’s warm again so socks are optional and an old pair of 501’s de rigueur for the flight up to Gotham. Cannot believe that they haven't changed the carpet since last week.

Navy Blahhh Blazer anchors the upper torso this week. When’s the weather gonna get cold? I've been wearing this Flusser sb peak 3/2 open patch baby twice a week for ten years. And it's beginning to look it.

Shuttle to LaGuardia and then down to mid-town for one night. When it’s my client’s dime-I stay where they put me. When it’s my company’s dime-I’m gonna select tried and true standards that don’t break the bank. The Roosevelt Hotel is a steady goer-middle of the road hotel with some character and history. I’ve got a meeting the next day and my requirements are fairly basic.

If the Roosevelt is good enough for Don Draper to hold court as well as other things in-then it’s good enough for me.

The Flusser blazer was a bit out of kilter upon arrival at the Roosevelt so I steamed it in the bathroom-for 3 hours.

The Roosevelt is diagonally situated across from Paul Stuart at Madison and 45^th street.  I took a walk over to J. Press-Paul Stuart and the venerable 346 Madison Avenue after having a little hooch at The Roosevelt.

I pondered the first time I ever touched the door pulls on the front entrance to the Brethren. Over twenty five years ago when Brooks was perhaps doing a slightly better job of holding on to the trad-prep glory that had so clearly been theirs for over a century.

The door frames and pulls have not changed in almost a century-even when the interior has gone through several machinations of makeovers under the auspices of several owners. These are the same pulls that Garbo used when visiting Brooks to buy her pajamas-men’s pajamas.  These are the same pulls that an actual Brooks family member used to enter the store when it was still under family control.  These are the same pulls that customers used on decades of Christmas Eves on the way home and in need of a last minute gift-after having Mad Men big boy cocktails over at the Roosevelt. Made in the USA? Shit man-there was a time when the very upper floors of 346 housed artisans making clothes. How about made freakin’ up damn stairs?

Exiting the Brethren side door to 44^th street used to have you just to the left of J. Press. I liked the tatty old J. Press store with its back alley arrogant context to the Brethren’s flagship.  Their old location seemed to me like an ultra trad-ever more so authentic-as time attenuated the Brooks franchise-burr under the Brethren saddle.

I might be wrong about this but is seems that one of these old buildings housed Chipp. Just on the other side of the street from J. Press.

I don’t wear suits much anymore and certainly not pinstripes like the one that these trousers gird. However, I would pounce on this J. Press offering in a heartbeat. Looks like a Greenfield side tab treatment to me. Flat front-beltless-crisp and precise-pseudo beaded pinstripe. Clean. Extry clean.

Ok…I’ll close this drivel for now. Next stop-Seattle…again. We’ll see what the carpet holds for us there!

Onward.

ADG

Redux: Savile Row Meets Mount Everest

Ok…perhaps the title of this post is a bit of a stretch but not by too much. There is some history to correlate the British affinity for exploration and Savile Row. The Royal Geographic Society occupied No. 1 Savile Row before the building was purchased by Hawkes&Co. Today, Gieves and Hawkes still occupies No. 1. In 1866 while searching for the source of the Nile, explorer Dr. David Livingstone is rescued by journalist H.M.Stanley. Stanley is dressed by Henry Poole & Co and Dr. Livingstone by Gieves.

The legendary mountaineer...George Mallory

Most of us who engage in any kind of outdoor activity wouldn’t trade our North Face, Gore-Tex and Patagonia wares for the foppish predispositions of late 19th/early 20th century British explorers. However, you gotta give it to the Brits. It’s one thing to have worn a tie while playing golf in the late 1800’s but these guys even dressed for Everest!

The story of George Mallory and Andrew Irvine is a tragic but absolutely intriguing one. I’ve read three books on Mallory and his Everest attempts and loved every word of them. It’s a deep dive into exploration, risk taking and that Victorian-Edwardian British appetite for adventure. Unfortunately, Mallory never made it off of Everest and his body lay frozen there untilConrad Anker found him in 1999.

George Mallory and Sandy Irvine en route to India

Tweed Jacket and Plus-Fours meet the oxygen rig.

Mallory replete in a Norfolk Jacket
Every imaginable Country Suit treatment made it's way to Everest
Mallory died on Everest in 1924 at age 37. He was considered at the time of his death to be one of the world’s expert mountaineers. A Cambridge rower, he was friends with poet Robert Graves, serving in Graves’ wedding as Best Man. Style and aplomb were not lost on these explorers, even if some of them did not make it back from Everest.
Relaxing in Campaign or "Knock Down Furniture" including the infamous Roorkhee Chair
Conrad Anker finds Mallory's frozen body in 1999 and here above, is the sartorially-sequential-layered evidence of Mallory's attempt to foil the cold.

The proverbial unanswered question among Everest experts is whether or not Mallory and Irvine had made the summit and were on the way down when they fell. Most experts are inclined to believe that they never made it to the top.

Parts of Mallory's kit...Meat Lozenges...oy.

Seattle-Diabetes and ... Redux: Boyhood Toys

Luck of the draw-That’s how it usually works. I spend tons of time in hotels all over the country and have become accustomed to really just going with the flow-acquiescing to whatever caliber-style of hotel and whatever venue my clients select for their conferences and meetings. I’ve probably lived through every nightmare scenario that business travelers encounter-save anything resulting in physical injury. I’d rather be home than on the road most times so I’m not real impressed with anyplace I’m billeted if being at home with LFG was an option.

The Wit hotel-last week in Chicago was nice. The boutique-ish hotels as I’ve shared, seem to be trying too hard with their marketing spiel of “concepts-experiences-philosophies and approaches”. The last time I was here in Seattle the W Hotel was host to my meeting. I love the W in San Diego and Chicago. The Seattle W is another example of trying too hard on the boutique front. My diabetes care project has me in a superb Seattle venue.

The Fairmont Seattle is an impressive venue. While the boutique hotels remain a bit adolescent in their declaration-their callout-their beckon to you for approval, the Fairmont is a Grand Dame who simply has to manifest presence possessed and your approval becomes instant. I haven’t read the word “experience” anywhere. Kind of reminds me of the old wisdom…. “What you are hovers above and thunders so-that I can’t hear what you say to the contrary”. The carpet was a nicer complement to my typical winter business travel uniform-blucher-brogues and cotton moleskin Cordings-not cold enough yet for flannel-specially when I'm preaching all day.

Ended up with a Suite-alas, with nobody to appreciate it with me.

How much of this decorative shit can I get in my suitcase?-It's all nicer than my house.

Flusser Houndstooth on the job again this week.

I think it was LPC who asked me to "deconstruct the horizontal striped sock thing". I'll do so in a post next week.

If you are gonna have pockets included in your bespoke shirt order-be sure to tart it up with a pleated version and "man of no consequence" monograms. Shut up.

One of my business partners was the kick-off keynote speaker for this meeting. Why him and not me? I'm still speechless and that's not like me. 

Just because he is a former F-16 Fighter Pilot and lead demonstration pilot for the United States  AirForce Thunderbirds-big deal.

Now that's some extry nice carpet ....no?

Boyhood Toys

Toad posted about his memorable summer and it began to evoke tons of my own memories. I had the quintessential “boy’s life” and my neighborhood had all the ingredients for adventure and trouble. Truly it’s a wonder that my buddies and I all survived. Come to think of it, we all survived the formative years in our neighborhood-albeit with the requisite broken bones-stitches etc. Road rash….ah….we always kept a patch or two skinned up.

I don’t see as many kids with serious road rash these days. I glimpse at the random knee or elbow adorned from time to time…usually from a playground spill or a soccer stumble but never the serious…lay down your bike in slide-half your forearm our outer thigh missing kind of a thing. I was the proud owner of at least 100 stitches, a broken leg and a broken arm before age 13. One other point-my parents were not overly indulgent. I started working as a young kid…typical stuff…paper route…mowing grass etc. 75% of every toy listed on this post included me contributing at least 50% towards the purchase price.

So Toad posts about his favorite summer and I got to thinking about all of the memorable vehicles that populated my childhood. Amazing that I could find photos of almost 100% accuracy to populate my story. Copyrights?

My first bike was a Huffy. Almost identical to this one. It came from Roses Dime Store and had training wheels-but not for long.

Mine also had an airplane on the front fender. Kind of like the lady on the bow of a pirate ship. But maybe different. I don't know.

My next bike was identical to this one. Three speed. Snoop-Dog would be proud. Treasure City was the purveyor of Ross brand of bikes. More precisely...The Barracuda. We had no big chain stores except Sears and their bikes were way to average for my gang. This was about the time of the movie Easy Rider and we all wanted choppers. I don’t know if I can pen the words to help you understand-visualize how we further “chopped” the forks on our bikes. We would find an old junk bicycle. We would take a hack saw and cut the forks off. We would then remove the front tire from our bike. Using a hammer or a brick, we would then hammer the extra forks onto the forks of our bike. No welding, no nothing…just hammer them on till they seemed secure. Eyeball the alignment between the fork tips. Reattach the front tire and alas, you were Dennis Hopper or Peter Fonda. I was Peter Fonda. Parental supervision…most moms stayed at home in my neighborhood so there was plenty of it but somehow we got away with murder.

JUST went back online-can’t believe I found a picture to support my explanation. I think that one of my many trips to the emergency room was due to these forks coming off when I did a wheelie. After the Evel Kneivel movie with George Hamilton came out, we were jumping over anything that would get us airborne. Helmets? I don’t think there was a helmet in the entire town.

Then I graduated to the “English Racer”…or at least that’s what we called them. The Schwinn dealer in my hometown started carrying Raleigh bikes. My Raleigh Record was similar to this one. Except mine had the Brooks leather saddle that you had to break-in. You’re a_s got broken in before the seat did and this was way before padded shorts were available in my hometown. I learned about the Tour de France and guys like Eddie Merckx and Jacques Anquetil…this was long before America had any presence in the Tour. I think my first helmet was one of those leather strapped-spaghetti string thingies of that era. We started a bike club…fun times. The Raleigh was lighter than the Schwinns for sale in the shop but weighed a ton compared to the Trek and the Marin bikes that I ride today.

But alas, it was mini bike time the next summer. These things were death traps. Helmets? Still no helmets. The Keystone mini bike was a two-cycle engine instead of the Briggs and Stratton or Tecumseh four-cycle that was standard on most department store mini bikes at the time. The gas cap was the measuring cup for the two-cycle motor oil that was requisite. I was then and to this day, remain an imprecise guy. Some days my Keystone would be running a bit too rich and I’d essentially be spraying for mosquitoes in the neighborhood. Blue smoke and a lower engine pitch. Street legal? Police intervention? Ce qui? Do what daddy? When it ran lean, the pitch was higher. I blew the motor up after one summer. Don’t let those springs on the front forks fool you. These mini bikes had no shock absorbers. It was a tooth rattling ride.

My wealthier buddies had these Honda Mini Trail 50cc bikes. I was beyond jealous. We would congregate in the school yard. They would kick start their bikes. I had to pull a cord to get mine going...humiliating. They had three gears. One down, two up. I had none. Most of those guys never turned out to be sh_t. Serves ‘em right.

Ahhh…then there was the passing fancy called the Solex. I paid $215.00 of my summer money for one of these babies- my biggest regret. The Raleigh-Schwinn dealer had these for one summer. These were in and out of style around my town about as fast as the Nehru Jacket.The Yamaha Mini Enduro. 75cc of Motocross fantasy. There was no Motocross per se in South Carolina. But we read about California Motocross…bought a magazine or two and once again, our imaginations went wild. Throw $275.00 in with your imagination and Richbourgs Small Engine shop would sell you one of these. Four of us in my neighborhood each got one at the same time. Why do I remember the prices of these babies? …because I had to save my money to own them. My buddy’s dad…who was essentially my surrogate dad, made us kidney belts to wear when riding these bikes. Kept us “tight” in the solar plexus which is important when you are 13 years old and flabby around the middle.

Yes; by now we had helmets. Orange metal flake…from the sporting goods section at K-Mart. My town now had a K-Mart and the Sporting Goods department was pretty solid. Zebco fishing stuff etc. My helmet was identical to this one except mine had a clear bubble visor attached. There were no "child size" helmets at K-Mart in 1969. I looked like Atom Ant with this helmet on...it was as big as me. I swear but for the grace of God…paralysis and death.

Ok, now onto weapons.

We roamed Purvis’ woods (Remember Melvin Purvis-late of John Dillinger-FBI fame) shooting anything that moved with this arsenal.

The Daisy B.B. gun. My Uncle Doug supplied me with all of my firearms. He showed up at the hospital with this one when I was six. Based on the loot that my Uncle Doug provided, I would have volunteered for a hernia repair every six months.

The power in this baby was so minimal that you could see the arc of the B.B. as it blazed (ambled) across the horizon. I remember standing in R.R.’s front yard and shooting R.G. in the back with this gun. He had no shirt on and as I simultaneously realized that it was going to hit him and more significantly, I realized that my a_s was about to be grounded for life, I ran after the B.B. as it approached his back. I almost caught up with it. It hit him and he fell to the ground screaming. By then I was crying too. I sat on his back crying-picking the subcutaneous round out of his back with the flick of my fingernail, begging him not to tell. One stroke of my pediatric but panicked fingernail and the B.B. popped out. No blood. I think I gave him a bounty of stuff not to tell on me. My talking GI Joe with real life hair and beard-seven Frisbees-Major Matt Mason spaceman set and then later in life, I kept him supplied with good dope, still worrying that he’d out me for trying to kill him at age 9.

The Crossman 177 caliber break barrel pellet rifle. This one could kill you.

And finally, the CO2 pellet pistol. This one too, could end your life. If my parents had known about the power of this one and the Crossman rifle, they’d have taken them from me for sure.

I’ll end this drivel now. What a great trip down memory lane this one was. After this stage in my journey, it was girls, cars and more powerful bird guns. And no, I’m not a member of theNRA and for some reason, wouldn’t get on a motorcycle today on a bet.

Update and Redux: I love you madly…Goodbye Richard Merkin

November 3^rd Update: There are many instances thus far that have reinforced to me the goodness manifest in the blogosphere. None though, was as powerful as a response I got from my post about the passing of Richard Merkin. While many of you posted comments about Richard in response to my heartfelt homage to him-a private email from one of Richard’s family was really touching.

I’ve just now received permission to share this story with you and I can’t think of a better preamble to the redux Merkin post. I received an email from a stranger with two photos attached and quite frankly-I didn’t understand the context-corollary to Richard Merkin until the sender explained.  Here are some excerpts of the emails from one of Richard’s family. I can tell you that their kind response was no less meaningful to me than my post was to them.

  I wish you could have met him. It would have blown your mind.

·        I am amazed that you never met him and were able to write something this warm and personal.

·        Your blog made me cry.  Twice

·        He would have loved the piece you wrote.

·        The photos are of the Coney Island Pier.  I carved his initials after dropping his ashes off it.  I would love for people to visit him there.

·        Those two photos are where he is now. 

·        He grew up close to and spent a lot of time in Coney Island."

And….

 “I hope many people go visit the spot and remember him. The pier has a cross section a ways out. If you are far to the right as possible with your back to the beach you should be able to look down and see his initials.  That is where he rests.”

 I’ll be in Gotham on Monday but won’t have time to go out to Coney Island and visit with Richard Merkin. Rest assured though-I will. And I think I’ll take LFG with me to say hello. I bet she and Richard would like that.

Onward.

We've lost another dandy and this one is irreplaceable. Richard Marshal Merkin 1938-2009

New Yorker editor Chris Curry wrote about Merkin… “ “I love you madly” is how Richard Merkin always signed off on the phone. Richard, whose paintings graced our pages for twenty years, died on Saturday. He was a life force, and he brought a smile to all who knew him. I was Richard’s editor, and when he phoned the office, the whole department knew it: you could actually hear his big, wonderful voice across the room.”

I still have a big, wonderful voicemail from Richard Merkin. I’ll always have it. I’m like that-I hold on to memories and things that are meaningful to me. I’ve cached 35 voice mails from LFG that begin when she was just old enough to talk on the phone. I still have Merkin’s phone number programmed in my old cell phone.

Merkin is gone now and there are so few bon vivants and dandies remaining to carry the torch of sartorial erudition and in Merkin’s case-bohemian aplomb. My optimism wants me to believe that our best days are ahead of us but I’ll never forget Richard Merkin telling me about his departure from the Upper West Side to Croton-on-Hudson.

It went something like this….and I loosely paraphrase.. “When I first moved to the Upper West Side it was a mélange of everything New York. I knew things were in decline when the hookers were gone and TGI Fridays moved in. New York today ain’t the New York that I loved”. Merkin was the incarnate-the personification of New York-a microcosm of refinement one minute and a gritty street-wise raconteur the next... and when he declared it over, he moved to Westchester.

When Alan Flusser included Merkin in his 1993 Esquire article The 25 Best Dressed Men (Living or Dead) , he said… “Coming upon Merkin in the street is like walking into a bazaar in Marrakesh-you don’t know what to look at first”.

I first sought out Merkin in 1997. He wrote a style column for Gentleman’s Quarterly in the late 1980’s and I devoured every word he wrote. Toad and I both agreed that GQ wasn’t a favorite magazine of ours but I loved the stories-the yarns-the tales that Merkin cobbled together each month. He would have been an uber blogger. Yes he was an illustrator, a caricaturist, a New Yorker contributing artist and a teacher. But he was indeed a raconteur. Raconteur is absolutely the right word for Merkin because he was a storyteller. He described himself something other than just an artist or illustrator. Merkin was a “literary visualist”. He was also a damned good writer.

So I found his address in New York and I wrote him. I shared with him my admiration for his columns and wondered if they had ever been assembled as a collection and where might I find such. His reply is yet another reminder, just as my personal note from Merkin’s buddy Tom Wolfe proves, that we should never consider ourselves too busy or important to write someone a letter if they are deserving of our correspondence. I’ve arranged in a photograph all of the things that Merkin sent me in a packet. What a thoughtful response to a complete stranger.

His letter reflects the same jaunty style of his monthly column.

Fast forward eleven years and by now, I’ve assembled an almost complete collection of Merkin on Style articles. I took me that long to track down various copies of GQ magazine. Alan Flusser and Richard were close friends for decades so I asked Alan about Merkin’s status these days and Alan provided me his address in Westchester. I sent Richard a complete set of his articles and asked if I could come up and meet him. That’s when the phone rang. The same big, wonderful voice left a message thanking me for my letter and enclosures and invited me to call him back. He’d long since forgotten about his 1997 letter to me.

Richard Merkin was about to have knee surgery. He promised me that after he recovered I could come up to Westchester and together we would go through his cached paintings, pastels and collages and I could pick some things that I liked. It didn’t hurt that I was a friend of Flusser but Merkin was just as kind in 1997 when he was unaware of that connection.

I was riveted at the prospect of spending even a brief amount of time with this guy. Friend of Bobby Short, Eddie Hayes, Tom Wolfe and other Gotham cognoscenti. I was certain of one thing and uncertain of another. I was uncertain what to wear for a visit with Richard Merkin. One of Merkin's friends, Boston Globe columnist George Frazier would cut you to size in a heartbeat if he didn’t like how you dressed. I knew that Merkin didn’t fancy navy blazers or Gucci bit loafers so that was an easy edit. What I was certain of was that if we got on well, I’d find the balls to ask him if I could have one of his pocket squares.

Many of us through the courtesies of Merkin and Gentleman’s Quarterly got a glimpse of his Upper West Side digs about fifteen years ago. Here are some shots of casa Merkin and the sartorial goodies therein.

Merkin told a great story about running into songwriter J. Fred Coots at the New York Athletic Club. Coots most famous jingle was a little ditty called “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. Merkin shared that Coots was frail but still dapper and that he admired Coots silk pocket handkerchief. Coots acknowledged the compliment and then stuffed the pocket square into Merkin’s breast pocket declaring that he was looking for “nice homes for my things”. I’d already settled on the Coots story as context for my request.

A younger dandy amidst his kit.