I’m Gonna Walk Away

…gonna walk away from these posts of mine that through powers of their own, became a bit heavier…more erudite than usual. Actually thick is a better word ‘cause we don’t have erudition as a goal over here.

But I do need to get back to the purely superficial and narcissistic nature of blogging. Back to ranting about a pair of socks or something. Plenty of reasons to do so but when such a skilled writer as Sartre—late of Advice to my Sons, refers (tongue in cheek I know) to my Andover-Frazier posts as landing in the “tour-de-force” realm, it’s time to Walk Away. And the Canvased Hams of Silas Lapham reminds me to…hurry.

So in lieu of heavy, lets….

Talk about why you should buy your snap-cuff links either at the Georgetown Flea Market or on eBay. No need to pay more than twenty bucks for these deco-ish babies that always add just the right ass amount of fuzzy mélange to an ADG rig. (I was gonna use oeuvre instead of rig in that previous sentence but with mélange already in the mélange of words, I figgered it would be overfrogging it…shut up).

Talk about why this shirt is wrong on so many levels. Denim chambray—french cuffs—severe English spread collar…who the hell would contrive such a shirt with a fabric of such casual forerunners as work shirts, cowboy shirts and gauzy-hippie garb and then...style it with so many formal elements? That would be me.

Talk about why those Polo ties from the 1980’s should be discarded but why for some reason, I still wear this one twice a year.

Talk about why…even in the midst of the other mongrel fuzziness of this ensemble, I always seemed to wear white linen in the breast pocket of this tropical weight tan Flusser suit.

Talk about why I will always take blurry pictures…it’s an inextricable part of my whateverishness. And I’m damn glad that this pic is fuzzy—given the extry eight pounds I’m toting these days. Look at how the pleats are pulling on these trews…I’m probably up to a 33 waist right now.

Talk about how one can delude himself into rationalizing clothes horse behaviors via a focus on quality. This tan Flusser rig was finished for me on June 21, 1990. Where were you in June of 1990? There’s only one thing I’d change if I could go back to 1990 for a do-over…and I’m seriously proud that I can say this honestly. I’d buy fewer clothes and save more money. Oh, and I did think of one other thing…when my old 1989 BMW 318is finally died, which by the way was THE most fun car in the world, I would have defied my divorce lawyer and NOT bought a VW Passat. Far and away the shittiest, least fun car I’ve owned in decades.

Talk about the upcoming post I’m gonna do on ghillies. And why this shoe is neither fish nor fowl and why it’s just fuzzy enough to tickle my dice.

Talk about why the traditional Alden Algonquin split toe blucher is a stalwart classic. But also why the stalwart classic isn’t fuzzed-up enough for me.

 But you can bet your sweet ass that this whiskey shell cordovan monk strap hybrid split toe Algonquin is. This shoe needs my Adderall more than I do. What the hell is this thing? I can tell you what it is and another thing or two about it. It’s gonna be a shoe that I wear to death. 

It’s also a shoe that you can’t own—even if you want to. Butcept those of you who live close enough to Leather Sole Beverly Hills to go in the store and buy it straight-away. But hurry, it’s a one off—commissioned from Alden to celebrate the grand opening of the Leather Sole Beverly Hills store. No internet sales—no phone orders—no shipping and I don’t blame them. They want feet in the store—fannies in the bleachers—new customers in a maiden journey to their atelier, to touch, smell, feel leather and hopefully cha-ching a pair or two. Nope, I didn’t go to no Beverly Damn Hills to actualize the cha-chinging and procurement. My Los Angeles based Agent fetched them for me. Thanks again Teeshontrae.

Talk about why my iPhone4 switchover was bittersweet—mainly because the yellow Paul Frank Irish Monkey ...With a Beard and Green Hat cover that LFG gave me for my 3G won’t fit the iPhone4.

Talk about the iconic Richard Merkin GQ pastel self-portrait…the one that seemed to be everywhere on the internet during all the buzz around his passing…and how it ended up on my wall. And how it’s larger than I had figured and why I will take it to my office where it can thrive on a wall large enough to accommodate it’s energy. This thing needs to preen.

Talk about what an interesting dinner conversation we’d have if Merkin, D’Souza and Sickert sat at my table. I’d cook chicken and dumplings.

Talk about why I should do a post on eyewear and why I’ve preferred round tortoise plastic/composite glasses for years. But also why I can even tart up—pimp out—fuzzy shroud even a decision as limited as round plastic glasses. Notice the clear ones? And let’s do a post on the largely forgotten but brilliant Ralph Barton and the fact that Merkin was the energy behind one of the few and probably last Barton exhibitions.

Talk about finding well made Adirondack Chairs for a fair price. I found them for you…at the intersection of One and Seventeen in Virginia. Gibson Island….please.

And speaking of Islands. Let’s discuss the fact that you should NEVER attempt this look. You are going to end up somewhere on the Gilligan—Don Johnson/Miami Vice Scale. And let me tell you, regardless of where you end up amidst those bi-poles…it ain’t gonna be pretty. Leave the no collar horizontal stripe fresh back from the regatta stuff to me…Admiral Damn A-D-G,II ...with those baggy linen Polo trousers that should be thrown away but can't. 

And of course, let’s discuss why this look still works for me. It’s seared into my mens sana-viscera from college. Why in the world might this still work? Because beneath that all-cotton Ray-Banned assemblage of patch madras is a layer of LaPerla and a woman who in the right circumstances—requires that you turn the volume up on the stereo so that your neighbors won’t think that there’s a beating going down at the casa. Shut up. (And to the lady on upper Wisconsin Ave the other day—who knew not that her mug was being snapped—I apologize for the LaPerla assumption and please, call me if you see this—I’ll buy the hooch and the underdrawers. Hell, if you’ll come over, I’ll even wear the underdrawers for you—if that’s your thang)

But please, let’s touch on why this cutie on the Boston train the other week should not have pepper-sprayed me. Look at that smile. We were chatting nicely…I thought she was firing on me like a bottle rocket…alas I was wrong. While reaching in her purse for what I thought would be her Blackberry or something...she's thinking about a spritz of the hot spray-just for me. Seriously, this young lady is the newly crowned Miss Michigan. She entered the train with me and asked for directions and we both laughed when I told her that it was only my second time using the Boston system and maybe at best, we could help each other. 

Her name is Katie LaRoche and she was very quick to tell me that this isn't in the pageant program owned by Mr. Combaround…The Donald Trump. Katie is a graduate of Michigan State and she’d been over at Harvard working with an advisor on the content and source material for her work on Human Trafficking. She wants to go forward and get a PhD and do advocacy work. The Human Trafficking thing wasn’t some superficial bullshit platform that some beauty pageant handler suggested for filling the empty head of a pageant contestant. It was her cause before she entered said pageant. This woman is bright, articulate and kind… and her outer beauty is fuelled by an inner light that can’t be faked…especially on a noisy, hot train rattling around while talking with a guy like me. And yes, I showed her pictures of LFG and yes; Katie is only 5’3”…who says you gotta be tall to win these contests.

Let’s shift gears and discuss why after all these years, I loved the fact that when LFG and I were at my mom’s the other week, my baby brother returned some of my Hot Wheels cars after forty years. I remember Mike Walker’s mom taking us to Kmart to spend our allowances on Hot Wheels. I kid you not when I say that I can remember buying this very car that day. I can also tell you that there are guys paying absurd amounts of money for these cars on eBay.

And how about a post on what you do with a daughter, a sister and a seventy-eight year old mother when in South Carolina and it’s a hundred outside. Your mama sends you to the Farmers’ Market for sour plums. And then to the store for canning supplies. And then you have a mother—granddaughter—daughter—son session…learning how to make jams and jellies. And of course LFG cracks us all up when during the transfer of hot sour-plum liquid emulsion to the canning jars, she asks..."Grandma Frances, how long will it have to sit before it becomes "jellified"? Where DOES this child come up with it?

And when your mama sends you  to the Farmers’ Market in South Carolina for sour plums...and you are wearing Belgians…you hurry.

Talk about this cinder block building. And how during a couple of summers of my undergrad years, some of the best music, cold beer and southern prep ritual dancing took place in there. And how one night in the haze of smoke, hyperairconditioning and The Spinners playing on the jukebox, I spied what I thought from across the dance floor, was a stain on the left breast area of D.T.’s uberstarched button down. It was also unsettling to me that there was no pocket where this thought to be blemish was. Folks, it was the first time I’d ever seen a Ralph-Polo Pony logo on a shirt. I didn’t know who Ralph Lauren was. I’d only worn Gant up to this point. Axk me how many days it was before I owned one. And there was only one retailer in South Carolina who sold them. Shut up.

Talk about how the double-digit birthday for LFG turned into a weeklong festival. And how a fifteen minute trip to the Dollar Store in my hometown turned up enough props for me to create yet another birthday party for LFG at my mom’s. You gotta go with me here—be flexible. The Dollar Store has limited inventory but with my imagination…the options are limitless. Don’t tell me that Princess-Divas shouldn’t wear Sponge Bob sweatbands on their wrists while pondering a Hello Kitty candle. Shhhhh.

Conclude this drivel with a word on Christopher Hitchens. I read every word he writes because of the way he strings sentences together. I disagree with him about 95% of the time but that’s why I’m riveted to his lexiconical meanderings…he makes me think. LFG charmed him at National Airport one afternoon. I was too nervous to be articulate and that ain’t my norm. I’d ask that you pray for Hitchens victory over esophageal cancer but he’s an atheist so…so pray anyway.

Onward. Lightly. To Rehoboth. With LFG

ADG

Ps…And speaking of Walking Away....You MUST listen to David Ruffin’s Walk Away From Love. It’s sublime. Ladies and gentlemen...David Ruffin:

Where listening to David Ruffin is mandatory during your blog visit...Walk Away Renee by the Left Banke is optional. It’s twee where Ruffin’s ditty is sublime. I’ve always belted this one out in bars when it was playing and there was a Renee at hand for me to fire on. You laugh. I’ve had it happen seventeen times in my life. And four of those times I ended up in the bathtub with a Renee. And one time I ended up in the shower with a Renee’s mama and one time a Renee’s daddy chased me out of his house and down the street, shaking my 501s at me on a Sunday afternoon with all the neighbors watching…and this was in high school so I was still wearing tighty-whities and this my friends, was not a pretty sight. I'm not making this up.