Ok folks, here’s how you might consider dressing if you want to be taken a bit more seriously than Black Fleecing but still have some fun. Richard Merkin reminds me of sleeve cuffs, George Frazier evokes pinned collars and knit ties but then of course there’s the Duke of Pane…thus homage versus Black Fleece fromage.
The Cuffed Merkin
The Pinned Frazier
The Paned Duke
And let me also remind you of the hallucinatory rationalization(s) I use to justify obsessions sartorial. I no longer play golf…a second round of graduate school and the birth of LFG caused me to discontinue “golf-time” years ago. And back then it was at least a half grand a month habit. And there were girls in our golf gaggle who beat me regularly, occasionally on the golf course. But then again they could also pee standing up. Bass boats and expensive bird guns are now beyond me. Or am I beyond them? So my huntin’-fishin’-golfin’ buddies spend scads of dosh on those things. Oh, and one of my business partners is a very accomplished photographer and he buys state of the art digital photography gear for breathtaking sums.
Why work so hard if you can’t enjoy some fruits of your labor. The fact that I’ve got a seventeen thousand acre damned sartorial organic farm is none of your business. Shut up. My buddy JTS has fifty thousand dollars worth of shotguns that are aesthetic, artisanal and engineering gems. I have gut end braces and one of George Washington’s hernia trusses. Oh, and my stuff has staying power (references provided) …this suit was contrived for me in 1997. Peak lapels rolling a three-two. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Our weather remains delightful…warm days and cooler evenings so lighter weight suitings remain a logical choice. I was talking with someone the other day about flannel suits. I no longer own one. I have gray flannel trousers but otherwise, I find flannel too hot amidst even the coldest wintry days…mainliest reason is that I’m not outside in the cold for very long and when I’m in meetings I fire things up. No need for me to sweat while I deliberately induce such phenomena amidst my client/victims. But I do miss my old Polo Ralph gray flannel chalk stripe suit from twenty-five years ago.
I love knit ties and if I wore ties more often and knit ties specifically, I’d get better at tying them. I’m fuzzy and sloppy about many things. But I’m retentive about the quality and morphology of tie-knots…why opt for such adornment without assuring some level of accomplishment in how you’ve tied it right? But knit ties are tricky. Get the knot right and the length is wrong. Give it another go and you’ve landed on vice-damn-versa. After about seventeen goes, I landed this knot within an acceptable target range for public display.
Pin it. Don’t clip it. And please, don’t argue with me or we’ll end up with some kind of Brethren Black Fleece (d) Anon 1:28 tirade. Anon 1:28 … sounds almost like a Bible verse. But Old Testament only for Anon 1:28.
Sleeve cuffs are a folly for the most advanced Fuzzy Dice-ists. It works for this jacket because the lightweight fabric accommodates the gauntlet without creating “thickness” at the sleeve-end which might be ok for your weekend country tweed coats but won’t feel right or look appropriate on dressier concoctions. Trust me on this…I’ve had sleeve cuffs removed because the end result didn’t match my initial vision for what the endgame should be. And you wonder why I’m not remarried.
Everyone should have at least one pair of trousers with the proverbial split-back-fishtail folly. It’s a derivative affectation whose genesis is grounded in 19th century British military trews. It’s also a derivative affectation that if you gain or lose weight, you can kiss said trouser quirk goodbye. Taking in or letting out trousers of this construct is a nightmare.
Some of the fishtail swoops on officers mess dress trews climb half way up the wearer’s back. High drama overkill. Fuzzy in Full so please…sign me up. For the trews…not the 24th Foot.
If Fred Burnaby was standing in this ever so generous painting by Tissot, you’d see the fishtail on his trews climbing like ivy, trew tendrils fighting their way up Burnaby Ridge. Royal Horse Guards...more precisely for Burnaby…The Blues—before they amalgamated all of the Queen’s Household Cavalry.
“Ok ADG, this assemblage looks almost normal for a change. So where’s the Krazy-Kat Merkin brick throwing component?” Fear not folks—I’d never let you down…lookie here…at the shoes.
I loathe black dress shoes. Don’t lecture me on why I need at least one pair of cap toed black lace-ups. Folks, I had them and wore them for years because it was expected of me. Now I don’t have to and you can’t make me. I’m begging for the day when I’m in an environment where my cohorts and constituents are knowledgeable enough about clothes to call me on the mismatch…to shout me down for shodding ersatz. Like I’ve said before, the only people who care about any of this stuff are the nuts who read trad sartorial blogs. Nobody cares anymore. Butcept Anon 1:28.
Le Refuge is a little French place literally five hundred feet from my office. So after a day swathed in windowpane and pinned collar knitishness, I had a date. With my favorite companion…me. Weary of going home to leftovers and Stoli I left the office and ambled over to the Frog Diner that’s been on Washington Street for over twenty five years. I dine alone so often when I’m on the road that it doesn’t bother me in the least to do so in my own neighborhood.
Dover Sole and Stoli. The ice cold vodka scorchers were so good that I never considered asking for a glass of wine.
Peach Melba… a bit of caffeine and some high-sugar aperitif distillate and I’m good. No, I’m beyond good by now. I’m crooning…my inner Frank Sinatra manifests just in time to beat down my inner Anthony Bourdain who’d just bitch-slapped my inner Maitre d’ who now wanted to chat with the other diners in this compact little pod of Cassoulet consumption…this piccolo diner.
The couple sitting beside me…unmarried but dating long enough to discuss Thanksgiving plans with their families manifested the quintessential inside the Beltway wonk-sycophant duo. They were poised beyond comfort and the Blackberry contest between them pre-peri and post dinner was laughable. Nobody is that important and no one is amidst projects-K Street payoffs-events-crises so important that you can’t leave that sh_t alone for enough time to enjoy dinner. If you ARE that important or the issue IS that significant, then why the hell aren’t you still in the situation-room back at Gucci Gulch with your other sycophants…pretending to be as important or influential as you conceive yourself to be?
Dover Sole. Reminds me of the redneck derivative that I used to order at Mandinas in Mid-City New Orleans. Same thing every time I went. Because I loved it so much. Turtle soup to start. Trout Almondine with french fries next. Yes, french fries. Shut up. I’ve not set foot back in New Orleans since the moving truck pulled away from Old Metairie to bring me out of the seductive smarm of the Big Easy and back to the a wanna be City inside the Beltway. Sometimes I wish that it was seventeen years ago and I was at Mandinas and Trish was still alive and she’d laugh at my boyish delight when they placed the Trout Almondine in front of me. And with my puckish little assemblage of a smile I’d demand/ask “What?...What?” and the more I asked “What?” the more she’d laugh. So we would laugh and eat. Cash only at Mandinas back then. Not sure if it’s even any good anymore or if they take credit cards.
Onward. From Cotillion last night to Soccer today to Jazz Dance tomorrow. LFG has vetoed the stubble so the compensatory facial adornment will be gone. Compensatory? Yes. Due to the intervention of several of you, I got a Pentagon high and tight haircut. Shortest it’s been in years.
ADG…Driving Miss LFG and loving every moment of it.