Thursday, March 31, 2011

Never trust a man...

…who frosts his hair. That’s right, I said FROSTS. Not highlights his hair…not colors his hair…FROSTS.

Don’t even give me your best rationalization for this absurd undertaking. Any man who frosts his hair isn’t to be trusted…under any circumstance. Contradictory I know…to my previous assertions regarding not judging books by covers. Contrary I know…coming from a man who wears bracelets and girl shoes. Shut up. I have my opinions and if I want yours, I'll give it to you. Or you can just start your own damn blog.
And while I’m on the subject, let’s not let the issue of hair coloring get by us. WTF? I mean really. Come on Wayne, give it up. That hair color looks about as natural as your plastic surgery.
And good ole Strom was the poster child for hair plugs and orange hair dye. Tang I believe, was his color of choice. And dig the bow tie. "Ok den Miss Maggie...y'all have a nice time heeyuh in Washin'tun now."  (It's hard to write a tangy Strom Thurmond dotage accent)
I have nothing to say here. Nothing.
Now back to frosting. This frosting apparatus and the frosting process is part and parcel of my viscerally negative reaction to hair frosting. It goes back to the eighties when I was living in Charlotte, North Carolina. There was a particular summer that was one of my best post-undergrad summers—ever. Living large with a couple of my KA buddies and hitting The Cellar every weekend, we manifested every behaviour typical of twenty-something year old trad boys. And then...and then...there was a woman.
A moving van pulled up one Saturday morning. We were getting a new neighbor. A moment later a car pulled in behind the moving van and from it emerged a little hottie. A hottie in madras and a sorority jersey and a Tennessee accent. A recent graduate from the University of Tennessee, she was a manufacturers rep for some health and beauty products distributor. For the next six months we were oversupplied with soap and shampoo and other beauty treatments. It was free...we took it. Butcept the hair frosting kits.


But I digress. Surprise there…I know. When my little Tennessee gal stepped out of her car I said loud enough for her to hear it… “thank you Jesus” …but I knew better. I knew better than to thank Jesus for such things. But I did anyway.
Surely she needed assistance moving in and as luck would have it, my roomies were elsewhere so it was only little ole me. So little ole me commenced commencing and move in she/we did. Providence Road Sundries seemed like a logical place to decamp post moving that day and so we went. Let the woo-fest begin.

It was a torrid supernova of a summer. I would come home from work on Friday and, like most afternoons, don my running gear for a five miler. Butcept Miss Tennessee would intercept me and I was easily coaxed out of my run. I remember telling my fratty brothers as I dashed out the door, to wait on me till I returned from my run and I’d go with them for beers. I didn’t return for three days. I’ve always been a slender fella but at one point during this summer of love, one of my cohorts allowed that I looked like a needed i.v. fluids. I was caught-up in the tentacles of neighborly circumstance. What was I gonna do? 
So what does all of this have to do with hair frosting you ask? Hell I don’t know. One afternoon Miss Tennessee rings our little shack. “Can you come over and help me with my hair?” to which I replied “Does ten pounds of flour make a big-ass biscuit?” Remember now, I’ve been conditioned to believe that traversing one hundred and fifty feet and knocking on a door provided me three days worth of distraction. But this visit was different. I walked through her door and let out an audible. My little stunner had a plastic skull cap on her lovely noggin and strands of hair…baby doll plug style…were popping out from various portals. “Here, take this knitting needle and hook some hair through each hole” she said. 
To say that it was some off-putting...scary looking sh_t is an understatement. Scarier when she started scooching the frosting cream all over the exposed hirsutendrils. The experience was Frankensteinish. She declared that "after a fresh frosting, I'll be easier to find in the dark." We cooled things thereafter and one of my roomies stepped in…and actually dated Miss Frosty for the next couple of years. Ladies please...don't let your man see you like this. Ever. You might say..."but Eudell loves me...loves me for ME ... just the way I am."  Ladies, there are some things that regardless of his love for you, Eudell need not see.
So…frost-on, fellas. But realize that we are on to your game. We know the process...you little bathing cap wearing donkey. We are on to your chemically mediated endeavor and please, don’t for a moment try to explain your tendencies. You are not to be trusted. Frosty.

Onward. Non-frosted.
ADG, II

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Windmill Jousting...at the L.L. Bean Blucher Moc

I don’t want to give up on L.L. Bean but I feel like my decision to pull the trigger on a pair of Blucher Mocs was a bit Quixotic.
Windmill jousting at seventy bucks is for me, essentially a low risk endeavour. Besides, it gives me something to complain about. Toad needs a contrarian successor and I might as well step up and shoulder the mantle. The Quixote image above you ask? I'm gonna do a story someday on William Nicholson and his brother-in-law James Pryde, aka The Beggerstaff Brothers. Be patient.
Why do these have to be L.L. Bean Signature? Why can’t these be the only version they offer? What’s with...Signature?
Why do they sell this pair on the regular side of their shop yet the aforementioned are somehow special? Special for the same price...
I wore a pair like these in college. Back when L.L. Bean offered one version...and they were made in the States. Even the Signature ones are now made out of state.
And these seem to possess formidable newness. How in the world can I knock some of the new off of these babies? Beer and pee would be unintentional new-knocking solvents if I still lived in the KA house. I don't drink beer anymore but word on the street is that sometime in the next ten years, I'll pee more frequently. Shut up.
Surely, if I was that concerned with the loss of homegrown quality goods, I could pop the dough for a pair of Maine’s finest hand-sewn mocs from Quoddy. But at a couple hundred dollars a throw…a well-worth throw I’d bet…I’ll simply buy Bean and lament.
L.L. Bean Signature. For me that’s simply code for “L.L. Bean the way it was…L.L. Bean the way it should be…” With my code as context, every Bean shodding shown above is Signature.
Signatory to a better time…a time when the good ole USA didn’t have to borrow forty cents of every dollar spent by the government. Stop me. Stop me now before I begin to sound like a damn Tea Party Maitre’d.  Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. 
Signatory to a time when sequential orders for the iconic L.L. Bean Camp Moc manifested a consistently styled shoe with an identical fit. I’ve had five pairs of these over the last thirty years…in three different sizes…with three different vamps.
So here’s to what’s left of L.L. Bean. Onward…with one foot in 1979 and the other…right here…right now. Present. And jousting.


ADG, II



Tuesday, March 29, 2011

A Belgian Alternative

There’s probably nothing in my shodding lineup that I enjoy more than Belgians.  I like everything about these practically impractical oddities only from Gotham.
And I’m a purist, usually looking upon interlopers and poseurs with scorn. Be authentic, be real, be unapologetic and please, have a little swagger when you wear such things.  
Like I’ve said before, you gotta let the Belgians know who's boss or they’ll own you. You’ll look like a fraidy-scaredy-cat walking down the street if your little bow-tied babies sense fear.
The ersatz Belgian attempt captured above isn't worth revealing its source. They are sloppy and smarmy looking. Eurotrash and disco come to mind.
Belgians are destined to degrade quickly. It begins the moment you walk out of the store with them. That’s why you need a half-dozen pairs of the faggy slips. Made by villagers in Belgium and then assembled in a small factory by the good folks pictured above. Lore has it that the uppers are stitched by little old ladies at home and then “turned” at the factory before having the soles attached. Sorta explains why special orders take about a zillion damn years.
I’ve even take great pleasure in leading first timers to Mecca.
And yes, the breaking-in and rubber shrouding process is part of the mystique.
The hard-soled Belgians, leastways to me, always looked a bit too inflexible and they felt that way when I tried them on years ago.
Luca Rubinacci had a few interesting alternatives when I stopped in to see him in London last year. But at several hundred pounds a pair, I decided to leave them right there.
Then I spotted these over at A Suitable Wardrobe. They seemed just interesting enough for me to inquire. And wouldn't you know, Will stocks SouthernRedneckWhiteBoy sizes.
I’ll just say unequivocally that Will has hit a home run with these babies. Colors in black, green and brown suede are just different enough from the Gotham originals to justify me popping for a pair.
I was worried that the supple flimsiness of legacy Belgians would be lost in this leather soled translation. The thin sole on the Willgians offer some stability while allowing the ahhh feeling of barely there slippers to freely preen. Willgians. Yep. That’s what they are.
Nice attention to detail and proportion. An Italian transcription of a Belgian standard. Shut up.
 Scroll on over to A Suitable Wardrobe and grab yourself a pair of Willgians. And yes, I paid the full freight for these babies. People don’t pay me to pimp their products on my blog. These were my gift for the month long project that I just finished.
Oh, and my little Yogini LFG almost flipped over them.

Onward. Well shod in Willgians.
Namaste...ADG II

Monday, March 28, 2011

Cell Phone Holsters...a Nanodiscourse

Holsters...these are good.
This is not.
Don't do it. Nothing says "Presidents Club award winning Regional Sales Manager like Dockers, Tommy Bahama and a piece of digital hardware strapped to your whatever the hell this one is clipped to.
Not good under any circumstance. I don't care who you are.
Imagine strapping this one to your a_s.

Onward. Working from home...the first Monday that I've been home in a month. 

ADG II

Sunday, March 27, 2011

My Testarossa

...my "redhead"...even though black, was designed by Carrozzeria Scaglietti. And I'd say that of all the Scaglietti concoctions, the pontoon fendered 1957 Ferrari 250 TR is his best work of art.
If you can't see art, beauty and God in this machine, then I question whether or not you have a soul. Art and beauty live everywhere...if you view the world through the right lens.
One of the many things that intrigues me about this beauty is the 300hp 12 cylinder engine. Intrigue but not surprise...Enzo Ferrari's passion...his strategy...was racing. 
Commercialization of Ferrari was a utilitarian move neccesary to raise the dosh for racing. The lovely shrouding created by Scaglietti was an afterthought of the Enzo heart. The powerhouse was his passion.
And the scale of the car becomes obvious when you see a driver strapped in. Twelve cylinders and three hundred horses make this one of the most beautiful death-traps imaginable.
The fact that this, my Testarossa, sold at auction two years ago for twelve million dollars is testament to the passion that Ferrari arouses. Pontoon passion. Shut up.
Here's some of the back story on this beauty..."In December 1957, this car was delivered to its first owner, racing driver and future coachbuilder, Piero Drogo in Modena, Italy. Drogo debuted the car as a privateer in the celebrated 1000 km Buenos Aires in January 1958 with a respectable fourth place finish competing with such legendary drivers as Phil Hill, Peter Collins, Wolfgang von Trips and Olivier Gendebien. Following entries in the Grand Prix of Cuba and Portugal, the car was sold by American Ferrari agent Luigi Chinetti to Texas rancher and entrepreneur Alan Connell whose competitive driving skills and affluence afforded him several wins on the 1959 North American racing circuit. 0714TR continued its prowess on the track with subsequent owners and competed in its last professional race in June 1963 at the Elkhart Lake 500."
Seeing the fuel lines running so close to the hand crafted leather shroudings kinda makes me think about cashmere and silk draped across ones chest. Elegant coverings laid within inches of arterial lifelines.
Functional leather hood straps. I won't be buckling these any time soon.
True to the Scaglietti passion for elegant detail...red leather seats.
A spare strapped in.
Knockoff wheel spinners that work. Yes, I'm a child. Shut up.
Come on over. See my etchings. And if you play your cards right, I'll take you for a ride in my car. And please, if anyone can arrange a test drive for me...please.

The Auction...when was the last time you watched twelve million bucks being spent?


Onward. Reveling in cars...till L.F(errari)G. wakes.

ADG II

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