Just ‘cause I've got the yearn, doesn’t mean I’ve got the time or neuronal bandwidth. No, I’m not breaking up with anyone but I might keep that sentence on ice if I need to. I’ve got the yearn to tell stories and I’ve got a good dozen of them in my noggin but I don’t have the juice to write ‘em right now. Crafting an even remotely cogent ditty requires time to organize ones thoughts…even though I’m on the record more than once, admitting that the best I do editorially over here is use spell-check. I don’t have the time or quite frankly, the desire to have someone else read my drivel and offer pre-posting editorial insight.
So why are you writing to say that you don’t have time to write?” Because what I do have time to do, before jumping on a plane to Dallas, is throw one of those keyboard stream of consciousness thangs at you like I used to do in the old days. It’s easier to scratch the writing itch by throwing piles of twisty-turny junk like this at you than it is to write thoughtfully. So let’s twist and turn for twenty minutes about stories yet to come.
…the story that somehow came together in my mind regarding my Bookster-Flusser boondoggle contrivance.
...and the shooting party days of times past where folks wore such contrivances.
…and how my mind then went straight to the Vanity Fair subjects who were part of those days past. Stay tuned for my Bookster-Flusser-ADG Shooting Party story. I’ll have it done by August 2013, if I’m still here. Or hell, if any of us are still here.
…low vamp sensibilities. Or at least what seemed to be sensible in 1987. There’s a hell of story here. I kid you not. A recent query found me digging through the archives for these babies.
…my precious LFG who used to adore me. The rational me knows that she still does. The reptilian brained baby in me says that she dropped me. Fast. Like a bad habit. On a Wednesday afternoon at 3:47pm…and that she won’t ever come back to me. All of you warned me about this. The efficacy of denial is breathtakingly efficient for the short-haul. The sequelae thereafter … are palpable. Who am I to declare that none of this should or would happen ‘til my baby was fourteen?
Who am I? I’m her dad—the guy who has placed perhaps an inordinate amount of himself into her at the expense of not crafting a draw-down strategy. The good news is that my straight-A student, empathetic participant in the world, dancer extraordinaire is thriving and feeling none of the sequelae of anything associated with my feeling dropped. She’d tisk-tisk me and roll her eyes at even the remotest possibility of any emotional fallout. Tisk-tisking and eye-rolling. Its part of her new oeuvre—the one that damn showed up on a Wednesday afternoon. At 3:47 pm.
…Cleverley shoes. I’ve got two drafts on file about this incredible bespoke experience. But for now, let me just say that I’m floored by the level of service and exactitude that Cleverley et al have manifested amongst this, my maiden bespoke shodding expedition. They are remaking my shoes. From scratch—starting over. None of this revisionist tweaking here and there of the current pair. After two exchanges regarding a couple of non-deal breaking issues, Cleverley declared that the only way THEY would be happy is if they started over. Perhaps the reason I’m so over the top taken by their decision is that service in general seems so poor in most aspects of life these days. Kudos to Cleverley. They’ll be in Washington next month with my replacement try-ons.
…Catcher in the Rye. I finished re-reading it last night. I gave Salinger another chance after being jaundiced too much by his reclusive eccentricities. And I loved it this time. I loved it almost as much as I was indifferently “What’s the big effing deal about this book?” the first time I read it. I was nineteen the first time. I’m a decade older now. And a lot has gone on in these subsequent ten years to change my worldview. I’ll re-read Tender is the Night and The Great Gatsby every year for as long as I’m able to read. I won’t put Catcher in the Rye in that same queue but I’m glad I read it again. Salinger’s ability to write those catchy, clippy little sentences really got me this time. His ability to capture the angst and brooding of a hugely messy kid through staccato line-ups of surly rhetoric made it worth my time. Rat-a-tat-tat mother____.
Oh, and one more thing that I got this time. The connection between Holden and his little sister at the end of the book really, really hit me. His humanity peeps out from time to time earlier in the book but Salinger gives Holden permission to allow it to further manifest in the end—of course though—only in a governed, cadenced, WASPy kind of way. Why did this resonate with me this time? Was I a sociopath the first time I read it? Nope. If you really want the answer, read the LFG paragraph herein. Again. You know…the one about my daughter. That should explain it. Geez. It really pisses me of when people don’t get it. And that one should be easy to get. Really. It’s easy.
…why I wore brown Belgians and purple socks to the Georgetown Club last week.
I looked professorially sartorial up top. But I’ve got a problem with convention-construct and authority that seems to be getting worse in my old age. Hold me.
…why I’m just going to leave you wondering about this one. Yes, he played a Penfold. With a diaper on his head.
…my golf bag that hadn’t been unzipped from the travel case in eleven years. Yep. Eleven years. I’m shedding stuff over here and I don’t play golf anymore. But I used to…a lot. And the stuff in one of the pouches, as I dumped it on the floor, became an exhibit of a life I used to live. A life of marriage, in-laws, cigars…Cubans and lots of them. Sea Island….courtesy of my in-laws. There was even a receipt in the bag from a pro shop in Boca. It predates my marriage. And no, I’m not going to make a f_cking collage out of it. I kept the Snap-On Zippo lighter and threw the rest of the shit in the trash. Remember, I’m shedding over here. My little casa will probably be a rental property once again, as it has been for more years than not. I’m the American Dream in reverse—so far—other than rental property. My plan is to move to Chevy Chase. There’s a woman there who needs me to be closer.
…why these shoes with the toes make me hurl. They give me the creeps. I don’t give a damn if as soon as you don them; your net worth increases by seventy percent, your boobs or wanker gets perkier and your breath never stinks again. These things are scary. Scary in a Lon Chaney…Vincent Price kinda way. Not a Hitchcock kinda way. He’d a never stood for ‘em.
…about why two inch cuffs are adequate. But why I’m gonna keep this mistake intact. At least this year.
…the pedestrian, base, inappropriateness of wearing my new A Suitable Wardrobe Spring 2012 linen pocket square during the winter…avec wool thornproof swathing.
Read the previously posited drivel about my problem with rules, construct and authority. Kiss kiss.
…the fact that after the next round of stunning expenditures on my mouth and jaw, I’ll never have another penny to spend on anything. “Come on ADG, smile more.” Folks, I’m gratified to even be able to chew and swallow food. You have no idea. With this as context, I’ll be ok not to have a mouth full of beautiful Kennedy-esque ivories. Every bespoke supplier in the world who services the desires and proclivities of ADG threw up a little bit a few weeks ago and never knew why. Well now they’ll know. I’m outta play ‘till at least April 51st, 2014. And the antique toy soldier market value index dropped 30% on the same day. Analysts knew not why but were certain that they'd see it rebound momentarily. It won't. Word up for da antique toy soldier market analysts…April 51st, 2014.
…about the Merkin the Teacher story that I will finish writing—even though I’m not qualified to do so. I’d be at Carrie Haddad’s this Saturday night for the opening reception of her next Merkin exhibition but I’m busy. LFG still trumps everything else.
…the story of my little pictures. Oil on Masonite caricatures mostly by Dickens illustrator Fred Barnard. One of the pictures is of Barnard himself. These belonged to him. All of the subjects are of his contemporaries…other illustrators who worked in late 19th-early 20th century London. But the better part of this story never to be written is the onerous-ass process of finding a corner to hang the little fellers in. Littler is the opposite of easier—proxemics and scale-wise. I had to take four times my normal dose of Adderall to tether myself down for the task. Pert near kilt me.
…about my intent to pounce. Even with the fun-money evaporation issue aforementioned, I’m gonna pounce on one of these. This is gingham on steroids. Double Elephant Folio Gingham. Uber Gingham. Larry the Cable Guy Gingham. And I need not worry about how to style this shirt. I don’t have to worry about the nuances of yokes, sleeve buttons, pleated pocket or no pocket and a discreet monogram—opposite button number four. (The traditional placement for a monogram on the torso is “oppo-five”…opposite the fifth button. But I prefer mine “oppo-four”. It makes the garish-no consequence impertinence of visible monograms…more visible…and less pertinent. Shut up. Shut up I said.) The scale of this gingham makes all considerations, beyond simply saying “yes, I’ll have one”, irrelevant. Now I just gotta figure out how to get them to say “yes” to my request to forgo the four shirt minimum usually required by bespoke shirt makers. Martini and Rossi-on the rocks-say yes. Scary...the stuff I can recall from my childhood.
Ten-fold girl remained upright, having extricated herself from The Charmer’s hold as he barrel-rolled and Cab Callowayed his tanned ankled, Weejun shod, madr-ass around before finally ending up on the floor. You couldn’t help but laugh. My date was slapping at me, telling me to quit laughing at The Charmer while at the same time, laughing her ass off. I’d never seen a man go from Cock-of-the-Preening-Walk to Beet Red Emissary of Emesis in seven seconds flat. And I’ve never seen it again. Ten-fold girl was stoic. Poised. Which made the whole thing even funnier. At least to me. Ten-fold girl, you see; used to be my girl.
Onward. In a run on stream of consciousness kinda way.