Fuzzy Diced Loafers, Toy Soldiers and Good Music

It was suggested a moment ago by a well-meaning and certainly bright young gentleman, that I go back to what this superficial weigh-station of drivel is best suited. He said..."As a "fan," I'm asking you to return to your old posts about fuzzy diced loafers, toy soldiers, and good music. If I wanted politically correct drivel I would watch TV instead."  This might be the best advice I've received all year. And my year--because I live off of the Druid calendar, is almost over. 

But it was also stated that the current level of dismay wasn't limited to just my last post but the one preceding it as well. I suspect that would be the Thomas Kinkade story. Folks, I am not some kind of high-minded art snob. You can find my kinfolk on the People of Walmart website as well as Mugshots.com--I wish I was kidding. And I'm not piling on with those who have used Kinkade as a punching bag for years. I reckon that a lot of that kind of thing had to do with jealousy. The man was wildly successful commercially and I begrudge no one their rewards. All I was saying--and it's been pointed out to me that I'm "no Jonathan Swift"--but what was lost in my hyperbole--was that the man lost his way. It happens. 


And you can believe what you want to believe about the symbolism manifest in those energy inefficient cottages through which every window, a Seasonal Affective Disorder Light Box bolus of illumination radiated. And so can I. While you may see goodness therein, I see a Hansel-Gretel-Hitchcock oeuvre with a bad ending. The light looks too inviting...too good to be true. Someone's in there. Waiting for you. With lubricant.

Ok, so enough of my preamble. I decided to take a moment out of my crazy—allergy sequelae shrouded week and do just what my fan asked me to do. You might wanna go ahead and get a box of tissues before beginning this. For this one my friends, is gonna be a bell-ringer. Or it might just make you a little gassy.

The photo above isn’t exactly representative of “fuzzy diced loafers” but it indeed caused me some horror when I stumbled upon it the other day. The picture is from a 1970 edition of Esquire magazine. My foot wasn’t big enough to wear men’s shoes in 1970 but I recall the pediatric versions of similar aberrations. 1970 kicked off a horrifying sartorial run and I’d say that what men were offered, Corfam and Naugahyde shodding-wise might be considered Exhibit One in the “The Seventies—A Decade of Menswear Poo” trial.

On the other hand, Ralph’s Spring 2012 Spectator offering appeals to me. In a “may I restrain you?” kind of way. May I?

 Toy soldiers you say? I’m on spending lock-down for the balance of 2012 and it’s a blessed dilemma. I underpaid your Federal Government in 2011. It happens sometimes in small entrepreneurial little shops like mine. What also happens includes phone calls with accountants that induce a phenomenon I refer to as the “pucker factor”. Proof of “pucker” manifests when after hanging up with the CPA, you walk across the room and realize that your one hundred and fifty pound Naugahyde with Corfam piping office chair is stuck to your butt.

Oh, this was the paragraph about toy soldiers. Right. Even amidst spending lock-down, I HAD to pounce on this set of almost one hundred year old Heyde bandsmen. They just don’t come up for offer at a reasonable price very often. Not that the price of these was exactly reasonable. 

So how do you pounce amidst lock-down? You sell some stuff and you trade some stuff.

The suggestion for drivel resumption was limited to loafers, soldiers and music but may I add another category? Of course I can. I kid you not; I think I might have a preparatory, preliminary oil on canvas study of Sir William Orpen’s Jockey self-portrait. I’ve had it forever—having paid relatively nothing for it at an estate sale here in Old Town almost twenty years ago. I love the sleuthing associated with collecting but I long ago gave up on attributing this thing to anyone of repute. I kinda wanted it to be by Sir John Lavery but that was a stretch.  

Then recently, I stumbled upon an online image of Orpen’s Jockey self-portrait and the accompanying story about it. I was blown away. Suffice it to say that I’m currently obsessed with getting some kind of authentication—attribution for my little version. Stay tuned. Or not. I don't care.

And finally, you wanted me to posit something about good music? Even LFG, the young lady who only grunts at me these days, admitted that one of the little ditties by these cats above was a good one. It’s one of those songs that was on the jukebox at the fratty house and one that I, delusional and in love beer at three in the morning, thought I sounded good singing…at the top of my lungs…to my date who was cooing back to me. 


Cooing and wooing. At least I think my date was cooing. At least I think it was my date. Might a been cooing and spewing. We did a lot of that at the fratty house. Beer foam throw-up on hardwood floors. Makes the shagging a lot slicker. Here’s The Main Ingredient doing Just Don't Want to Be Lonely. In 1974—early into the decade of bad shoes and even worse suits and sportcoats.

Onward. Flonase—Claritin—Stoli

ADG, II