So back
to madras—in moderation. The record shows that if the sartorial amplifier goes
to ten then I’m surely gonna figure a way to get it to eleven. The stories are
legendary at Flusser house and with Rykken about their flat-out refusal to make
things for me. Things that because of color, pattern-scale or “add-ons” … they just simply would not let me do.
When I
had the suit above made many years ago, Alan Flusser looked at the trouser
cuffs, the sleeve cuffs and the flap pockets…topped off by a flapped ticket
pocket and facetiously asked if there was anywhere else on the garment I might
want another “flap”. Hell, I thought
he was serious and so I requested a rundown on what the additional aftermarket
add-on flap options might be. Maybe a spoiler or a pop-up windscreen across the
shoulders. Oh hell, why not a cape? And I remember Puerto Rykken in a sigh of
resignation one time declaring that if there was an option for triple-vents on
a sportcoat…I’d request it. I thought about it for a moment and declared that
I’d prefer more like a quadruple or pentagonally vented suit. Then you’d have
strips of fettuccini flat noodle-esque grass skirt danglers on the rear of your
jacket. A much more interesting manifestation of movement … kind of a grass
skirt swish-swishing on the lower back third of an otherwise classically
contrived contrivance. And who the hell wouldn’t want that?
Easter
Sunday seems to be the church house goin’ day when more people decide to attend
and they roll in marginally better dressed than usual. I think Jesus chuckles. Jesus
Chuckles—he was a wrestler back in ’68—from one of the border towns—near
Brownsville. He beat Wahoo McDaniel, or was it Junkyard Dog, like a borrowed
mule one night at the Florence, South Carolina fairgrounds. My daddy bankrolled
the rumble.
Oh—clothes and Easter Sunday, that’s it. Bottom line is that Jesus
cares not what we wear to His house but I always at minimum wear a coat and
most times I’m gonna cinch-up with a tie.
There’s one of my previous handlin’ contrivances above.
But what
about madras? It may be too early in some parts for madras inclusion on
Easter Sunday. Or some might say that it’s too casual and festive for church.
Are you kidding me? Have you seen some of the swathings or lack thereof in the
pews lately? I’ll halt the rant right here and refer us back to the point I
made about Jesus not caring—as long as you are in the pew. And I wore madras on
Easter Sunday. Restrained.
I know
not from where this reservoir of restraint in me filled. Alchemy, astronomy, juju,
the Powerball Lottery…I’m not the guy to much believe in such. And I have a
constant need to pray and almost beg for reassurance of my fundamental
faith(s). Alls I can say is that from somewhere, a little madras voice spoke to
me…mighta been Wahoo McDaniel…and the voice said in an earth toned-muted-muffled-breathy-throaty
whisper … “you’ve got enough redneck tacky loud “look at me-look at me” madras.
Let’s contrive something more moderated-modulated and muted—something kinda
earthy.” Then I realized that it couldn’t a been Wahoo McDaniel ‘cause he
didn’t have near that kind of vocabulary. Mighta been Junkyard Dog. So
contrive and bespeak mutedly I did. Ok…I’m lying. Who in their right mind would
bespeak madras? Why pay that kinda dosh for the highest level of artisanship on such a perishable and rarely worn fabric? I felt like I was pushing it when
I had Fluss House make my seersucker togs. So I made-to-measure-d it instead.
Fuzzy
GTH patch and O’Connell’s loud, horn-tooting bleeding madras abounds in my closet
so the impetus and legitimacy for muted moderation wasn’t feint. It made sense. But as usual,
I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Three-two roll with open patch pockets and
peak lapels…you know…my ADG standard house model? Of course not. But the idea
of simply doing a standard Mad Men era three button sack coat which would have
exemplified madras in its heyday didn’t trip my trigger. I just had to add something
that would make it my own. You know—a tad of fuzziness.
Ticket
pocket? Nope. Throat latch? Nah…who needs a throat latch on a summer jacket? Maybe just a ticket pocket? Bellows
pockets? Yep, that would be the ticket. Poachers.
Are you freakin' kidding me? Poacher
pockets on madras? Surely you jest, ADG. It makes sense on your now scorched
and singed cavalry twill rig. And of course it complements the old Ralph
contrivance above. But you ain’t gonna be bird hunting or truffle sniffing in
madras. Madras bellows…the idea is wrong on every level—from every angle. Get it?
Got it.
And get ‘em I did. Just for the sheer wrongness of it. There’s an inextricable defiance of convention—a
redneck, un-clubbable aspect of my essence that I’ve learned to embrace. And
the sooner you get used to it, the easier our ride is gonna be. Shut up. I don't bird hunt or truffle sniff in my winter coats with bellows pockets either. So sue me.
Muted
tones and a sensible tie…Bohemian Club style. Come on…I wanted it to look slightly
unconventional—not like a Shriner.
Just
enough waist suppression to further my anti Mad Men sack coat look. Don’t try
it—unless you too, have washboard abs. This entire fuzzy diced boondoggle of absurdity
becomes more bastardized if you attempt to pull it off, or put it on for that
matter, with a beer gut. Shriners. Think Shriners. And then just don’t do it.
Lightweight
cream gabardine trousers. The old Colony Model from Ralph. I needed to anchor
this thing with a sensible trouser.
Go
ahead. Hurl your attacks. I’m ready. Ready for all of your tisk tisking and ridiculing
that’s really a thinly veiled call for help. Help with your fear. Fear of…Fuzzy.
Let me
close with a word or two on madras pronunciation. I reckon the proper
pronunciation of the city was “muh-dross”.
Same when ordering said curried grub at an Indian restaurant. Regardless of
your bloodline, the American region or city of your birth, the clubs you belong
to or your academic pedigree…the fabric ain’t pronounced “mod-russ” nor is it “muh-dross”. It’s mad-riss. Stop with
the affectation. You’re trying too hard. Your effort to fancify and
highfalutinize the good ole American word for this trad obsession reeks of
poacher pocket affectation. Pronounce it regular like or I'll smack you. On the noggin. With a vozz.
Onward.
Poachin’
ADG II sans young’un.