I didn't mean to do it. Honestly I didn't. While Blogger allows you to shut down your blog at will, only to resurrect it when and if you desire, tumblr will have none of it. "It" being the latitude and autonomy to tamp down your tumble turd periodically. Shut up.
So I inadvertently deleted my entire tumblr, assuming that I could recall it later. It's gone forever. But fear not, I have a new one and you can follow it here.
probably never write. I mean my head is full of them—and good ones, too. But I
don’t think they’ll make it to daylight anytime soon.
Ennui by Walter Richard Sickert circa 1914
not? Ennui came to mind but that’s not it. Not at all. Ennui to me denotes waiting
for something—a protracted, slow moving state of simmer—with a barely fueled yearn
for something, even if you don’t quite know what that something should be or is
going to be upon arrival. And I’m so settled on this rather comprehensive definition
of ennui that even if it’s miles off the mark, my definition stands.
block would indicate that I’m a writer so that one’s out too. Boredom? Not so
much. Inability to concentrate, to hold a thought long enough for it to morph
into a cogent flurry of words? Now we are getting somewhere. Inertia.
blessings outweigh my challenges and my decades old strategy of taking the proverbial
plusses and minuses inventory to reground me remains a decent technique. But
one thing I’ve learned in the last year and a half is that pain and suffering
are unique and the degree to which anyone suffers should never be discounted, regardless
of how their pluses and minuses exercise nets out. I’ll never again trivialize
anyone’s pain just because I view it as comparatively trifling.
line is that I think I’m still grieving. And I’m trying hard to step into it,
to participate in its coursing through, yet not wallow. But it’s cold here and
flannel sheets and lush robes and shearling lined bedroom slippers are
conducive to a bit of wallowing. Shut up.
if I could write I’d finally do the promised story on this shirt from the nice
people at Sebastian Ward.
I don’t shill so you know that if I agree to write
about a product, it’s gonna be unvarnished. And I’ve already got the title. Quirky Shirts. Because they are. And of
course that suits the hell out of my fuzzy-diced, “give me one of everything that you can possibly add to a garment, please”
I asked for a third sleeve with holes for three cufflinks and the
narrow thinking, unimaginative bastards at Sebastian Ward shut me down. Thank
then there’s the story that if I did write it, I’d title it Miracle Mark. About my might as well be
blood brother Mark Rykken and the fact that back when I was solvent, I had
Puerto make an updated version of my favorite W. Bills brown houndstooth jacket.
and I are both getting a wee bit long in the tooth. I honestly could afford to
gain eight to ten pounds; Rykken?
had a bulletproof, go-to version of this baby that my sartorial daddy, Alan
Flusser in concert with Rykken, made for me a zillion years ago. You can read all about that one here. And we did
that one faithful to the old Brooks Brothers model…open patch breast, patch and
flap side pockets, welt seams and my ADG 3/2 tweak. Just fuzzy enough, right?
But times change, and gorge, button stance nuances, and other impertanalia redefine
themselves. Redefinitions be damned because W.Bill was out of this houndstooth
for several years. You couldn’t make, or remake one if you wanted to.
But then a bolt miraculously emerged. So I
transferred the old jacket to a faithful buyer who takes almost any and
everything ADG bespoke off of my hands for win-win prices and put a down
payment on the new one. And it took me a over year to finally get it finished.
Both payment and fitting.
I've always had a thing for brown/tan houndstooth. Here I am in London twenty years ago with my other daddy R.E.B. Read more about him here. I'd just discovered the vintage clothing shop, Bertie Wooster in the Fulham Road earlier that day and pounced on the 3/2 peak number that I'm sporting for the photo opp.
Then a few years later, here's R.E.B. and me again. This time its October in Ponte Vedra and I'm to be married the next day. This houndstoothian version was wool and silk. I wore it to death. Alas.
Rykken didn't seem too chafed by my dilatory-essence. He offered that the jacket spawned a few additional sales when others gandered it. And after W.Bill ran out of the wool bolt, Rykken simply offered a one-hundred percent cashmere version to his more moneyed masses.
there’s the story that I never did on my friend Nick Hilton I titled Nick of Time. And it was going to be a
good one too. About his kindness and renaissance man-ifestations and how his
wife is as lovely as she is nice, too. Nick made a couple of jackets for me a
zillion eons ago and I have things to say about them but also about his dad,
Norman. And the mantle Nick bears and the Ralph connection and all of the other
stuff that’s been rehashed along these lines. But not by me.
could I not ideate on a story about my good friend Hetom at Sky Shoes?The Sky’s The Limit is the working title
of that one. Hetom is a trained shoemaker who, given the right circumstances,
could turn out bespoke shoes right here in D.C. He won’t do that for you but he
is the go to oasis of shodding knowledge inside the Beltway and I don’t know
why others don’t seek his counsel as often as I do. Crocket and Jones and Alden
and other unique tasty goods are there for the having.
the blue suede C&J bluchers don’t come with suede tassels? Not a problem.
When your shoe supplier is also a shoemaker, he emails C&J and requests
enough blue suede to make tassels and add them to my shoddings. Aftermarket
fuzzy dice on demand. Bam!
Sky's new line of almost Belgians are off the hook.
And they are almost not as
expensive as the NYC originals that I’m such a sycophant about. Shut.
nylon quilted goods this season are strong and at south of forty bucks, I now
own three of these quilted vests.
FlussMart collection, for the money, is the tastiest thing in the store.
also tell you about Alan ringing my phone one morning. “I’m in a car, headed to
Florence to do an appearance at your hometown SteinMart. What’s the name of
that barbecue place that you always talk about? And your mom…” Alan asked about
going to visit my mom. I demurred, knowing full-well that my hospital bed in
the middle of the den, mama would be too embarrassed to receive strangers
without me there. But I’ll never forget the gesture.
baby’s too old for me to revel you with twee little stories about our
daddy-daughter vacations and silly antics. But she’s still my baby and I’m so
proud of her I could just bust. Burst? Whatever.
last night she and her dance company sisters did an open house, pre-recital “let’s
give the parents an update” kind of revue thing.
She no longer a little
ballerina prancing about on stage. She’s a serious dancer and she has chops.
was just transitioning out of believing in Santa when I first shared her with
you. Thirty-six months from now and, if the Lord tarries, LFG will be off to