Mid Week Trad Musings and Give Me Your Feedback

Post Update: I got feedback that the black background on my blog made it difficult to read so I changed it. Now I'm getting grief from regular readers. For example...
From:  @mindspring.com] 

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 9:57 AM To: D     G Subject: today's PS

I DO NOT like the new color scheme.  I may go on a commenting strike until you change it - and that brown - yuck.  The original was elegant but this is just mundane.

From: @mindspring.com] Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 12:42 PM To: D G Subject: RE: today's PS

I mean what I say. The distinctive look is G-O-N-E

Ok people, help me out. What should the damn thing look like?

Now back to my post....God has blessed me with a current workload that is rewarding and demanding. I’ve always said that life is too short to do something professionally that isn’t enjoyable but let’s be realistic here…some aspect of all careers is less enjoyable than others. I’m cranking out follow-up material and new project proposals this week…not as fun as being front and center with bright clients who are willing to be challenged and grow. But I can’t have one aspect of my gig without the other.

And so my blessed dilemma leaves me too busy to craft anything approaching erudition or captivating for my blog. I’ve got tons of raw material and when I have some time, I’ll surely fire off a zinger or two for you. For example, we will...

Witness me gloating over the fact that I now have copies of Downbeat Magazine from the late 1930’s and you don't. Issues that include the edgy rhetoric of a twenty seven year old George Frazier. I’ve had to remind myself several times that these trade rag stories I’m reading were published in the 30’s…why? Because other than being just a delightful assemblage of wit and words, this stuff would be edgy by today’s standards. A testament to Frazier’s budding Acidmouth genius. There is no wonder why Richard Merkin loved George Frazier. And thanks to a Maxminimus reader, I've now engaged in a very nice email exchange with George Frazier, IV. He's given me permission to post some of the musings that he and I have shared about his father. And people wonder why I don't watch television. 

Discuss the merits of using dark brown polish for the maiden shine on whiskey shell cordovan monk straps. Cordovan delivers depth and “patina upon arrival” but the lighter versions of cordovan tend to look a bit plastic-ey until you rough ‘em up and shine ‘em up a bit. I care not what your opinion is regarding the outcome of my dark brown appliqué. The fact of the matter is that these babies are now wallowing in depth of sheen and patinated pleasure. And on certain days, they’ve invited my feet to join them. Shut up.

Debate to what degree I should give Thom Browne…the sartorial PeeWee Herman…any credit for the trend in slimmer flat front trousers and shorter pant lengths. I’m way too commercial versus artistic when it comes to said assessments and I still think the guy’s stuff is a joke. But I’m gonna have to throw him a small bone. But not a nice soup bone that a dog would relish. Maybe a chicken neck-bone. My aunt Tootie could gnaw a neck-bone like a work of art. She'd throw it out back after finishing with it and the dogs would look at it like "...and you want me to do what with that damn thing?" We’ll see.

Allow me to explain why I gladly though, give Sid Mashburn credit for taking the Southern Prep legacy to an edgier place. I shortened and frayed an old pair of 501s in homage to his style tweak. It’s a look I like. Sid gets it.

Ask while speaking of sartorial Atlanta, whatever happened to the pugnacious, pudgy poseur Edgar Pomeroy? He looks like Truman Capote...but in size 58 font.

Now I’m not saying that Pomeroy or any other clothier is for certain having Adrian Jules or Martin Greenfield do the initial cut and sew on their garments. The Pomeroy goods may be imagined, cut, sewn and finished right there on the premises. After all, Atlanta has a rich history of highly capable tailors flocking there to ply their talents. Don't misunderstand me...Jules and Greenfield do stellar work. But it won’t be purely bespoke and therefore price points should reflect this. Word is that a Pomeroy suit can cost up to 5k. If so, then every damn pattern snip and stitch better be bespoken. ‘Cause now were talking Anderson and Sheppard and maybe even Huntsman price points.

And these Pomeroy slippers better be for women. These things look like the result of a pair of Cole-Haans, a pair of Ballys and a ballet slipper getting a little too jiggy in a hot tub threesome with no birth control. And this is coming from ADG…aka…Eddie Espadrille…Sammy Slipper…Bobby Belgian. I’m gay. From the ankles down. I’ve got references to support that all above the ADG ankle remains voraciously “the other way”.

Argue I’m sure, over my post on Jeans and the Middle Aged Man. What kind to wear and at what age should you hang them up for good. Surprise, I have strong opinions here. If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.

Discuss why I believe my Tiffany ADG belt buckle father’s day gift from LFG will be a lifetime treasure.

Deconstruct the rumour regarding whether or not I’m really the love child of Gilligan and Thurston Howell, III

 The evidence is scant but there are some of you who insist on this being sorted out.

Examine my latest martini photo collection. Recognizing that the Marriott in Dallas last week provided me martinis with kind of a safety handle—double gripper stem. Aesthetically vulgar but useful when you have the shakes and manda-damn-tory when you have the shakes, rattles and rolls. Oh shut the h_ll up.

But then sigh with relief that at home, I don’t need a martini glass with training wheels or gutter bumpers. But I do need jalapeno stuffed olives.

Recognize that out of every one thousand people I see in airports, one will have a level of trad style that reflects simplicity and good taste…without breaking the bank. Case in point above…DFW last week.

Then allow me to contradict the above assertion by having me admit that I travel in this getup for several reasons. First, I don’t give a damn. Second, it’s been averaging a hundred degrees where I’ve been. Third, you know that I don’t like to pack sportcoats so I wear them on the plane, then steam them for hours in the hotel shower.

And finally, I’ll force you to admit that if you could traverse an airport concourse in this rig with any level of confidence, you’d do the same damn thing. Don’t touch this one if you can’t pull it off. There’s a difference between people staring and people laughing. The day people stop staring at me will be the day I worry. The day people are laughing at you is the day you need not take on the edgier ADG contrivances. Commando in this heat BTW.

NOT open the debate again regarding the Adirondack—Gibson Island genesis issue. These are Gibson Island chairs so shut up. And they are no longer British Racing Green. Not that I don’t still do from time to time, some British and some Racy shit in these chairs…it’s just that we needed a little sprucing up over here at CasaMinimus. Racy shit-bad choice of words. Sorry.

Allow me to once again, gloat chauvinistically regarding why it is so damn easy to be a guy and that there’s never a more compelling bit of evidence than my week’s worth of toiletries for Dallas.

Onward. Random even when medicated.

ADG

Oh and Ps…

A couple of housekeeping things …I’m sorry that the black background was challenging for many of you to read. I’m a techno-luddite when it comes to these kinds of things and as soon as I got some specific feedback on the need to change it, I did. You might find some old posts that need font color adjustment though. If you do run across one, I’d appreciate an email letting me know so that I can fix it. Maxminimus2000@yahoo.com

Also, I’m not sure about this Feedblitz service. So I’m going to add the Google Friends thing as an alternative and request, if you want to, that you sign up for my blog via that venue.

I’m Gonna Walk Away

…gonna walk away from these posts of mine that through powers of their own, became a bit heavier…more erudite than usual. Actually thick is a better word ‘cause we don’t have erudition as a goal over here.

But I do need to get back to the purely superficial and narcissistic nature of blogging. Back to ranting about a pair of socks or something. Plenty of reasons to do so but when such a skilled writer as Sartre—late of Advice to my Sons, refers (tongue in cheek I know) to my Andover-Frazier posts as landing in the “tour-de-force” realm, it’s time to Walk Away. And the Canvased Hams of Silas Lapham reminds me to…hurry.

So in lieu of heavy, lets….

Talk about why you should buy your snap-cuff links either at the Georgetown Flea Market or on eBay. No need to pay more than twenty bucks for these deco-ish babies that always add just the right ass amount of fuzzy mélange to an ADG rig. (I was gonna use oeuvre instead of rig in that previous sentence but with mélange already in the mélange of words, I figgered it would be overfrogging it…shut up).

Talk about why this shirt is wrong on so many levels. Denim chambray—french cuffs—severe English spread collar…who the hell would contrive such a shirt with a fabric of such casual forerunners as work shirts, cowboy shirts and gauzy-hippie garb and then...style it with so many formal elements? That would be me.

Talk about why those Polo ties from the 1980’s should be discarded but why for some reason, I still wear this one twice a year.

Talk about why…even in the midst of the other mongrel fuzziness of this ensemble, I always seemed to wear white linen in the breast pocket of this tropical weight tan Flusser suit.

Talk about why I will always take blurry pictures…it’s an inextricable part of my whateverishness. And I’m damn glad that this pic is fuzzy—given the extry eight pounds I’m toting these days. Look at how the pleats are pulling on these trews…I’m probably up to a 33 waist right now.

Talk about how one can delude himself into rationalizing clothes horse behaviors via a focus on quality. This tan Flusser rig was finished for me on June 21, 1990. Where were you in June of 1990? There’s only one thing I’d change if I could go back to 1990 for a do-over…and I’m seriously proud that I can say this honestly. I’d buy fewer clothes and save more money. Oh, and I did think of one other thing…when my old 1989 BMW 318is finally died, which by the way was THE most fun car in the world, I would have defied my divorce lawyer and NOT bought a VW Passat. Far and away the shittiest, least fun car I’ve owned in decades.

Talk about the upcoming post I’m gonna do on ghillies. And why this shoe is neither fish nor fowl and why it’s just fuzzy enough to tickle my dice.

Talk about why the traditional Alden Algonquin split toe blucher is a stalwart classic. But also why the stalwart classic isn’t fuzzed-up enough for me.

 But you can bet your sweet ass that this whiskey shell cordovan monk strap hybrid split toe Algonquin is. This shoe needs my Adderall more than I do. What the hell is this thing? I can tell you what it is and another thing or two about it. It’s gonna be a shoe that I wear to death. 

It’s also a shoe that you can’t own—even if you want to. Butcept those of you who live close enough to Leather Sole Beverly Hills to go in the store and buy it straight-away. But hurry, it’s a one off—commissioned from Alden to celebrate the grand opening of the Leather Sole Beverly Hills store. No internet sales—no phone orders—no shipping and I don’t blame them. They want feet in the store—fannies in the bleachers—new customers in a maiden journey to their atelier, to touch, smell, feel leather and hopefully cha-ching a pair or two. Nope, I didn’t go to no Beverly Damn Hills to actualize the cha-chinging and procurement. My Los Angeles based Agent fetched them for me. Thanks again Teeshontrae.

Talk about why my iPhone4 switchover was bittersweet—mainly because the yellow Paul Frank Irish Monkey ...With a Beard and Green Hat cover that LFG gave me for my 3G won’t fit the iPhone4.

Talk about the iconic Richard Merkin GQ pastel self-portrait…the one that seemed to be everywhere on the internet during all the buzz around his passing…and how it ended up on my wall. And how it’s larger than I had figured and why I will take it to my office where it can thrive on a wall large enough to accommodate it’s energy. This thing needs to preen.

Talk about what an interesting dinner conversation we’d have if Merkin, D’Souza and Sickert sat at my table. I’d cook chicken and dumplings.

Talk about why I should do a post on eyewear and why I’ve preferred round tortoise plastic/composite glasses for years. But also why I can even tart up—pimp out—fuzzy shroud even a decision as limited as round plastic glasses. Notice the clear ones? And let’s do a post on the largely forgotten but brilliant Ralph Barton and the fact that Merkin was the energy behind one of the few and probably last Barton exhibitions.

Talk about finding well made Adirondack Chairs for a fair price. I found them for you…at the intersection of One and Seventeen in Virginia. Gibson Island….please.

And speaking of Islands. Let’s discuss the fact that you should NEVER attempt this look. You are going to end up somewhere on the Gilligan—Don Johnson/Miami Vice Scale. And let me tell you, regardless of where you end up amidst those bi-poles…it ain’t gonna be pretty. Leave the no collar horizontal stripe fresh back from the regatta stuff to me…Admiral Damn A-D-G,II ...with those baggy linen Polo trousers that should be thrown away but can't. 

And of course, let’s discuss why this look still works for me. It’s seared into my mens sana-viscera from college. Why in the world might this still work? Because beneath that all-cotton Ray-Banned assemblage of patch madras is a layer of LaPerla and a woman who in the right circumstances—requires that you turn the volume up on the stereo so that your neighbors won’t think that there’s a beating going down at the casa. Shut up. (And to the lady on upper Wisconsin Ave the other day—who knew not that her mug was being snapped—I apologize for the LaPerla assumption and please, call me if you see this—I’ll buy the hooch and the underdrawers. Hell, if you’ll come over, I’ll even wear the underdrawers for you—if that’s your thang)

But please, let’s touch on why this cutie on the Boston train the other week should not have pepper-sprayed me. Look at that smile. We were chatting nicely…I thought she was firing on me like a bottle rocket…alas I was wrong. While reaching in her purse for what I thought would be her Blackberry or something...she's thinking about a spritz of the hot spray-just for me. Seriously, this young lady is the newly crowned Miss Michigan. She entered the train with me and asked for directions and we both laughed when I told her that it was only my second time using the Boston system and maybe at best, we could help each other. 

Her name is Katie LaRoche and she was very quick to tell me that this isn't in the pageant program owned by Mr. Combaround…The Donald Trump. Katie is a graduate of Michigan State and she’d been over at Harvard working with an advisor on the content and source material for her work on Human Trafficking. She wants to go forward and get a PhD and do advocacy work. The Human Trafficking thing wasn’t some superficial bullshit platform that some beauty pageant handler suggested for filling the empty head of a pageant contestant. It was her cause before she entered said pageant. This woman is bright, articulate and kind… and her outer beauty is fuelled by an inner light that can’t be faked…especially on a noisy, hot train rattling around while talking with a guy like me. And yes, I showed her pictures of LFG and yes; Katie is only 5’3”…who says you gotta be tall to win these contests.

Let’s shift gears and discuss why after all these years, I loved the fact that when LFG and I were at my mom’s the other week, my baby brother returned some of my Hot Wheels cars after forty years. I remember Mike Walker’s mom taking us to Kmart to spend our allowances on Hot Wheels. I kid you not when I say that I can remember buying this very car that day. I can also tell you that there are guys paying absurd amounts of money for these cars on eBay.

And how about a post on what you do with a daughter, a sister and a seventy-eight year old mother when in South Carolina and it’s a hundred outside. Your mama sends you to the Farmers’ Market for sour plums. And then to the store for canning supplies. And then you have a mother—granddaughter—daughter—son session…learning how to make jams and jellies. And of course LFG cracks us all up when during the transfer of hot sour-plum liquid emulsion to the canning jars, she asks..."Grandma Frances, how long will it have to sit before it becomes "jellified"? Where DOES this child come up with it?

And when your mama sends you  to the Farmers’ Market in South Carolina for sour plums...and you are wearing Belgians…you hurry.

Talk about this cinder block building. And how during a couple of summers of my undergrad years, some of the best music, cold beer and southern prep ritual dancing took place in there. And how one night in the haze of smoke, hyperairconditioning and The Spinners playing on the jukebox, I spied what I thought from across the dance floor, was a stain on the left breast area of D.T.’s uberstarched button down. It was also unsettling to me that there was no pocket where this thought to be blemish was. Folks, it was the first time I’d ever seen a Ralph-Polo Pony logo on a shirt. I didn’t know who Ralph Lauren was. I’d only worn Gant up to this point. Axk me how many days it was before I owned one. And there was only one retailer in South Carolina who sold them. Shut up.

Talk about how the double-digit birthday for LFG turned into a weeklong festival. And how a fifteen minute trip to the Dollar Store in my hometown turned up enough props for me to create yet another birthday party for LFG at my mom’s. You gotta go with me here—be flexible. The Dollar Store has limited inventory but with my imagination…the options are limitless. Don’t tell me that Princess-Divas shouldn’t wear Sponge Bob sweatbands on their wrists while pondering a Hello Kitty candle. Shhhhh.

Conclude this drivel with a word on Christopher Hitchens. I read every word he writes because of the way he strings sentences together. I disagree with him about 95% of the time but that’s why I’m riveted to his lexiconical meanderings…he makes me think. LFG charmed him at National Airport one afternoon. I was too nervous to be articulate and that ain’t my norm. I’d ask that you pray for Hitchens victory over esophageal cancer but he’s an atheist so…so pray anyway.

Onward. Lightly. To Rehoboth. With LFG

ADG

Ps…And speaking of Walking Away....You MUST listen to David Ruffin’s Walk Away From Love. It’s sublime. Ladies and gentlemen...David Ruffin:

Where listening to David Ruffin is mandatory during your blog visit...Walk Away Renee by the Left Banke is optional. It’s twee where Ruffin’s ditty is sublime. I’ve always belted this one out in bars when it was playing and there was a Renee at hand for me to fire on. You laugh. I’ve had it happen seventeen times in my life. And four of those times I ended up in the bathtub with a Renee. And one time I ended up in the shower with a Renee’s mama and one time a Renee’s daddy chased me out of his house and down the street, shaking my 501s at me on a Sunday afternoon with all the neighbors watching…and this was in high school so I was still wearing tighty-whities and this my friends, was not a pretty sight. I'm not making this up.

It’s an Adirondack Chair…even on Gibson Island

“….An Adirondack chair is a type of chair favored in rural, outdoor settings. The precursor to today's Adirondack chair was designed by Thomas Lee in 1903. He was on vacation in Westport, New York, in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains, and needed outdoor chairs for his summer home. He tested the first designs on his family.

The original Adirondack chair was made with eleven pieces of wood, cut from a single board. It had a straight back and seat, which were set at a slant to sit better on the steep mountain inclines of the area. It also featured wide armrests, which became a hallmark of the Adirondack chair….”

What if this chair could talk? I can’t be the only one who ponders such things.  What would it tell us about its witness? What has it seen and heard? In how many places has it lived? What about its fun index? In other words, what percentage of its employ has been amidst happy circumstances versus bad?

The fun index of my Adirondack chair is heavily weighted towards the positive. I figure most of these chairs are; actually. The Adirondack chair is built for relaxation—nothing slick or fancy here. If anything was ever devoid of dice fuzzy, it’s this baby. Wide arm rests designed to accommodate a cocktail and a couple of books. Maybe a small tray of Wheat Thins and Vienna Sausages. Shut up. Add a little sunshine and a light breeze and napping is inevitable.

I first spent significant time riding an Adirondack chair when I lived in Montclair New Jersey. The Southern expat mafia of which I was a charter member, used to hang out over at JBA’s and ACA’s…drinking, scheming and lamenting our indentured servitude—and if the weather was decent, we’d be doing so outside, in Adirondack chairs.

There was an old guy back then—this was in the late 1980’s—who made Adirondacks to order. They weren’t real expensive and they weren’t fancy. True for the most part to the original utilitarian design of the original Adirondack chair. JBA and ACA had the old guy make one for me and I’ve been parking my carcass in it ever since.

A maiden coat or two of hunter green deck paint begins the patinated journey. Annual repainting perpetuates the character shaping patination as well as promises that you’ll never get any of the screws or bolts loosened. It’s all good.

So where do you get a good, sturdy Adirondack chair these days? I can tell you unequivocally that if you want an attenuated, overpriced ersatz version, just go to…Target, Crate and Barrel or any of the fancy little joints purveying such goods and you can score one. Their versions are too slick, too flimsy and will never manifest the patina of a well built Adirondack—true to the original. They look to me, kinda like a blue collar worker with a buff and a clear coat of nail polish. Just wrong. I suppose that you could beat one of those slick versions with a bicycle chain...you know...to "weather it". My thinking is that you'd end up breaking the chair before you rendered it "weathered". That’s a long-winded “I don’t know”…unless you live near me. There are a couple of options on route 50, just before you get to Middleburg Virginia. They offer sturdy Adirondack chairs made by Amish makers and they are rock solid.

So the first destination for my Adirondack was the front lawn of my N.J. hovel where if you craned your neck from said chair, you could see the Gotham skyline. Next stop would be Old Town Alexandria…the hamlet that won my residence by virtue of a coin toss. Had it been heads, I would have landed in Baltimore. Had this been the outcome, I’m certain that this Gibson Island versus Adirondack moniker issue would have manifested sooner.

The Big Easy…more specifically, Old Metairie would become the next host for my Adirondack. I think the “sitting out season” was shorter in New Orleans than New Jersey because of the damned humidity. I can say that my chair faced tougher environmental challenges in the front yard of my Metairie shotgun house. It rained two feet one night. Back to Old Town Alexandria, then to my marital home just a couple of miles south of Old Town and then, alas, back to Old Town again. Hell I’m tired just recounting the journey.

I remember spending a weekend in Newport Rhode Island with LFG's mom. We rented bikes and ended up at the Castle Hill Inn. Stunning vistas, Adirondack chairs and a waitress out on the lawn who we nicknamed Mulva. Half dozen Bloody Marys each and the Castle Hill Folks called a cab for us and our two bikes.

So is it an Adirondack or Gibson Island Chair? I’ve googled both and the evidence out there seems to be overwhelmingly in favor of an Adirondack antecedent—not a Gibson Island one. I found the above photo online with an accompanying designation of "Gibson Island Chair". Might the single plank back rest identify it as such? Search me...and Google.


Here's what Google images gives up for Gibson Island Chairs.....

Hardly overwhelming evidence of provenance. Had it not been for some ersatz assignation between some bloggers text and his accompanying pictures...I'm thinking the images search would have come up...zip.

But then I hit the jackpot with a Google general search. Not.

And then for some reason, Google turned up a few more results for the correct moniker. Fancy that.

Just under fifty thousand images. Oh, and before you comment with the "re-do your search sans parentheses and/or try searching chairs as opposed to chair"...been there done that.

Y’all know that I make the rules around here. I decide what you can wear and when you can wear it. To that end, I’ll decide what this damned chair is and what you’ll call it. Lime Green Gal admonished me to call it a Gibson Island chair since I’m south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Sorry, I ain’t buyin’ it. 

So show me something more convincing than… “people call them Adirondack chairs when south of the Mason-Dixon”. Better yet, come on over and we’ll sit out with a cocktail and argue about it—between bites of Vienna Sausages and Wheat Thins…parked on and in…Adirondack chairs.

Onward—Adirondackally…shut up.