Showing posts with label Barbour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barbour. Show all posts

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Barbour: Fall 2009

Fall 2009 or fall 2012. It really makes no difference. Barbour is timeless. Barbour...or at least their capstone icon models like the Bedale and the Beaufort, remains a correct constant amidst all other things trendy, transitory and tacky.
But other things do change. And I don't like it. Nor do I have to. I want this little girl back. The one who would do things with me like run...really fast...towards the Fiction tent at the National Book Festival on the Mall because she knew how much her daddy wanted to hear Daniel Silva speak about his newest thriller. This was "let's hurry daddy because I know how much you love Daniel Silva"...not the current... "the faster you walk, dad, (not daddy--that's been banned) the faster I'm gonna walk. Sorry that you're offended but really, you can't expect me to actually be seen with you."
I want my little girl back. The one who wasn't embarrassed to be at the book festival in her soccer kit because her daddy forgot to pack a change of clothes at 0-dark-thirty when they left for her first of the morning soccer game.
You know, the little gal who looked upon with almost fan-like admiration, the chivalry of her daddy relinquishing his Bedale to her so that she'd stay dry and comfy.
You remember, right? The piccolo sized gal who was still little enough for her daddy to prop up on a table so that she could see and hear her favorite at the time...Jeff Kinney...author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Daniel Silva be damned, my baby was not gonna miss the thrill in being part of Jeff Kinney's story telling.
Daddy's  little partner...who gladly allowed and quite frankly expected...that he steady her with a paternal hand. Steadying her while daddy gets soaked by a constant, misty rain. No eye rolling, no tisk-tisking. And in the fall of 2009, daddy's IQ had yet to plummet so precipitously as has been the case since. Going steady? Ain't gonna happen.
Where is my sophomoric silly girl? The one who, on the arduous walk back to the car, post Daniel Silva and Jeff Kinney book signings--daddy and daughter were both so happy to meet their authors and get their books personalized--amused herself with skits about being attacked by the Barbour Bedale Monster Within.
So who's currently the child? I am. I know. Pouting all-to-be-damned. And if the man-child above...wore those high waisted Gurkha shorts today, surely the no-longer-a-little-girl would send him "right back upstairs to change, young man." She'd probably grant clemency on the Barbour. Everything else though, is bound to change.

Onward. Reluctantly.

ADG, II

Friday, April 15, 2011

The Tortoise and The Barbour

My Barbour Beaufort has seen more action in the past several weeks than it has in a year. So much so that I finally just left it in the car last week. And if the weather gods are correct this weekend, the launch of LFG’s soccer season may yet again be postponed tomorrow.
I dropped LFG off last weekend and on the drive home, the clouds negated the need for shades so I toss my old Anglo American sunglasses over on the passenger seat. One stoplight later and I glanced over and did kind of a double-take on the mixture of colour and texture beside me. God knows I’m no photographer. As a matter of fact, those of you who’ve been reading my drivel long enough realize that if anything, I take pride in shitty pictures. But the way my specs were lounging over on its new found waxy-musky Barbour green chaise motivated a picture.
Glimpsing over at my passenger seat caused me to see England. London more specifically I reckon. I just thought that tortoise shell and hunter green appeared destined for each other and that England was their matchmaker. Blue-Black-Green... aggregated sublimely. 
Perhaps interior designers these days tisk-tisk at a husband requesting a hunter green library or study. It’s been done…and done…and done. But there must be a reason why it endures. And the mottled tortoise/lacquer browns seems to be a natural complement to dark green.
Hell if it's good enough for Ralph's dressing room then it's good enough for mine.
I don’t know why I like some of the things I like but I just do. And this colour assemblage, leastways to me, never becomes redundant or tired. I can’t find a word this morning that satisfies me. Dark blue-black-green and tortoisity equals what? Gravitas, solid bearing, sturdiness, masculinity...an inviting ensconcement? Tortoisity by the way, is pronounced tor-TOSS-ity in case you wondered. Or tor-TOYS-ity if you are from exit 18 on the Turnpike.
I think I’ll settle for “an inviting ensconcement” since God knows, I’d rather make up my own phrases than seek paucity and clarity in…well frankly, in about any damn thing. Shut up. And ensconce this.
I had a dark green bedroom before I was married and I have one at present. And dark green…complemented by the tortoise/lacquer marriage found in book cases or trim-work make for a more enduring marriage than I could ever muster. Mine was more tainted liquor than tortoise/lacquer. Hold me.
And you’ve gotta love this. The ever so antiquated, inefficient and delightfully British way of rounding up the Farrow&Ball custom green colour for such a legacy client. This from a Farrow& Ball-buster I was once in correspondence with…“The people at Lord's Cricket Ground have had to wait 6 weeks for a scrap of paper with their cricket pavilion paint recipe on it to be retrieved. It's called Pavilion Green and F&B will only mix it up for Lords.” I’m thinking that this was the discussion after they hung up the phone with the boys from St. Johns Wood… “Algernon, where’s that slapdash daub of Lord’s green?” Wouldn't you know it; they’ve requested another go at it after only twenty-seven years.”
 The boys at South Audley…Purdeys to be precise, do a fine job of mottled tortoisity. Perhaps not as much dark green over there but plenty of gravitas none the less.
I felt foolish after someone explained to my why the columns fronting Audley House had missing chunks. South Audley Street was the recipient of a few bombs here and there during the Blitz. Missing chunks. I had a fraternity brother who could be counted on to have a few too many and try to blow chunks…regularly. Not very surprising in frattyland, right? But in this case, Chunks was his dog.
How ‘bout a pair of Purdey guns? A vintage Mercedes 300SL will cost you about the same. The patinated tortoisity above is stunning.
And so Lady Audley had a secret. Butcept it was well secreted…behind dark green swathings of inauthentic posturing and downright lies. Note to self…
But this little Lady Barbour is unimpeachable in hunter green gravity. Do not argue this with me.
Moving on to motorsports…British Racing Green seems to provide an incredible amount of je ne sais quoi to any recipient of Britain’s irrefutable racing colour. Butcept the British wouldn't respond well to the Frogesque je ne sais quoi badge. And yes, the consecrated juju of British Racing green demands that colour be spelled in its original form.
Certainly German Racing Silver seems to me an appropriate designation for the Prussian magnificence manifest in their racing legacy.
And look at how just a hint of British Racing Green adds cadenced panache to this uber Panamericana contender.
One more time. Restrained panache I say. Restrained panache. Something I'll never master.
Perhaps the Prussian purists would be aghast at this temporal manifestation of God being painted green. I think it simply adds dignity to the dignified.
Nothing much needs to be said here. Just look. And look again.
And again...with a little Triumph in your eyes.
One more time please. "Dunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna JAG MAN!!
I’ve always felt that American cars in red simply announced…“red car-redneck” but a Ferrari painted almost anything but red seems unseemly. Maybe black but really, a Ferrari needs to be red.
French Racing...Robins Egg Blue?” I have nothing to say here. Ferme la bouche.
So all those words I struggled with to define the gravity of dark green remain inadequate…more so when I try to verbosify how great this looks to me. Maybe…simply…”appropriate” is the word I’m looking for…or perhaps “correct”. Or maybe nothing needs to be said. And that would be difficult for me. Those of you who’ve met me know this firsthand.
Just look at how “right-appropriate-correct” English Cut’s Thomas Mahon’s Rover seems in British Racing Green. Wonder how his lovely little firstborn chap likes riding in daddy’s Rover?
Word on the street is that the Queen has a bunch of them. Rovers that is.
Complementary tortoise. It just seems like the right accessory to set-off dark green. I saw this trunk on Portobello Road last year and would love to have bought it but getting it home was problematic. And I won’t be buying anything for the rest of 2011 anyway.
Patinated tortoise gone good.
And another example of mottled, patinated tortoisity well played.
Mottled, antiquated tortoisity gone bad. Real bad. I mean really. What is this? A damned butterfly on freakin’ steroids? The Barry damn Bonds of Monarch butterflies?
This ain't antiquated tortoisity. This is petrified…calcificated Tangesque absurdity. There’s good Tang and bad Tang. This is Tang gone bad. Real bad.
So let me end this ramble on a more aesthetically pleasing visual note. Here’s to green. Dark…almost black-green. And the majesty of those like this little Princess who don it.
And here’s to complementary tortoisity…and all its accoutremontical involvement with making base colours so damned sublime.

Onward. Hoping for soccer tomorrow. Even if I have to stand there Barbour clad.
ADG, II

Monday, December 20, 2010

And When I Finished My Astonishing Sandwich…

I realized that Orvis was just across the street. And with thirty seven minutes remaining, I ambled my vinegary handed little a_s over there. Not much time to spare once I rolled in and engaged the predictable but comfortingly consistent construct of Orvis offerings.
Tried on a Barbour Beaufort for size…knowing that I was a 38 but still wanting to smell the new wax and flex a forearm against the yet to be broken-in paperesque sheathing. I left it there, comfortable in the knowledge that I’d win one on eBay for less dosh. The Beaufort is a want not a need. I gots me the shorter version sans game pocket...the Bedale I think. But I need a game pocket...for hooch and women.
But then a Liddesdale jumped me. Rather like the Cheeto on the rat this time. Colour and all. I tried to fight it off mama. Honestly I did. And at just south of $150.00 I pounced. I kid you not when I say that it really does fill a void in my outwear lineup. I had a cotton quilted version that I literally wore to shreds. The shoes...Weejuns...had 'em since college.
Looky at the bag they sent me home with.
And I like the way the Liddesdale adequately covers a sportcoat for an added layer of incremental warmth and just enough shrouding to fend off a flake or drop. Shut up.
I'm digging the chain-gang/work release orange.
Listen. Y’all pool your money and buy me this Barbour vest. Seriously. A waxed shell quilted down vest. The onliest thing I’m tentative about is the dilemma of re-waxing this baby with the downy under layer just below the surface. I’d call my Brazilian friends at the Bush Cleaners on Newbury Street. Oh, and size extra smug please.
And Merry Christmas to all. I finally found a spot on the LFG dance card tonight and we manifested enough Yule-ness to adorn our tree. Late I know but it’s been one of those (blessed) years. Just like last year, if you want a Christmas card from us, shoot me an email with your snail mail address and we’ll send you one.

Onward. In orange. Much to LFG’s dismay.
ADG, II 

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Redux:Barbour-Books and Soccer





LFG and one of her bestest friends connected before walking into Cotillion the other evening. The horror…already beginning at age nine. She and D.B. had on the identical dress. Notice that LFG is holding her mandatory tights in her hand. Yes, her dad is not the most dialed in guy when it comes to getting little girls buttoned up for more formal things. Mandatory-I’ve also had since birth, a slight problem with authority. LFG put the tights on in the bathroom and was then locked and loaded for Cotillion.

LFG on the way home from Cotillion with Beary and The Indian in the Cupboard. It's all good.

 Saturday started early with soccer game number two accompanied by misty rain. No cancellations for these gals unless the ball floats on the field. It’s early so I am only half assed prepared for the day beyond soccer. LFG has no rain gear with her and my Briggs brolly is MIA so we are winging it at best. I’m in my typical weekend rig-Trad Homeless Man. No shave-no shower-baseball cap this time accompanied by the old Banana Republic Gurkha shorts and a popped collar-pink knit. My L.L. Bean bluchers still look kinda new-having not encountered anything more than rain on sidewalks to date. By bedtime Saturday night-they’d be fully initiated. If I would wait for the Adderall to kick in before getting dressed-I might do better on all fronts. LFG snapped this one of me at the soccer parking lot-iPhone camera is not a differentiating attribute for said device.

I love my Flusser Mac but it shames LFG when I wear it. My next go-to raingear is Barbour. Ultra Trad-gets better with age. Like me-shut up.

LFG is the smallest girl on her team but a scrappy little one none the less. Reminds me of me at that age. I finally ran track and cross country in high school-having eventually become just too damned little to play other sports.

LFG is kinda like a "player-mascot" on her team-with water.


We love books at our house and we have lots of them-but never enough. The National Book Festival is where my inner nerd just explodes into an external badge of honor. Why? Because there are three thousand other nerds with me-shoulder to shoulder. LFG and I had to haul ass from Chevy Chase to the Mall in order to make the book signing line for Daniel Silva before it closed. LFG could tell how excited I was to meet Silva and she was beyond compliant with my sense of urgency-she was rooting for us to get there in time. “Hurry daddy-hurry”. If you know anything about the Mall in D.C. then you know what a bitch parking down there usually is and especially during a festival. We usually take the Metro but this wasn’t an option. So, I park on a street adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial. The signing tents are at the far end of the Mall-nearest the U.S. Capitol. This is a trek, in the misty rain that is a haul for an adult-I was worried that LFG was going to start crying any minute. She’s a bit too heavy to ride on my shoulders-where she was a fixture for about five years.
My child is so cool. Her dad is a scatterbrained nerd. She had no other clothes to change in to but in retrospect, her soccer gear sans sin guards ended up being the perfect rig for the muddy grass and misty rain. She ended up with my Barbour and I ended up with nothing-as it should be.

Lady Barbour

We get to the queue for Daniel Silva and there are at least fifty people ahead of me and he’s been signing for almost an hour. There’s ten minutes left. All that hustling from one end of the Mall to the other and I’m not gonna get my book signed. One of the volunteers told me that he agreed to stay for an additional fifteen minutes-most authors are nice that way. I had to talk to him-there are a couple of characters in his novels that need some immediate attention and I had suggestions for him. I think LFG was as excited for me as I was proud to have my book signed.

Southern Cooking Maven Paul Deen is a really nice lady. Here you can see the back of her silver haired head as she is shuttled away from her signing. She had more security around her than the President usually has. Again, she’s a fine person but really-what’s gonna happen to her? Is some assassin gonna bean her with a ham hock?

Now this is a cool thing about hanging out with a nine year old who likes books. We then go over to the lecture tent and listen to Daniel Silva speak about his latest book as well as his approach to writing the spy thrillers that I so love. LFG is good with this but we have a conflict. Jeff Kinney-author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books is speaking at the Children’s Pavilion. Kinney trumps Silva so we head over there.

Jeff Kinney has an overflow crowd and I’m not gonna let my little LFG down. I stand her on a table while gathering a stabilizing fistful of Barbour in my hand and we are good. Jeff Kinney is magic with these kids. ADG cannot nudge under the tent awning so I’m keeping my child stable while standing precisely where the water is running off the tent. I needed a shower anyway. I looked like a wet t-shirt contestant and not a pretty one.

Kinney has already signed books for an hour and agrees to go back to signing tent number 13 and sign more books for the kids. LFG and I haul ass over to the sales tent-buy his latest and then run to the queue. LFG meets Jeff Kinney-gets her book signed and it’s all good. What a guy.

LFG gets attacked while cloaked in Barbour. We had to make up all kinds of fun and games to sojourn back to the car without crying from dampness and exhaustion.

 I do think we tend to take the Monuments on the Mall for granted sometimes. The Lincoln Memorial at sunset is to me, the most spectacular view as you had over the Memorial Bridge-for us it was going home time.

Pre Book Festival Bean shoddings.

Post Festival-Now Broken In
So yes, the walk back to the car was grueling. Twice as long it seems when you are tired and wet. Home to Old Town and comfort food prepared by dad before we crash. Went to the early Handlin’ and reveled in a lazy day yesterday. Five Guys post Handlin’. Gotta keep those arteries clear.

We had a blessed weekend and hope that you have a blessed week.

Onward-wet with signed books

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