My Sartorial Library: Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?

It’s 1983. I’m mostly clad in Corbin and Berle and maybe one Southwick suit and a smattering of half-price Polo stuff that I’d go over to Columbia, S.C. and pinch when Brittons would have a sale. Oh, and I had Hertling suits from when Julie Hertling made jackets and pants. I was low on dosh but just like today, real, real high on appetite and taste level. The proverbial beer budget—champagne taste thang. But here we are in '83 and I’ve got a real job and the fools are paying me nineteen thousand—six hundred dollars per year plus car and expense account. Pinch me.

WAH…seven years older and one of the most stalwart Trad guys ever, was in ’83 and is today, one of my best buddies in the world. He’d just exited a first marriage and so his apartment was our staging area for all kinds of guy antics and debauchery and … I think today they call it a hook-up. Shut up. That's WAH today, still about as Trad as they come.

So I walk in one day and there’s this paperback book on WAH’s coffee table and the cover is packed with tasty images of all kinda sartorial goodies. “Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?” I asked. Keep in mind; this was pre, the 1987 Wall Street/Michael Douglas Flusser launching pad. “He’s some designer/clothier guy who’s written a book” was the WAH response. Little did I know that my gander at the book and subsequent borrowing of it without explicit permission (I’ve yet to return it twenty-nine years later) would launch what would become a sartorial library that’s probably as robust as many and more so than most.

Also, obviously, I had at that moment, no idea that I’d end up making a little more dough through the years and piss scads of it away bespeaking some of the tastiest conceptions that the…to-this-day-second-to-none color, tone, texture master Sensei Flusser directed me to commission.

Even crazier, if someone had told me in 1983 that I’d actually be the owner of the very pair of Flusser’s alligator tassel loafers depicted on the cover of the book, I’d a checked you for a fever.

If someone had told me that I’d have a daughter one day who would, during one of her evening prayers, ask God to bless “President Obama and Alanflusser”, I’d have surely laughed you out of the room. LFG by the way, refers to Alan with a run-on one word moniker…Alanflusser.

So it’s only fitting that I kick off my sartorial library posts with my first ever book on such things. The Master Sensei Flusser’s first book is modest compared to what he would turn out later but it’s precious to me for many reasons.

Onward. Wearing my Bobby from Boston Advent Calendar Keepers Tweed…named such, courtesy of Flo.

ADG II

Scorched Coat Tactics or Stop, Drop and Roll

Ok, here’s what really happened to the bellows pocket cavalry twill masterpiece. Hopefully this will quell the curiosity and preclude additions to the three thousand emails I received asking about the singed sartorial masterpiece.

Nothing good happens after midnight. Butcept the night in question with the Tone. After constant consumption of see-throughs I develop unique capabilities. Four of the above and at the stroke of midnight my crooning capabilities trump Sinatra. And an additional bonus is that I suddenly posses cunning linguistic skills. On this night I was fluent in Mandarin Chinese. Shut up.

Had my emerging skills and charm remained limited to Sinatraesque Mandarin, the coat would be intact today. The usual drink thrown in my face wouldn’t have done anything but further patinated my twillessence. But then I glanced over at the jazz club stage and there she was. I kid you not, it was Josephine Baker. 

Paris in the twenties be damned, Ms. Baker was in great form and her rhythmic Bakerosities manifested in me, my inner Dance Fever skills. Then the trouble soon began.

It was the Fire Dance sequence that really spoke to me. “I can do that” I said to myself in Mandarin. And then I said “Do what daddy?” and then I said it again in Southern English to which I responded“Well of course you can”.

I seem to remember that they offered me, upon witnessing my moves, a scanty outfit similar to Ms. Baker’s and the other performers but I was on a roll with the fire-sticks—literally. Someone said “don this” but I looked at it and it seemed too Don Ho and I felt that the Polynesian theme was already well represented. Plus, I’ve never thought my nipples look right. So in my best Mandarin I said “naaahhhh” and they said “what?” and then I said it again in Southern English and they said “ok den”.

Fire dancing wasn’t a problem—I was a natural. My martini breath was a problem but fire breathing seemed to go hand in hand with my act so I kept hacking and coughing pyrotechnically between back flips. 

The mid-week crowd of seven roared with approval and gasped with the thrill that only a Mandarinsinatrafiredancefromsouthcarolina can evoke. The trouble began when the Southern Fratty Chinese Disco gator move flung itself upon me in an undeniable way.  This is a jazz club and I figured that improvisational riffs, centric to an individual performers’ niche skills, gifts and motivations would be accepted and frankly...expected. I did overhear Tone say one time to someone at the bar… "I don’t know the impish little man. I’ve never seen the effer in my life".

I hit the floor, fire-sticks now flailing, no longer turning with ADG precision. Flames were askew and I was too. My Mandarin Sinatra turned immediately into high pitched Andy Kaufman Caspiarian yelps for help. The next thing I remember was the crowd yelling “stop, drop and roll” but I thought amidst odiferous singed-hair weft wafts that they were yelling “rock and roll” ...you know, kinda like how drunk Southern rednecks yell "Freebird" at outdoor rock concerts in the summer. So I retortilated in what by then was surely a mongrelized sinatramandarinkaufman pidgin… "rock and roll?This is a jazz club and rock and roll ain’t what we do here." And then half the crowd left. Yes, three point five patrons fled.

I woke up when the chilly Center City Philly air filled my lungs and I was levitating. Not really. Tone had me by the collar of my singed Flusser contrivance and he was cussing at me and saying something, in English, about how he’d never agree to meet up with a fellow blogger again. He then threw me in the trunk of his car and drove me over to my hotel.

So here’s to one of my most unique sartorial undertakings—now ready for the undertaker.

And here’s to my promise to never have more than three see-throughs in one evening.

And to resist the siren call of fire-dancing and Mandarin crooning. No matter how seductive the hallucinatory beckoning from the crowd may seem. Shut up.

It’s a flimsy but not totally inefficacious consolation that I still have my cavalry twill covertilated keepers-tweed Advent Calendar coat that I snagged at Bobby From Boston.

And no, I won’t be replacing the coat. The original run of cloth from which the suit was made has now been exhausted. The costs involved in remaking only the coat aren’t worth the risk of even the slightest fabric mismatch. Plus, I’ve got to save money for LFG’s surgery. Yes, my baby is gonna require corrective-interventional orthopedic surgery. It’s for the best and you’d do it for your child too. If we don’t do this for our little precious, the consequences both social and tactile will be tragic.

“Why?” you ask. See for yourself. LFG has…Man hands.

Onward.  ADG…Fire Dancer Emeritus.

Lumber Jack Noir and Trad Miscellanea

Whew. After such an unintentionally provocative story the other day, it’s time for some superficial randomanalia. And all of that over a straw hat. Don’t get me wrong, I loved observing the back and forth between all of you and wouldn’t want to inhibit that in any way. But every now and then we need some mental floss—a cerebral palette cleansing dose of something. And here it is. Because trust me, I’ve got some heavy duty shitake coming in the next few weeks.

I’m prone to hygiene holidays when I’m alone and now that I’m wracked with what I call the respiratory crud, the no-shave, baseball cap option is even more appealing. But I did clean up the other day for a brief trip to the office and then to dinner—alone—again—naturally.

Winter white moleskins from Cordings. I bought three pairs of moleskins and two pairs of corduroys at Cordings in June of 1995 at about a zillion percent off. And they’ll probably last forever—bulletproof. Yep. So along with a pair of Ralph wool socks I channeled what I call Lumber Jack noir. Shut the ____ up. I don’t feel well and I have no one to play with this week so I don’t want to hear it.

No break. And I mean it. Flat front trousers with narrower legs demand a clean culmination in ankle land. No break. And these 1 5/8 inch cuffs were installed before my two inch epiphany.

But it’s two inch cuffs from here on out. Don’t argue this with me. Two inchers in all their Polo Ralph flat front beltless glory Surprise...I had them made in orange. You saw it here first. Right here.

So I left the office and headed over to my little French greasy spoon around the corner. What you see as you walk the quarter of a block is Christ Church. The Anglican installment best known for being George Washington’s church when he “came to town.” Young Bobby Lee worshiped there as well…after his mama, Ann Carter Lee had to decamp Albemarle County and Stratford because Light Horse Harry Lee pissed away all of the family dough. And Roosevelt accompanied Churchill to Christ Church during one of Winnie's visits. Seems logical. New Amsterdam WASP shuttles the uber Anglican Winnie over to the local Anglican house of (poised/restrained) worship.

I'm gonna do a story about Winston Churchill in caricature someday. But for now, here is a snap of two Winnie caricatures that live in my little hallway...awash in retail red.

So I took my usual place in the dining alone corner and began my comfort food journey. Painfully cold weather calls for Cassoulet but the Dover sole was whispering… “Order me again…order me again you lonely, yet intriguingly, in an impish sort of way, sexy man.”

Well damn, how do you deny such a siren call? Against my better judgement, I did. But not before I had a slice of middle of the road pâté. Good ole country pâté would worry me if it was anything but average. This stuff kinda appeals to a southern boy in a Boudin, liver pudding, hogshead cheese kind of a way.

I’ve never had a bad Cassoulet even though this one was a little bit dry and as always, too much.

 And I now offer this from a perspective of morphological admiration…not lust. The waitress must have been doing a ton of yoga. Stellar derrière…sublime. And I bet it would be just the same if I hadn't had two of those magical concoctions I so love. That would be ice-water.

Peach Melba, Café au lait and I’m done.

Till I get home. It’s a holiday week and I generally don’t drink hard spirits alone but I needed one of these see-throughs to see me through till bedtime. I was out of NyQuil. Shut up. 

 So let’s shift gears and revisit my Bobby from Boston gets. I’ve pretty much sorted out with you the two covert twill coats that I snagged. But looky at the perfecto navy blazer. Whether you bespeak something from Savile Row or buy sixty five dollar jackets from Bobby; there’s an immutable issue regarding fit that must be reconciled before pondering any other adjustment. Sleeves can be shortened, sides can be tapered. But the true index for whether or not a garment is for you is the way it fits the neck and shoulders. 

There’s very little that can be done to lower a collar or adjust shoulders. That’s where most of the handwork is manifest and where most of the customization has already occurred for the original owner. If the fit sucks in neck/shoulder land, the garment’s always gonna look kinda sucky. I’ve had enough clothes made for me over the last twenty years to know when something fits. And I’ll tell you that the shoulder/neck fit on this little Bobby from Boston ditty is as good as I’ve ever had.

Griffon amongst retail red. (sorry...I'm stuck on the retail red thing...it remains funny to me but I'm sure it will subside in another post or two) Now the Griffon escutcheon could mean a hundred things. The original owner could have been a member of “The Griffin/Griffon Club” or they could have been a veteran of one of the British Ranger battalions that use the Griffon as part of their iconographic manifestation. But I’ve debunked this one. It’s the logo for Elmer and Lurlene Griffin’s Auto Body. Elmer and Lurlene opened a bondo slathering, chicken wire and hay baling twine car put-back-together emporium years ago. In Pamplico South Carolina. Shut up.

My other rare foray from home so far this week saw me, even with the respiratory crud; manifest cabin fever so I drove out to the country and grabbed my usual supply of Crane Crest secret salad cologne.

And my hygiene holiday manifested in jeans, Red Wings and my LFG Patagonia thing. Red Wings. A real work boot and made in America. At least they were when I bought these in 1996 on King Street in Old Town. Back when a family owned work shoe—boot store remained in business. It’d been there for fifty years when I bought these. And of course they are long gone. Most everything now on King Street is a frou frou boutique of some sort butcept two wig shops. I want the wig shops to always be in Old Town. It reminds me of how dodgy upper King Street was in 1989. Canaries in the coal mine of gentrification…when the wig shops go; we’ll be 100% uppity. Upper King Street 1989…the antithesis of Lower Sloane Street in any decade.

 Someone emailed me and axked if the Patagonia top was as shockingly green in real life or had I enhanced the photo. Nope. It’s green. Fuzzy green.

My Restoration Hardware chair remains in Georgetown. I stopped by to check on it the other day.

Right after I bought pediatric Blunnies for my little buddy who I’ll see next week.

And the chair also remains in the Old Town location as well. And no I’m not gonna buy it. Six months from now, a half dozen of these will find their way to the Restoration Hardware Outlet in Leesburg. They’ll have a ding or two on them and they’ll have an adjusted MSRP of around nine hundred bucks. Just watch.

And so I’ll close this installment of superficialia with a couple of things. Is it just me or is Jennifer Beals looking more and more like the late Dixie Carter? I’d say that’s a compliment for either of them.

 Continued Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. This time from the junk man in Old Town.

Onward. En route to replenish my DayQuil/NyQuil cache.

ADG II

Christmas Just Ain’t Christmas and the “Bobby Rig”

We always played R&B Christmas music at the fraternity Christmas party and I loved this old O’Jays classic. So listen to the O’Jays and then I’ll teach you what to do with vintage clothes once you get them home.

My two “Bobby Cavalry Twill” jacketings will remain my vintage finds of the decade. Honestly, for the total price, I don’t know what I’ll ever find to trump these two bullet proof babies. And they are both gonna be great with jeans and casual cords/moleskins sans neckwear. 

The bulletproofness of these babies is unimpeachable. But please, let’s not shoot me to see if my unimpeacheablesque little self can withstand the round.

If this one was any fuzzier with flaps, tabs and accoutrement I’d need to shave it mid-day. Slick this one is. Slicker than snot on doorknob. Shut up.

So herein preens a dressed version of the twill. Gingham and Bohemian…pinned peacefully together. Kinda Jethro Bodine meets Jack London at TJ Max. Shut the….

Brown gingham sports this thing up just right. Pin the collar and you're dressed enough but only just enough.

And if you really want to confuse the masses...which of course I feel called upon to do...you wear french cuffs and deco cuff snaps. 

Andre Plumot looks on-approvingly. My Plumot self portrait, a small painting-oil on board-would be one of the first things I'd grab if the house be on fire. Chest pocket flap precludes, even for me, a pocket square. 

The other twill is creamier and less twillish than the first one. Only a bit less fuzzy sans chest pocket flap but no less bulletproof and very willing to accommodate my Father's Day square from my girlfriend LFG.

It's December. It's cold. So let's underpin this menage with a J. Press sweater vest. 

Lesson over. Now please-listen to my second favorite R&B Christmas song..."Boogie Woogie Santa Claus". Tons of people have covered this song but I love the Patti Page version best of all. I do however, regardless of who's singing the song, have concerns over the admonishment that Santa should "rock, rock, rock Mister Santa...jump, jump, jump Mister Santa." He is a fat little man with I'm sure, some lipids, sugars and pressures problems and he ought not be runnin' and jumpin' too much.

Onward. Bullet Proofingly Boogieing and Woogieing.

ADG, II