Just Write--Something

“Just write. Something”. Ok, I’m writing. About what I don’t know.

The above request/admonishment was posited by the one of those few readers who for some silly-ass reason seem to think that they’re missing something due to my hack-scrivener’s sabbatical.

Truth though is that I miss telling stories. And I thought that channeling my writing energies into more industry articles and white papers  for my consulting business would yield more…business. Come on. If at my peak, I could get between one and two thousand knuckleheads every day to read my “oh look at my cute daughter and these crazy ass pants I had Flusser make and oh-my-damn-goodness how they just make these papier-mâché Belgian loafers pop”—then surely I could become more of a thought leading presence in my professional space, right?

And of course there were those once per month maudlin ditties about my mama who won’t die or my daddy who left me nursing an intractable, open wound in my heart. Oh, and the divorced man uber-father “your daughter is so lucky to have a dad like you” cries. If I didn’t make somebody’s ass cry at least once per month I felt like I wasn’t hacking properly. Can one cry out of their ass? Shut up.

I can now say that after these many months not blogging, the opposite has occurred. We are amidst, albeit still a blessed one, a very slow business year after five back-to-back bell ringers. Causation-correlation? Hell, I don’t know but it seems like a good enough excuse to write maybe a story per week. We’ll see.

Oh, and the tumblr thing hasn’t helped at all. It’s the monosodium glutamate of digital media. It’s a truncated no-brainer for me and it poaches visual cues and ideas that pre-tumblr would have become a blog story.  Should I shut it down?

Is my Mojo limping back? My Groove sputtering towards a restart? I’d like to consider myself one who never really needed a groove or mojo to churn out sausage-like, the volume of caca that I did before. But I can unequivocally say that I’m about as mojo-less at present than I have been in ages. Am I trying in some kinda half-ass way to believe that if I start the time sucking five hours per week writing blog stories, my overall mojo will improve? I’m having a harder time rationalizing this than I do when justifying the dosh to pop for a pair of bespoke Cleverley’s.  

Less was never more for me—you know that. My A.D.D. gift—and it truly is a gift—always precluded any level of editorial discipline when my blog posits were strung together. That’s why you’d get one story that involved shoes, Robert E. Lee, Dover Sole, LFG’s squawking clarinet concert, the banishment of madras and GI Joe. And you’d tell me that the twisty-turny-ness of it was great. Wonder if they’d be better or worse if I stopped taking my meds?

So what will I write about? Maybe the fact that after one year of living in in my Bethesda Cottage Minimus, my move feels kinda like LFG and I planned thoroughly and collaborated precisely on a party and nobody came.

Or perhaps I’ll bemoan any kind of change or progress, even though as a consultant and teacher, I get paid to deal in, facilitate-incite-offer glimpses of its inevitability. 

And maybe I’ll lament the transitory nature of life and I’ll use LFG’s started two weeks ago, freshman year of high school—I still can’t believe it—as my latest pain point. 

Three more years and she'll be packing her bags for college. Damn. She was just learning to write her name in cursive when I first shared her with you. 

And there’s always shoes. And lately its been kilim slippers...that are becoming mainstream faster than Belgians did. And this ain't a good trend. 

Can't forget Shell Cordovan. There's always something to say about horse hide.

Or Bernese Pooches.

I'm over the top in love with this breed and I will have one. 

Maybe a ditty about beards.

And why I can't seem to let mine grow beyond 3.5 weeks.

Or the first eye exam I had in six years--couldn't pass the highway department eye test--and the fact that progressive lenses are the best invention since central damn air-conditioning. Oh, and contact lens--the newest lens material/technology is great. 

And the kick-ass resurrection of Bookster and their new and improved fishtail trousers--a waistband affectation that if everybody else starts wearing, I'll ban in a heartbeat. Shut the ....

Or the admirable, Dorothy Parker doppelganger-esque wife of Todd Hog Howell--the gal who in my own home, during her first visit, flicked a booger on me. Oh, and she nicknamed me "D-Bag" within twelve hours of plopping down her girl supplies in the bathroom. Damn. 

Oversized houndstooth? I can. You can't. Nobody should. Shut up.

And art...with the never boring back story, sleuthing, learning, correlating missions that sometimes even the most twee and insignificant sketch offers me.

Or the fact that I'm not a hoarder but I can't throw anything remotely sentimental away.

Nothing. 

And books...and the fact that this book-per-week-at-least (with meds) can no longer finish a book. 

And my mama—at least for a while longer.

So let’s see what the next few weeks hold. But should I dump my tumblr?

Onward. ADG-2

(Thank God there’s not a 3^rd one)

Last Days of Linen

…and Seersucker too while we’re at it.

I’m known and prone to bend break the rules and and amidst these remaining shards of  post-Labor Day heat, I’ll be extending my use of linen till probably Halloween. Your Seersucker (yes, I capitalize Seersucker. I’m from the South. South and Seersucker deserve to be capitalized and I don’t have to explain it. Shut up.) however, must now be gone. At least around these parts.

I have a buddy in South Carolina—we coulda been blood brothers…our proclivities-quirks and other idiodamnsyncrasies are almost identical…kinda like me and LFG’s Uncle Toad…butcept I still have abs and those guys don’t—who uses the “85 Degree Rule” and it makes sense for South Carolina. According to my Sandlapper cousin, it makes no difference what month it happens to be, if it’s 85 degrees, everything in the closet, including Seersucker remains fair game. I’ll go with that—but only in climes like the Carolinas or that tropical place where I lived for a couple of years—New Orleans. (The punctuation in this paragraph has the makings for a Goat Rodeo. Shut up.)

My cadet blue linen togs barely arrived in time for any 2013 use but they managed to eke their way to me a week ago. And I’m still all about frog mouth-top pockets and flat fronts on my casual trousers. I don’t wear navy blue trousers. They just don’t seem to go with any of my jackets and even if they did, the stark contrast is too much for me. So the cadet blues offered an alternative to a twelfth pair of tan linen trousers and enough contrast that I can pull these off with a navy blazer.

Figured I’d get ‘em in Seersucker while I was at it. And for winter 2013? Light gray flannel—top pockets—flat front—BUT with belt loops. I need a canvas from which my Orange Fuzzy Coffman’s Crocodile belt will preen. You laugh now. You’ll be jonesin’ later. Be quiet.

Two inch cuffs, too…and a dress extension front closure on flat fronts. These are enough of a folly, design-wise, to keep me interested and others curious. If only I could manage that in my romantic endeavors. Where’s that neighbor lady this morning. I've suddenly got a cravin’ flung on me.

My other quirky-fuzzy trouser experiment over these recent years was thanks to Bookster (R.I.P.) and my ideation of a flat-front, dress extension, split back—fishtail waistband tog—reminiscent of cavalry officer trews. Dark green corduroy above.

Got ‘em in grey flannel, Seafield tweed, and tan linen too.I wonder if Bookster will rise again. Anybody know?

Ok, I digress…back to linen and seersucker. Of all my potential follies in 2013, my M. Dumas—Vineyard Vines seersucker jeans…aren’t one of ‘em. Home run. Period. And for some crazy reason, I can make ‘em work. Shut up.

Light as a feather yet substantial enough to keep all the bits secure when going commando. Seersucker Commando. Now that’s something.

Since I’m down to writing two stories a month, let me really digress and offer an update on my move and LFG and everything else. I drug dragged  my feet for months on end regarding pulling the trigger on a place in Bethesda. I’ve got great excuses but they are excuses nonetheless. One of my business partners had a second heart surgery in January so we were all doing extra duty, my mother’s high drama health saga began in March and has kept me pretty much consumed during every bit of free time I’ve had to break away and go to South Carolina and assist. But I promised LFG that I’d be in Bethesda when the new school year started—and I barely made the deadline.

And when she and I found this quaint little cottage we both knew that this would be a great nest for me/us. As I explained to her; even though I’d only be five minutes away, I would still be spending more time in my Bethesda nest without her than not. Therefore it was crucial that the place felt right and good for me. I signed a two-year lease on this house and my hope is that I’ll be inclined to stay here till LFG graduates from high school.

It’s been humbling to learn how much sh_t one person can accumulate in ten years. My marriage ended a decade ago and I’ve happily added more books and toy soldiers and caricatures and clothes and other irreleventia to my holdings during this epoch. And I swear that I’ve given tons of stuff to Goodwill and have shed at least two hundred books.

But this move has shed light on the fact that I’m a borderline hoarder. Tasty hoards but hoards none the damn less. And to exacerbate the issue I closed my office in Old Town and now all of the caricatures and other goodies that swathed those walls are here in Bethesda too. It’s all good but I’ve gotta have a purge of sorts rather soon.

So it is all good, right? You bet. Moving is one of the top stressors in life…right up there with divorce, marriage, loss of a loved one etc. But some stress can be good and I’d define this move as positive tension. I’m going to be very happy here and can even co-parent the pooch now. However.

The renovation of my Old Town digs is another story. I’m on the record admitting that I’m a terrible investor but my saving grace has been the rental properties that I’ve owned in Old Town. I moved back into one when I divorced and began to half-ass evolve it into my own little Anglophilic Redneck Ass Deliverance Meets Sir John Soan with a splash of Hollister Hovey while babysitting Honey Boo Boo  pad.

And unbeknownst to me, it was a hot mess when I began to create the punch list of stuff that needed to be done to revert it back to the updated neutrality that rental properties need to convey. To say that I bit off more than I could chew…to say that there have been moments when I was teetering on being in over my head is an understatement.

But when the quotes started to roll in I declared that I could save ten grand by handling everything myself. And I will ultimately save the ten grand but methinks I’ve at least vanquished two of my years. I’ve been working twelve-hour backbreaking days and until yesterday, I couldn’t see that I’d made any progress. 

Never say never…but I’m pretty sure the next time around I’ll at least hire someone to do a few of the more aggravating jobs.

Aggravating? Ten years’ worth of half-ass do it yourself endeavors creates a pile of onerous revisions and I wasn’t gonna let someone else discover my previous “hell, it looks good enough for me” shortcomings while I was standing there. 

Drywall that came off in chunks when I removed prefab wainscoting…chair rail moulding nails that hadn’t been properly countersunk with a nail punch and had three different coats of paint slopped on them…

Crown moulding that needed recaulking but only after the old, cheap silicone caulk had been stripped. Bathroom fixtures, carpet and appliances that were installed in 1989. Damn.

And dark colors? Barney Purple LFG bedroom with Day-Glo orange outlet covers and lime green doors? I’ve used ten gallons of primer on one door. Never. Again.

Here's the Barney Purple bedroom after a zillion hours of .....

I did remove and replace the door facing with LFG's measurements on it.

And the new appliances are installed in the kitchen but I still can't muster the juice to erase LFG's chalk scribbles just yet. And no, I won't have the drywall cut out and replaced. I just need to suck it up and...erase it.

Bold striped walls with black and white photos in the half-bath. Brilliant, right?

I'll have all of that particular brilliance vanquished this weekend.

Ok. I’m gonna close this drivel and roll the refuse carts to the street. I live in the suburbs now and that’s what we do. And since I'm still getting to know my neighbors and first impressions are so important, I'm gettin' dolled up in linen before I step out.

Onward. With Aleve and Icy Hot--I've got Paint Roller Elbow.

ADG II--Bethesda

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Sir T’oad McThrottle’s Request

Let’s talk tweed…Keeper’s if you will. And flannel. Why not, it’s only gonna be just shy of a hundred degrees—again—here inside the Beltway today. And what about my extra good buddy T’oad’s request? It seems that Sir T’oad (The apostrophe is a one-off affectation that I throwed on this morning, thinking that I may weave some fictitious French or other Continental lineage into Sir T’oad’s journey to his current position as landed gentry. But then I thought better of it. He is devoid of pigment.) declares it too soon for tweed talk and has requested refrain from such.

And the McThrottle moniker comes from his rightful belief that any blogger who mentions flannel or tweed before the weather gets nippy deserves a flogging. Here’s his exact words from my tumblr… “Mentally, I've promised myself that until the weather cools, I'd throttle the first guy who posts about tweed, flannel, wool, etc. Consider yourself throttled.” Ok den.

And he’s correct. But I had to post the photo above. The lighting sucked but if you’d seen this thing in situ, you’d a take a photo too. The lushness of the navy blue flannel was stunning. Marky Mark Mark Rykken of Paul Stuart Custom made this rig for one of the minions at The Rake. You’ll see it in an upcoming issue.

It is too early to talk tweed but I’m gonna do it. I’m a warm weather guy but if I’ve gotta endure the rawness of winter, I’d like to do so swathed in the topographical and geometric fuzziness of texturated English fabrics. All of the cloths and many of the contrivances over at Bookster remind me of Edwardian English shooting parties and as I type this, the salad days print ads from Polo Ralph harken for me the same recollectionated juju.

For you South Carolinians who read this load, I define the Polo “salad days” somewhere within the range of 1975-1985…with Thousand Island dressing and two two-packs of Melba toast. South Carolina Diner style.

Ok, back to tweeds and such. The impracticalities of those shooting party outfits present a dilemma. Or as someone taking shots at me over at my tumbler said about the intent, utility or relevance of my clothes, declaring them as—and I paraphrase loosely—“outfits for parties and events to which you no longer get invited.” I reckon the reason that stung is because my snide commentator is right. I’m wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants pajama bottoms right now so what event am I currently ready for? People like me get all caught up in the possibilities of such outfits and then find that, and I paraphrase my not so anonymous shot taker again, we don’t get invited to … “butterfly collecting but only when the mosquitoes aren’t so bad” events where the costumery is mandatory.

But I still had to have one. The tweedy Shooting Party esque two-piece contrivances that always look so damned good on people who are doing things where such kit is appropriate have always intrigued me. But not enough to spend the dough necessary to commission one for my damn self. I don’t generally run with the Highland Wingshooting, Stalking, Moors slogging crowd.

That’s where Bookster comes in. I’ve yet to have them make a jacket for me but my fifth pair of Bookster trousers is in the works right now. Hopefully they’ll roll in with enough time left for me to wear them once this season. Linen flat front fish-tails.  Oh, and fish-tail split backs are tricky as hell. You better know your size because when you start fiddling with waist alterations, you’re gonna foul the fish. That is, if you can find a tailor willing to take on the task.

I’ve spent tons of dough on custom clothes but I rarely allow the Flusser boys to make odd trousers for me. Hertling and Bookster quality/caliber is just fine for me. Really. So amidst my longing for a Shooting Party-esque suit that I’ll never wear, I wondered if the Bookster Seafield piece goods would remotely match up with my already well-worn and beloved Flusser Seafield poacher pocketed chest pocket flapped jacket that always gets admirable reviews.

I requested a swatch and the match-up is fine. Just fine. But I didn’t get much of a chance to wear this rig last season because, just like my linens that I decided to order at the wrong time, the Bookster trousers rolled in a bit too late in the season.  And when you order the proper sized fish tail trousers, this is what they should look like.

And then…and then I began to think about the Vanity Fair shooting prints. Several prints capture the essence of  shooting party dress and Lord Savile of RuffordAbbey has probably the best display of shooting kit as any of the Vanity Fair victims. “Spy”…Sir Leslie Ward, had, by the time he drew Savile for Vanity Fair, devolved his caricaturing skills to nothing more than society portraiture. You’ll see the difference in Ward's earlier caricatures. Stay tuned.

Here’s further evidence that Ward’s Vanity Fair contrivance was nothing more than a portrait…certainly not caricature. The Vanity Fair image is almost identical to Savile's photograph. I’ve long since, thank goodness, given up my flirtation with a mustache but Savile’s is one for the record books.

And Rufford Abbey? Similar to many of the estates which thrived when the balance of land ownership and thus every other venue to power was held in the hands of few, Rufford Abbey is no longer.  Here's a few more Vanity Fair shooting subjects...

Sir R.W.Payne-Gallwey

Sir R.W.Payne-Gallwey…Letters to Young Shooters.

Payne-Gallweywas a fairly prolific author whose three volume Letters to Young Shooters and his Book of Duck Decoys are highly collectible today.

R.H.R Rimington Wilson.  Listed by The Field as number sixty-nine of the one hundred best shots in English history.

R.H.R Rimington Wilson…Driven Grouse.

The Earl De Grey. Frederick Robinson, 2nd Marquess of Ripon

The Earl De Grey…The Best Game Shot in England. But how difficult is it to be the best game shot in England when you’ve got estate raised birds and beaters driving them to you?

Richard John Lloyd Price of Rhiwias. Author of Practical Pheasant Rearing and Rabbits for Profit—Rabbits for Powder.

As well as Dogs’ Tales

Oh and Dogs Ancient and Modern and Walks in Wales.

Richard John Lloyd Price of Rhiwias…Pointers.

Ok, time for me to bust out of my Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas and get cracking on the day. Somebody please, invite me to something this coming season where I can wear this rig. I’ll bring my first shotgun with me. It was a .410 Flight King…from K-Mart. Hoyt Purdey sold it to my daddy.

And speaking of shotguns and stuff...This is anything but tweed. It's Weejuns, keg beer and ...

Onward. Throttled. ADG II