Part Two: Birmingham Alabama—In Alden Pebble Grain

Well to be honest I’m not quite ready for part two of my Alden Pebble Grain—Birmingham story. And I promise there will be more about haberdashery-esque observations and less ramblings about Birmingham in the tumultuous civil rights sixties.

But I’ve still got a little more of that stuff that I need to purge from my little system. The Mountain Brook Club and the Country Club of Birmingham and what I’ll call the Angst of the Mules must be addressed briefly in the next installment. Stay tuned.

What I am ready to talk about is Father’s Day. My hope is that all of you fathers in my sphere and all who comment on my blog and tumblr drivel—many of you who’ve become great friends—had a stellar day yesterday.

LFG and her mother came over to CasaMinimusBethesda and we had a nice dinner. Outside. Swathed in Deep Woods Off with DEET. And Miss Reilley, Lily’s Cavalier King Charles Princess was here in full form. She is forbidden to have table scraps. That’s code for “ADG gave her wee bits of grilled NY Strip steak and a lot of it." Yep.

I’m not sure I used my Father’s Day gift properly. LFG's mama was a hollerin' and suggesting that we call the fire department. 

And let me tell you. All of you huggers who think that DEET is the devil, well you must not have the high ass caliber skeeters that live here in my patch. These bad boys bit thru my heavy starched linen shirt last night. I think it’s a combination of the predictable skeeter insatiability  and a special siren song pull of knowing that my particular sweet meat awaits them. Otherwise, I just don’t think a skeeter would risk damaging their fencing foil snouts trying to punch through my stiff linen barrier. Shut the _____.

LFG and her mom. My baby is anything but a baby anymore.

And finally, the greatest gift that I could have received yesterday came from a friend—blood brother caliber friend—who started out as a client of mine. Almost bought tears to my eyes. Bill is navigating his journey with a level of grace and gratitude that can be a lesson for us all. He has two elementary school age little girls and an incredible wife. Bill and his wife are lovely inside and out because of the energy of sweet kindness that illuminates from within. Bill’s wife has metastatic breast cancer and is now declining further treatment. They are living moment by moment in gratitude for...The Moment.

The Moment. Folks, it’s really all we have.

Onward. With loving kindness. And wearing Hogg Howell GTH Kilim shoes. Just to piss off LFG's mom. 

ADG-II

Holiday Miscellany

And miscellany this shall be. Shut up.

Oh…but before you shut up and I take over; let me pop this story with something sartorial. Because it seems like that’s what this venue used to focus on. I need to confess my guilt…about over-fuzzying this jacket. I’ve taken a perfectly sublime, ain’t gonna see ones-damn-self walking down the street in the same Russell Plaid jacket, ADG tasty contrivance…and tarted it up so over-the-damn-top-ly that even I, the Potentate of P-tang, can’t wear it out of the damn house. 

So I’ll have that Velveteen Rabbit meets a Vegas hotel suite sofa cushion collar…removed. And then I’ll write a proper story about how this jacket came to be. Shut…I’m serious. I don’t want to hear it.

I’ve said it to scores of people…While my blessings absurdly outweigh my challenges, I’ll be giddy when 2013 is over. It’s been a rich year, life-learning wise and my lessons learned-humility account is filled to the damn brim. My pugnacious declarations regarding my desire for 2013 to pass are  balanced with the knowing that if I crow too much about ’13 being behind us, the karma coordinators may show me a 2014 that makes this one look like a stroll through Burlington Arcade. It’s all about balance. Or something.

And one of the most amazing blessings this year has been my mother’s decision to not yet leave us. I believe, deep, deep, down in my being, that if we; amidst chronic disease or the end of our life journey, have some unfinished something that we've yet to reconcile or say or do or experience, we won’t let go. I’m not sure why my mom didn’t die in March. All I know is that the doctors remain pretty much speechless and when science and data driven clinicians use twee-ass words like miracle, I take notice. So amidst the humbling—for her and us—duties involved with helping my mom, we are all aware that every day she remains with us is indeed a blessing.

I drove over to spend one evening with her after my uncle’s funeral the other day and she was to say the least, on her game! Sharp as a damn tack and in my grill about how I was arranging her leg pillows and her three blankets that have to be just damn right and her little footies that I put on her feet inside-out and you’d a thought that I’d chopped her feet off. And then we laughed after I finally, barely, got things arranged to suit her.

I hadn't been to the family farm in years so my trip down was filled with all sorts of memories and speculations about how I’d feel when I got there. While it’s sad to see the once bustling tobacco farms essentially idle—mainly because it’s winter—we rent the land to other sower-reapers so during the seasons, there is life and activity and the fallow fields are planted and life emanates. But I loved being there and my uncle’s funeral was sweet. More later on the farm because there’s fodder for at least one story.

Before…

After…And yes, I realize that you're doing the “what the flip is this project ‘cause I know that LFG ain’t a part of it” head scratch right now. Well just wait till I write the story. 

Socks…I told you this was gonna be a disjointed pile of irreleventia and collateralia. My latest obsession is with these oversized houndstooth thangs that F. Todd HogFarmer Howell of Coffman’s Menswear has been sending me…NOT for free. I pay the freight because my man FTH has a lovely little gal to spoil and I know what kinda dough that requires. So when I find something I like, I get duplicates and I’ve had FTHogg, the most mismatched swathier alive, supply me some spares of these babies.

And I owe my man Vinnie of DeoVeritas shirts a story and review of this bulletproof pink oxford cloth shirt that I commissioned over at his site. So until I do so, please go over to his fully automated, order with ease website and make yourself one. Please.

LFG was supposed to be over here at my Bethesda digs like every other day after I moved within five minutes of her, right? I mean...wasn’t that the strategy for moving here? Well so far it ain’t happenin’. What was I thinking? That her blessed and over-scheduled life would suddenly be less so? Christmas is in six days and we still ain’t got no tree. I’m gonna go and buy an inflatable one today.

But her holiday dance recital last weekend was just great. Surprise I know, but I’m as proud a parent when in the audience as anyone could be…regardless of how the performances go.

This year was different though. I can see real talent and I can see an incrementally more skilled and accomplished dancer in my not so little LFG. Her mother and I both marvelled at how this year’s recital showed us a daughter who’s a really talented performer. And then I went home. Alone.

Meermin…If anyone should pay me for shilling…which to-date nobody has, it should be Meermin. At $240.00 a throw, I’m awaiting pair number two. Merry Christmas. To. Me.

Let me close this one out with my mom’s next door neighbor, Harry. I shared photos of Harry and my mom when we finally got her out of the house and Harry bounded over to love up on her. I posted this on my tumblr but it’s sublime enough to share again. The best by far, Christmas card of 2013.

Onward. Randomly and Houndstoothically.

Eighty-Gee. Bofe

Oh! And one more thing. My all-time favorite Christmas song is Boogie Woogie Santa Claus sung by Mabel Scott. But her admonition for Santa to ... "run, run, run Mister Santa--jump, jump, jump Mister Santa" disturbs me. He's overweight and probably a type-2 diabetic with mild congestive heart failure. And we don't need his jolly ass on Worker's Comp. bam.

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

Navy Blah

My closet is full of fuzzy. You know—my sartorial contrivances that for the most part successfully made the breach from idea to existence in good form. 

I love pattern and texture and consistent with my Pee Dee roots, I’ll always like a little smidge of trashy thrown in too. Exhibit A for this “look at me, look at me” spore that still inhabits my essence is this redneck-ass pair of honky-tonk trailer trash drunk meets the Regatta britches I bought in Charleston the other week. It was half price time at M.Dumas, the only thing left on King Street in Charleston worth visiting (unless you wanna gander for a moment in that museum known as Ben Silver) but oh no…I had to pop for something full-price. That something being these Vineyard Vines please make fun of me thangs. Shut up. Shut the ___ up.

And this is how bad it’s gotten betwixt me and Ms. LFG. I waited till she was back in the room at the Mills House before I slipped down to Dumas and made the purchase. To this day she knows not that they exist since I sneaked ‘em in my travel bag and spirited them back home sub damn rosa. Kinda like the Underground Railroad for shit one ought not to be buying in the first place. Remember...she forbid me to wear my F. Todd Howell Hog Farmer Coffman Specials depicted above. Shut up I already said. 

I’m her father. She respects me and loves me and even though she only grunts at me now, the grunts are mine. All y’all  told me that the grunts are pretty much the only thing I’m gonna get for the next five years and if LFG saw these britches; I do believe amidst her somewhat sequestered feelings for me, she would thereafter cut me off from even the all too infrequent huffs and eye-rolls. It ain’t worth it.

But amidst all my color and pattern craziness, some kinda default anti-GTH override seems to be more consistent than the flurry of fuzziness that busts out from time to time. What is this default override of which I speak? Blue jackets and tan trousers. Case in point you axk for? My zillion pairs of tan or close to tan linen and cotton/silk trousers that I wear the hell out of all summer long. Did I need another pair? 

I thought so and the flat front, beltless, frog mouth cowboy pocketed pair seen here would be my latest contrivance. I still ain’t gonna tell you the source. It’s my dirty little secret but just suffice it to say that my spendthrift self ain’t gonna let Uncle Flusser or Miracle Mark Rykken make me no bespokeydoke britches at seven hundred a go. 

These are remarkably less...price-wise and as far as the need for quality and durability, these are rigorous enough. And tasty, tasty, tasty… ‘specially after we throwed a two-inch cuff on their south ends. Then again anything swathing my still in-shape temple of sexiness is gonna be tasty, tasty, tasty. Speak up.

And jackets? I wear a solid blue one seventy-five percent of the time. Certainly I love other things color and pattern wise and Miracle Mark Rykken at Paul Stuart has a lovely summer jacket in the works for me right now. It’s a great gaggle of pattern and color—with hacking flaps on it to make it just fuzzier enough.

But Miracle Mark also has for me in tandem with that jacket, another, you guessed it, blue one. But oh, it's different. Three-Two Roll--Peaked Lapels--Double Vented of course but the game changer on this one?...Hacking Pockets including ticket. Now that's different, no?

Blue jackets prevail…yet I’ve got those windowpane and tweedy things in my closet that I’m so crazy about and I’ve got a remarkable Russell Plaid jacket for winter that’s sitting right now on Savile Row awaiting my first fitting. It's a different shade than the one above and I’m gonna remain cagey and coy regarding who’s making it for me till I write a story about the jacket and the cutter this Fall. But for now I will say that he is the most imaginative cutter on the Row today…imaginative without being all tarted up like the current stewards of Huntsman's legacy. Damn. When I think that something’s too fuzzy or tarty then it probably is.

My interest in the Russell plaid was very precise. I didn’t want the common version infrequently offered in trousers and jackets off the peg. The standard version is rather brown with a light cream background that makes the already geometrically crisp Russell appear even more structured and harsh. There’s another version...above...that’s slightly greener and creamier and I’m just gonna tell you right now that it will be the bomb. Or as Zbigniew Brzezinski used to pronounce it…“bom-buh.” Now I’ve yet to see my Russell jacket and have deliberately not asked to see photos of it because I want my first sighting to be in situ. I missed my first fitting in New York when my mama blew up but one of my best buddies saw it. Here’s what he said…

“…and after we'd chatted a bit about this and that and him and her, he showed me a lovely exclusive swatch of brown checked tweed -- of which he had only enough for one or two suits -- and it was right down my street. So I said yes. Then he casually asked me if I wanted to see your jacket. Just as casually I said yes, and he brought it out: I was knocked completely base over apex; the antique Russell plaid made up beautifully. So beautifully in fact that I cancelled my original choice of the brown check and told him to make me up the Russell.”

You’ll learn who this fella is that’s aped my Russell when I write the story. Let me just tell you for now that I’ve never been prouder to have someone of his taste level be inspired by something that I contrived. Maybe he can make some headway with my little grunter, LFG.

Oh, and before we get back to blue jackets, the swatch(es) above has been bothering me for six months. I ran across it when I was seeking out the just-right version of the Russell plaid and I can’t get over it. Kinda like the carpincho hide that I’ve been obsessing over courtesy of those clever Cleverley boys. I thought I had it washed outta my noggin after seeing a garish, hip-hop pimp ass carpincho shoe in green. It was absurd enough to scare even my fuzzy redneck rump to death but somehow the carpincho spore has embedded itself once again. Be quiet. I’m not sure which of the two colorways above will prevail. Do you have an opinion?

My mostly navy…blue jacket penchant has always manifested with gold buttons….blazer style. Puerto Rykken and Alan Flussfluss made my blue linen jacket years ago and just assumed that I’d want horn buttons on it and sent it accordingly. And I accordingly called them and requested a set of gold buttons as soon as it arrived. I think it goes back to my college days when every KA wore a navy blazer with gold buttons. All the damn time.

Here I am years ago dancing with a little stunner on the deck of the Disney Cruise-r. Linen Flusser blazer and a dance partner who at that time still thought I was the Cat Daddy. 

Photo stolen once again--from Ivy Style. Shut up.

But times change and some proclivities adjust accordingly. The anti-fuzziness…the duende…the subtle confidence manifest in this man’s navy jacket caught me many months ago when we were having lunch in Gotham. G. the Bruce Boyer was rocking a navy double breasted jacket in a way that made me feel childish about my peacockery. And I’ve had that jacket on my mind ever since.

Photo stolen from Rose Callahan...Order your copy of I Am Dandy today. If not, I'll cut you.

The understated subtlety reminded me of those classic dressers who had very nice clothes but very standard things regarding color and cut. Bill Blass and Bobby Short come to mind. Both when not in formal attire, were usually seen in gray or blue clothes. Superbly cut and minimally accessorized. Could I ever become a student of such elegant restraint?   

I don’t know but what I do know is that I wanted to try such a jacket yet I had no budget for it. Rykken and Savile Row nicked my entire 2013 bespoke budget. So where might I turn for such an experiment and do so for less money? Seems like one thing that’s consistent in this story is my insistence on not uncloaking my sources. To that end, I’ll keep this one under wraps too—at least for now. The first fitting was quite good and I’ll do a write up on the jacket once I get it back after just a few needed tweaks.

It’s a hopsack but not one of those stiff feeling cheapies. Rather nice hand for the money and my hunch is that it’ll end up being a go-to staple. We’ll see how long I last before I tart it up with gold buttons. Yes by the way--that is a machine made button hole. I'm slumming in MTM land instead of bespoke. Most of you mugwumps don't even know the difference so leave me alone and I mean it. And before one of you Style Forum turds leaves an anonymous of course, message about the cheap plastic buttons...they are the try on buttons. Nicer ones will replace the scrimmage set.

Oh, and I couldn’t not do something to make it just a little bit pimpish. The lining is quintessential South Carolina Horry County Pee Dee White Trash. All to be damned. Inspired by G. the Bruce. Tarted up by D. the G.

Duplicates. After the Rykken one rolls in and the G. the Bruce inspired one makes way I'll be down to only six blue jackets.

Final point regarding owning duplicates of the same thing. If you know you've got backup, you're less likely to worry about the consequences of capricious behavior that might damage your goods. Case in point regarding my deportment is reflected here. Amidst that clothing carnage there's a navy blazer. This was a few summers ago when I got a craving flung on me and peeled down right then and there--outside. Can't recall now who exactly was the motivator but I'm sure we had a big time. And for you newbies who haven't read about my other antics, the above is nothing. I've been known to set my damn self on fire. Read here if you don't believe me. Now back to the pile of clothes in the photo...had I been really worried about my clothes getting soiled or had I been wearing a jacket made of some delicate dupioni or a fragile fresco...I'd a probably thought twice and then...done the same damn thing. 

Onward. Home from a wild week that began in Jacksonville and ended in the northern burbs of Chicago…flying with the summer vacation travel rookies. One copes.  

And what'll help me cope this weekend will be some Honky Tonk Healin'. Listen to my boy David Ball, a fellow South Carolina redneck, as he extols the virtues of the Honky Tonk Healin' process.

And one more thing…my mama—the one that was supposed to die last March—walked the other day. Six steps—with a physical therapist on each arm—but still.

ADG the Second One