Ode to Toad...dans Velours Côtelé

Blame this on Toad. He made me do it. Not directly mind you...for he knows nothing about this fuzztacious corduroy shawl collared thang. Leastways not till he stumbles upon this expose'. But it's the kind of thing he'd wanna do. Not stumble. But contrive something this...shall we say...experimental. And Velours Côtelé? Hell, I knew him. Firsthand. Sure as I'm writing this. He drove one of the only two taxis in Florence, S.C. for Moe the Rooster Taxi Service in the late sixties through the early seventies. Used to drive my daddy around when he'd had too much to drink. Which was always. Both of 'em. Mr. Côtelé and daddy. Seems like Velours drove a Deuce and a Quarter with special fabric for the headliner. My daddy wouldn't a much been all that for this jacket but Velours would been all over it. Butcept maybe in purple.

Surely it's a boondoggle and the maker of such things capricious isn't on Savile Row nor is it one of my Gotham Made-to-Measurers. I wouldn't tie-up too much dough in a rig like this and I won't get a sense of how it fits till this Thursday morning. Looks half-decent on the suit form though. Stay damn tuned.

"The Toad." Yep. That's what we'll name this model. Care to the wind it is. Just like my good buddy Toad. But he does care about the things worth caring about. Like friendships and family and little girls. You should read the nice letter that he sent LFG along with his Christmas gift to her. It's in the forever file. He applied for an Unclehood and I advised Princess LFG to oblige him.

Crazy ain't it? This jacket. I considered cloth covered buttons and still might go that route. Bam. Shut the...

Black Tie? Perhaps. In the comfort of a private party. Like the delightful one that the Elegantologist hosted in Richmond this past New Years Eve. I hope I get invited again next year. I didn't spill nothin'. Drank an assload...but didn't spill nary a drop. I'll more than likely wear this with jeans and Red Wings. And maybe still...black tie.

So here's to Toad. And to corduroy and other occasional fabrics and friends and parties and shawl collars where they ought not be. And Princesses...especially my LFG...and to...love.

Onward. Not travelling.

ADG II

Lucky Velvet

Here we have the gallant Richard John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan. Lord Lucan…“Lucky” Lucan to his coterie of chance games friends.

Born in 1934, Lucan's aristocratic trajectory was formulaic...for a while. He spent two years at Eton where he seemed to hone his skills and appetite for anything but academic pursuits...mainly gambling.  And his poker skills, they say, sharpened during his next stop-off, this time with the Coldstream Guards. Lucan would inherit his father's titles in 1964.

The dashing Lucan eventually eschewed the ennui of traditional work for what he felt was a more thrilling method for generating dosh…gambling. Lucan had annual income from various family trusts but I suppose like other landed aristocrats, he needed to supplement it. So after the Guards, he took a position with the merchant bank, William Brandt's Sons and Co. After winning twenty six thousand pounds in two nights playing Chemin de Fer, Lucan declared "why should I work in a bank when I can earn a year's money in one single night at the tables?"

I reckon, in addition to  my absence of Lucan caliber dashing good looks and my now missing aristocratic papers, the other huge difference between Lucky and me is that I’m the worst gambler in the world. I saw Las Vegas, reluctantly last week but my money’s safe ‘cause I didn't go near the gaming tables.

But Lucky felt that he could beat the odds and keep the cash rolling in…forever. Seems to me like he had a low-grade death wish. Sort of a Charge of the Light Brigade calibre hubris not unlike the 3^rd Earl of Lucan.  I won’t belabor the story because like most gamblers, the next chapter in Lucky’s saga is again formulaic. The House, in the long-run, always-always wins.

Lucan was a regular at John Aspinall’s Cleremont Club in Berkley Square where highbrow titled folks gathered to gamble and also flirt with I suppose, additional randy pursuits. It was said of Aspinall’s Club member roster that…“The list of the club's original members reads like a Who's Who of the British aristocracy: five dukes, five marquesses, 20 earls and two cabinet ministers.” And they all loved Lucky.

Happy endings are probably rare in the lives of professional gamblers...titled ones notwithstanding. Debt laden, amidst a contentious divorce and custody battle for his three children, it is presumed that the maniacally desperate Lucan himself was the bag-man who broke in to (he had a key) the family home on a November evening in 1974 at 46 Upper Berkeley Street and beat to death the family nanny. He also took a few good whacks at Lady Lucan, his supposed true intended victim.

I’ll leave the rest of the Lucan saga to you to sort out but suffice it to say the riveting is an understatement. Lucan disappeared and to this day, his whereabouts and status, while much debated, remains unresolved. Efforts to have him declared legally dead so that his son, the presumed 8^th Earl may take his place in the Lords have so far, I believe, been unsuccessful.

So how the hell did I happen upon Lucan? It all came about when I was doing an internet search on the unknown to me, bespoke tailoring establishment, Cooling Lawrence and Wells. I’d never heard of them and was amidst reconnaissance as I was perilously close to pouncing on a velvet smoking jacket that according to the ebay seller’s measurements...was just my size. My appetite for velvet jacketings is well documented but I've always stayed away from the tricked out versions. Why have things that, as my Cousin Willie says, are for "parties that you no longer get invited to."

Tricked out versions? You know, one of those jackets with the really cool frogging…rope adorned sleeves and those twee little Siamese twin front closure buttons that say… “Even though you’ve seen my likes every time you’ve been in London, YOU of all people have no business buying one of me at full-retail. And you’ve even got less business buying one of my double breasted cousins.” 

Ok, point well-made but an ebay bargain ain’t ever out of the question or out of bounds. Shut up. So my research was important as I made a decision regarding what my maximum-minimum bids would be.

I searched Cooling Lawrence and Wells and the outcome was almost nil regarding the tailoring firm. None the less, the Lord Lucan smarmy back story bounty was enough to keep me enthralled for half-a-day. It seems that C-L&W were Lucan’s go-to tailor as well as his source for maintenance of his coronation robes.

They were on St. George Street in Hanover Square for a time before finishing out their existence as Wells of Mayfair over at 47 Maddox Street. Sadly, like much of the London I love; venerable old places like the C-L&W digs give way to, in this case, Browns Bar and Brasserie. I found a photo of  47 Maddox's current state on Google maps. What is Browns, you might ask? Think T.G.I. Fridays…butcept with a Cockney thang going on.

It seems that Lucan left quite a few of his suppliers in the lurch when he vanished. Lucan’s tailor wasn’t the only creditor lined up in the queue seeking relief once it was fait accompli regarding the likelihood that the old boy wasn’t gonna come round and square up any of his debts. Interestingly though, C-L&W decided that the coronation robes represented better collateral against Lucan’s debt than some silly old judgement. Smart they were.

Armed with my imagination, a trove of superficial information about Lucan and the confidence that the Velveeta avec frogging jacket was surely my size, I set my bid. Surely if the jacket had been made by Huntsman or Kilgour or Poole, I'd have set my bid slightly higher. Maddox Street...off the Row and unknown to me doesn't mean that the jacket ain't gonna be keen in every way. But I was treading in unknown, albeit fuzzy as hell, water.   

Leonard Logsdail gave me a bit of a tutorial on some of the off the Row tailors that are generally within a half mile or so of Savile Row. Many of them; and G. The Bruce Boyer also shares this view in his book, Elegance, are as good as or better than some on Savile Row. They simply lack the brand cachet of Poole, Huntsman and the like…and probably the price tag too.

Len also shared when I met him at the Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. auction reception, that some of the off the Row tailors like Fairbanks Jr.’s Stovel & Mason Ltd did pretty decent work on thicker fabrics such as velvet or those used for country pursuits togs, while not turning out quite the same garment in lighter weight fabrics where clever cutting and sewing nuance with adroit hands is required.

All’s well that ends well and I suppose I’m lucky that there wasn’t another 38 Regular-esque Downton Abbey wannabe sartorialist bidding on my C-L&W velvet fuzzy out-the-a_s dinner jacket. It arrived here at Manor Minimus, shipping included, for less than a Benjamin.

And it fits like a damn glove. 

January 1976 saw its completion and my imagination wants me to believe that perhaps Lord Lucky's coronation robes remained somewhere on the premises, in fellowship for a while, with my jacket.

Rumor has it that I’ll see 2012 out and 2013 ring-in down Richmond,Virginia way as the guest of Mr. Elegantologist himself.

Furthered by the rumor mill is that Messrs C-L&W’s creation will be on my back…at least till I decide to take my clothes off. Now I’m wondering if I can wear this thing with 501’s?

Onward. No Christmas tree this year. No ho.

ADG…Deuce

Flusser Trad Concoctions and a Yellow Confession

While my debauchery and debacles over the years now has me fairly restrained regarding formal wear-there are some tasty options and variations out there. Black Corduroy D.B. Shawl-brilliant.

D.B. Shawl-Grosgrain Only Please. And yes, some sleeve cuffs.

Cashmere-Silk-Cotton Pin Wale Corduroy. Satin Peak Lapels. Satin Sleeve Cuffs. Purple Lining. Crescent Shaped Pockets-Satin Piping. Fuzziest of the Fuzzy Dice.

My rig is a bit more subdued. Off the peg Ralph-Grosgrain Shawl S. B.

Flusser uses a wider gauge grosgrain than Ralph. Grosgrain on a low dose of steroids...I like it.

Colony Trousers-Lots of Drape.

And then, during the decade of petroleum based fabrications-there was this boy. An this boy went to the prom. By all accounts, he and his date were…jaundiced?

Onward-Synthetically.

Salahi is a Verb-Sycophantasia is a Noun

Salahi-Not contrived by me mind you but defined as such by our good friend Dickie over at Southern Gent. He and I were discussing the dynamics of holiday parties where the guest list expands when the host-under the influence of a few cocktails and some holiday cheer, begins to invite others to his soiree scheduled for the next weekend. Is the invitation sincere? Will the host remember to put you on the guest list? Is it considered poor form to ring him up and verify that you are on the list?

The consequences for not verifying your legitimacy on the guest list is to risk being “Salahied”. Showing up adorned in Black Tie with a lovely bauble of a date on your arm only to be told that you are not on the guest list and ergo-not getting into the soiree. Dickey and I agreed that it’s a situation, a set of circumstances that if possible you should avoid.

I’m far beyond giving a damn about being on any guest lists in Washington but somehow end up getting an invite here and there to some snooty function and in small doses, making happy talk with sycophants remains entertaining-in small doses. I bet our boy Hubert is thinking..."Damn...it's Suzie Scorchmadrawers-Augie The Scorcher Scorchmadrawer's wife-gotta put on the happy face for her or Augie'll take me off his sugar tit".

While name dropping and ass kissing is part and parcel of the business world and politics, Sycophantasia manifests to a breathtaking degree in higher education-I mean what else do they have other than a bit of intellectual or probably more accurately…dogmatic power? Tenure and the power derived therein is the phallic instrument on campus because money ain’t a currency that they have enough of to sling around arrogantly.  If I piss off my client constituency or my friends, they fire me. That phenomenon alone keeps some of my hubris and cocksurety in check. Shut up. Academics are the worst brewers of ass kissing broth because they have hostages…aka students who want a grade. I learned early on in college that if I agreed with my professors more than I disagreed, my likelihood for a better grade increased. The puffery manifest in a tenured professor who knows that his constituency cannot fire him is stunning. I think most academics would die within ninety days if they had to survive fully…off-campus.

I love the way Maureen Dowd not only blasted the Salahis but also rolled in red hot on Washington society…

 "...even the outrage over the fakers is fake. The capital has turned up its nose at the tacky trompe l’oeil Virginia horse-country socialites: a faux Redskins cheerleader and a faux successful businessman auditioning for a “reality” show by feigning a White House invitation...Yet Washington has always been a town full of poseurs, arrivistes, fame-seekers, cheaters and camera hogs." Orval Faubus isn't thinking about Augie The Scorcher's Sugar Tit in this picture.

College kids have always made the best of a black tie situation.

And older folks remind us that it's never to late to make an ass out of yourself.

Now back to Sycophantasia for a moment....Spot on you are Maureen Dowd. Living in Washington and not being in politics is like living in Hollywood and not being in the movie business. But I like living here-I’m an Eastern Seaboard kinda guy. Proximity to Gotham-the beaches-mountains-my mama and an airport to shuttle me all over the world is right here. And as long as LFG is here-I ain’t going anywhere. Washington is like an old comfortable shoe-but I don’t ass kiss some congressional member every day in search of a favor-a nod-a vote anymore. When I did that job at the state level, I couldn’t shower enough to feel clean after swilling hooch with some state agency hack that controlled access to pharmaceutical benefit design processes. And trust me folks, we ain’t exactly got the Mensa stronghold plotting America’s journey from the Hill.

But the poseurs and star f_ckers descend on this city like no other. Admittedly, it is an adrenaline rush and a lot of fun to be a wage slave on the Hill when you are twenty five years old. I worked for a Senator the summer between my junior and senior years of college and had an absolute blast. I was a dilettante and couldn’t have given a damn about issues-advocacy-votes and ideals. You already know this but all of Washington is for sale. All can be bought-every damned bit of legislation at the Federal and State level can be purchased. I know-I used to budget for it every year.

So the Salahis are not unique. As Ms. Dowd so eloquently stated, this kind of shit has been going down in Washington for centuries. In our age of instant video uploads via iPhone-Twitter Tweets and Reality Shows, the Salahis just provide us a fortified-steroidal version of the Sycophantasia Phenomenon. These people are devoid of souls. They represent sociopathy and narcissism in its most extreme form.

He; the son who has squandered what was by those who know such things-a winery that turned out some decent swill-not only by Virginia wine standards-trust me folks, this stuff has come a long way since I rolled in here in 1989-but by national standards as well. If you are foolish with your money-click on the investor offer scrolling on their winery’s homepage. This boy wants your money.

She; the ersatz Redskins Cheerleader who has probably lied about most everything on her life journey list.  I dig the name change Michaele. Michelle Ann Holt aka “Missy Holt” seems to have come from solid middle class stock like me…everything in the world to be proud of regarding one’s background here in America. Why? Because if you are smart and work hard you can still, even in the current craziness of this world, become anything you want. Instead she decided to create and live a lie and Mephistopheles arranged the perfect partner for the journey.

Leased, leverage, repossessed and slapped with so many judgments they should both be punch drunk. But no, they still have the narcissistic pang and sociopathic hunger to soldier on in their soulless journey toward infamy. Hell of a way to get it. “Why would we do this if we were not invited…and risk everything we’ve worked for”? Missy Holt Salahi said to Matt Lauer when he asked the Salahis if they crashed the party.  Worked for what? I’m surprised that Lauer didn’t ask that question in follow up. Certainly I’m not the only one who is glad that this poster child couple for Sycophantasia no longer leads the nightly television news or the front page of newspaper.

So am I anti-soiree? Poopooing that party circuit? Nope-I still enjoy a formal shindig from time to time and as I searched for visual props for this post I took a fun little walk down soiree memory lane. I’ll be the last one to stridently espouse black tie do’s and don’ts but I will admit to mistakes past and lessons learned which have pretty much landed me on a code that I’m comfortable with when I do rig up for the evening. Wing collar shirt with a shawl collared jacket? I wouldn't do it but this was years ago and it was my baby brother's wedding. I complied but insisted that I would bring my own bowtie. I'd gotten over that pre-tied stuff long before this and my brother is a prince of a guy so he allowed the latitude.

White tie and tails with Gucci loafers. Yep. It was my best buddy DCA's wedding and we've known each other since sixth grade. I refused to wear those patent plastic Corfam hot-house sweat bomb things from the formal kit hire shop. This was twenty one years ago and my mama said I could. Shut up.

If you are going to commit to formal shoddings. Do it right or not at all. Here's a Ralph interpretation from my friend M.O.

Behave yourself or you'll be confused with the help. They'll put a pitcher of "lemonade" in your hand and admonish you to take care of the guests. I think I ended up this night with those little zip tie handcuffs that the cops use on kids when they arrest them at Spring Break. I'm not proud but I'm not gonna lie to you either.

This woman coached me when I needed help with my swimming efforts after I almost drowned during my first triathlon. She was a full scholarship swimmer at the University of South Carolina and stayed in the south after college. She lived on a lake. I went to said lake for her swimming instruction. I stayed for two years.

Here's the swim coach again-it's my 30th birthday party. My buddy JBA (R.I.P.) and his wife hosted a little gathering. See that rug beneath the chair? A few hours later it was rolled up and we were shagging on that hardwood floor. Both kinds. Everything started out very civilized. But you only turn 30 once.

There was obviously one kind of shagging that didn't happen that night. This is the last time I've ever worn a matching tie-cummerbund set-I don't know. I think the oysters were a little "off" that night.

Notice that all my wingmen have self-tie bows on. Wouldn't allow any pre tied rigs at my wedding. Socks were optional too.

Cigars-Cigarettes-Tiparellos? Ever been asked to leave your own party?

I kid you not folks-our wedding was over the top fun. Every moment of it. Spectacular is an understatment and people told us so for months thereafter. Spectacular indeed-however the divorce made the wedding look like a damn Pig Pickin'. It's all good.Now.

I am sincerely sorry that I had to alter LFG's mom's face. It's mandatory. LFG loves it when I tell her the story about three of us being in this photo. LFG is in her mom's tummy. I still have the black watch bow tie in this picture. I do though, have on a solid black cummerbund. Something about those oysters on my 30th that I've never gotten over.

Ditto the reason for altering the photo-nothing malicious intended here. Just gotta keep everyone happy. We were on the way to a Casino night out in rural Virginny. One of my good buddies is on the board of a community college and this little yearly shin dig was always fun. I left my gut end Thurstons at home and had to borrow the ersatz trouser straps from my buddy JTS. Don't tell nobody. Shut up.

What did Maureen Dowd say about camera hogs? I'm not one at all but somehow I ended up in the Baltimore Sun on a Sunday morning a few years ago.

Granted-had I not been dating this stunner-instead of a picture, they'd have put a pitcher of "lemonade" in my hand and admonished me to get to work. It took the same makeup artists that "did" the Salahis four hours to get that Phantom of the Opera face shadow just right on my elfin mug.

So gussy yourselves up and have a good old formal time. Just modulate your sucking up and watch out for dodgy oysters. Sycophantasia may result.

Onward.

ADG