Madras—Moderated Part Two

So back to madras—in moderation. The record shows that if the sartorial amplifier goes to ten then I’m surely gonna figure a way to get it to eleven. The stories are legendary at Flusser house and with Rykken about their flat-out refusal to make things for me. Things that because of color, pattern-scale or “add-ons” … they just simply would not let me do.

When I had the suit above made many years ago, Alan Flusser looked at the trouser cuffs, the sleeve cuffs and the flap pockets…topped off by a flapped ticket pocket and facetiously asked if there was anywhere else on the garment I might want another “flap”. Hell, I thought he was serious and so I requested a rundown on what the additional aftermarket add-on flap options might be. Maybe a spoiler or a pop-up windscreen across the shoulders. Oh hell, why not a cape? And I remember Puerto Rykken in a sigh of resignation one time declaring that if there was an option for triple-vents on a sportcoat…I’d request it. I thought about it for a moment and declared that I’d prefer more like a quadruple or pentagonally vented suit. Then you’d have strips of fettuccini flat noodle-esque grass skirt danglers on the rear of your jacket. A much more interesting manifestation of movement … kind of a grass skirt swish-swishing on the lower back third of an otherwise classically contrived contrivance. And who the hell wouldn’t want that?

Easter Sunday seems to be the church house goin’ day when more people decide to attend and they roll in marginally better dressed than usual. I think Jesus chuckles. Jesus Chuckles—he was a wrestler back in ’68—from one of the border towns—near Brownsville. He beat Wahoo McDaniel, or was it Junkyard Dog, like a borrowed mule one night at the Florence, South Carolina fairgrounds. My daddy bankrolled the rumble. 

Oh—clothes and Easter Sunday, that’s it. Bottom line is that Jesus cares not what we wear to His house but I always at minimum wear a coat and most times I’m gonna cinch-up with a tie.  There’s one of my previous handlin’ contrivances above.

But what about madras? It may be too early in some parts for madras inclusion on Easter Sunday. Or some might say that it’s too casual and festive for church. Are you kidding me? Have you seen some of the swathings or lack thereof in the pews lately? I’ll halt the rant right here and refer us back to the point I made about Jesus not caring—as long as you are in the pew. And I wore madras on Easter Sunday. Restrained.

I know not from where this reservoir of restraint in me filled. Alchemy, astronomy, juju, the Powerball Lottery…I’m not the guy to much believe in such. And I have a constant need to pray and almost beg for reassurance of my fundamental faith(s). Alls I can say is that from somewhere, a little madras voice spoke to me…mighta been Wahoo McDaniel…and the voice said in an earth toned-muted-muffled-breathy-throaty  whisper … “you’ve got enough redneck tacky loud “look at me-look at me” madras. Let’s contrive something more moderated-modulated and muted—something kinda earthy.” Then I realized that it couldn’t a been Wahoo McDaniel ‘cause he didn’t have near that kind of vocabulary. Mighta been Junkyard Dog. So contrive and bespeak mutedly I did. Ok…I’m lying. Who in their right mind would bespeak madras? Why pay that kinda dosh for the highest level of artisanship on such a perishable and rarely worn fabric? I felt like I was pushing it when I had Fluss House make my seersucker togs. So I made-to-measure-d it instead.

Fuzzy GTH patch and O’Connell’s loud, horn-tooting bleeding madras abounds in my closet so the impetus and legitimacy for muted moderation wasn’t feint. It made sense. But as usual, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Three-two roll with open patch pockets and peak lapels…you know…my ADG standard house model? Of course not. But the idea of simply doing a standard Mad Men era three button sack coat which would have exemplified madras in its heyday didn’t trip my trigger. I just had to add something that would make it my own. You know—a tad of fuzziness.

Ticket pocket? Nope. Throat latch? Nah…who needs a throat latch on a summer jacket? Maybe just a ticket pocket? Bellows pockets? Yep, that would be the ticket. Poachers.

Are you freakin' kidding me? Poacher pockets on madras? Surely you jest, ADG. It makes sense on your now scorched and singed cavalry twill rig. And of course it complements the old Ralph contrivance above. But you ain’t gonna be bird hunting or truffle sniffing in madras. Madras bellows…the idea is wrong on every level—from every angle. Get it?

Got it. And get ‘em I did. Just for the sheer wrongness of it. There’s an inextricable defiance of convention—a redneck, un-clubbable aspect of my essence that I’ve learned to embrace. And the sooner you get used to it, the easier our ride is gonna be. Shut up. I don't bird hunt or truffle sniff in my winter coats with bellows pockets either. So sue me.

Muted tones and a sensible tie…Bohemian Club style. Come on…I wanted it to look slightly unconventional—not like a Shriner.

Just enough waist suppression to further my anti Mad Men sack coat look. Don’t try it—unless you too, have washboard abs. This entire fuzzy diced boondoggle of absurdity becomes more bastardized if you attempt to pull it off, or put it on for that matter, with a beer gut. Shriners. Think Shriners. And then just don’t do it.

Lightweight cream gabardine trousers. The old Colony Model from Ralph. I needed to anchor this thing with a sensible trouser.

Go ahead. Hurl your attacks. I’m ready. Ready for all of your tisk tisking and ridiculing that’s really a thinly veiled call for help. Help with your fear. Fear of…Fuzzy.

Let me close with a word or two on madras pronunciation. I reckon the proper pronunciation of the city was “muh-dross”. Same when ordering said curried grub at an Indian restaurant. Regardless of your bloodline, the American region or city of your birth, the clubs you belong to or your academic pedigree…the fabric ain’t pronounced “mod-russ” nor is it “muh-dross”. It’s mad-riss. Stop with the affectation. You’re trying too hard. Your effort to fancify and highfalutinize the good ole American word for this trad obsession reeks of poacher pocket affectation. Pronounce it regular like or I'll smack you. On the noggin. With a vozz.

Onward. Poachin’

ADG II sans young’un.

Jesus and Seersucker

LFG and I have put a wrap on another summer week together. I'm now sitting in Dallas for a few thank God, billable days... I’ll have one more LFG week before before school starts and to say that life with LFG is flying by is an understatement. I’ve had several people tell me that these transitions I’m amidst with her are only beginnings of many, many more. I get that; thank-you…but as the father of only one child, I’ll remain in denial for a while longer.

We enjoyed a few fun days post Rehoboth right in our hood but speaking of hoods…LFG and I stopped for lunch in Annapolis on the way home the other day. There’s a quaint little enclave on a hill overlooking the river, above the Naval Academy. LFG’s mom and I almost bought a house there years ago...this house. I drove LFG by the house and told her how her mom and I almost lived there years ago, before she was born. We speculated about how fun it would have been to live there and how pretty the little hilltop patch is today. Funny, I can engage in this banter with LFG but I can’t even darken the street of our marital neighborhood. Shut up.

So here’s just a quick flurry of randomness and I suppose that I’d better address the associated title of this post before I lose you. LFG and I spent the day Saturday with one of my business partners and his little daughter, LPS, who is three months older than LFG. We swam at their pool and then the four of us went to the Saturday evening handlin’. LPS's mommy was out of town for the weekend so it was a father-daughter exclusive. LFG giggles when I tell her that she was in mommy’s tummy when her mom and I picked up LPS and her new parents from National Airport. LPS was adopted through a stellar outreach program for unwed mothers based in Utah. 

Here’s a post pool picture of LFG and LPS that lives on my fridge. They are pruny-post pool waterlogged three year olds. Dig the LPS-LFG necklace creations.

I snapped a photo of these ten year olds in the same spot the other day. Time…where’s it going?

Ah, the utility of shell cordovan penny loafers. Poolside one moment and church the next. It’s all good.

I wore my Flusser seersucker sans tie…I should wear more of my suits this way…I’d get more use out of them. Sunday handlin’ always leaves much to be desired sartorially but the Saturday extravaganza is a sartorial goat-rodeo. I’m not judging--yes I am. The Man cares not what you wear to fellowship. I on the other hand…I do.

And a couple of miscellaneous closers. LFG is currently assessing her color options for the bedroom re-do. She’s declared the Hello Kitty themed, Pepto-Bismol pink girl cave…passé. Stay tuned.

 “Daddy, what’s a seam ripper” … Well in this context LFG, it’s a little device I use to remove extraneous pockets from non-bespoke shirts like the two Andover Shop beauties I snagged the other week. Other contexts are not to be shared with you, my little princess. Shhhh…

Onward, to Dallas and beyond.

ADG and LFG

Love The Sinner-Hate The Sin: GTH Redefined

My trip to today’s Handlin’ is grounded in earth tones and monochromacity. To say that it’s antithetical to my June sartorial mores is an understatement. I’m doing this in honor of those who find most GTH contrivances an abomination. I’m also doing it because as much as I pay attention to what I wear, Jesus doesn’t care. He and his disciples dressed for comfort. Come to think of it, I do too but I just like a little more color and pattern than the boys from Galilee fancied. But if solid colors and earth tones were good enough for Jesus, they’re good enough for me—for one Sunday—one time—not forever—maybe never again—at least not in the summer.  

I’m reminded of some state or county official in Texas who when asked why he didn’t support funding for Bibles printed in Spanish said that … “if English was good enough for Jesus it oughta be good enough for everbody else”. EverBody—for some reason I’m thinking that would be a good name for board shorts or maybe even a surfboard line.

So this is my multivendor assemblage of things less GTH. Crocket and Jones for Polo, The Brethren, Flusser MTM courtesy of Southwick and back to Polo—Ralph to round out the belt and trousers. And other than the silk pocket handkerchief and my lycra thong, this rig is one hundred (or "hunderd" if that fella from Texas was sayin' it) percent linen.

Black linen trousers...these must be twenty years old. What was I thinking? I don't wear black trousers in the daytime butcept today...and black in the summer? Additional evidence of their age is manifest in the Deney Terrio Dance Fever "mini-cuff".

Linen...guaranteed to wrinkle. The perfect ADD man's fabric and also the manifest wrinkly metaphor for not giving too much of a shitake about precision and correctness. Worry unduly about such things and you'll end up looking overly crisp...the Adolphe Menjou syndrome I like to call it. Two buttons on the sleeve...an old WASP affectation seen routinely on jackets intended for the weekend.

As much as I loathe admitting it, the color palette connectivity of this mongrelosity really works well. Too bad I can't get my foot up around my open patch breast pocket when I have all of this on. I'm going to church, not hot yoga. The reason for going to church is to seek forgiveness for scores of impure thoughts manifest peri-Bikram. Peri Bikram...a post Raj lounge singer perhaps?

And finally, I picked up my dry cleaning yesterday and the reality is immutable. I am the antimonochromaticsolidcolornopatternrestraintlessismore man. Kinda like what Charlie Parker said about heroin..."you can get it out of my body but you can't get it out of my mind". 

Onward. Monochromatically for a day.

A D G

Home to My Jesus-In Seersucker

No wonder the Pharisees always stayed kinda mad at Jesus. After all, he made them look foolish on more than one occasion. Did they really want Jesus to condemn the adulterer or did they want to test Jesus’ influence? Jesus was able to challenge these authoritarians by inviting them without sin to commence stoning this woman caught in the act of adultery. It would have taken me three weeks to come up with such a clever statement to diffuse the situation.

John Chapter 8 and a couple of verses from Mathew provided all the reference necessary to let me know that yesterday’s sermon was exclusively for my country a_s.  Judgement and forgiveness is the tight little forty five minute message and I’m sitting there thinking “damn (even though you shouldn’t be thinking or saying “damn” at the handlin’) here we go again…another sermon aimed at ADG Ground Zero”….

Some top-line corollaries from John Chapter 8…Christ neither found fault with the law, nor excused the prisoner's guilt; nor did he countenance the pretended zeal of the Pharisees. Those are self-condemned who judge others, and yet do the same thing.  And then from Matthew 7:1 "Do not judge so that you will not be judged” Ok…looks like I’m gonna have to refrain from laughing at people who wear goofy shit. And “zeal”? Take that away from me and I got nothin’.

Now how in the world am I going to put fully in play the lessons from the handlin’? I posited a good while back in my post about why I love and write about clothes that I want people to learn about me and my character before casting me off as some sartorial snob. You can read it here. I declared in that post that I try really hard to offer the same latitude to those I meet…regardless of the number of tattoos you have, nose piercings or even, God forbid, vertical blinds. I can even dig deep enough and find the goodness in you if I notice a Thomas Kinkade painting hanging in your house. And that’s digging deep.

I suppose it’s no longer my authority to declare when you can or can’t wear things like patch madras and seersucker. And Allie, I’m gonna have to abandon my idea of resurrecting the Butt Police. Who am I to decide such things? And Spandex? Geez…can I really surrender my authority over such offensive fabrics? I’m against the death penalty but what about butt crack baggy jeans and backward baseball hats? 

Are y’all really comfortable with me letting go of my Pharisee-esque self proclaimed authoritarian weigh-in on all things Strip Mall? Was I delusional to think, just because I have people of distant, thank God, relation back in S.C.—who would actually be proud to make the People of Wal-Mart blog post—that I could straighten the world out on such matters? Just having an Aunt Tootie should qualify me.

 Let me conclude by saying that I’m gonna try really hard to actualize the lessons learned in Mathew and John. But I can’t promise anything. As I cobble this drivel together, my little pocket Mephistopheles is sitting on my shoulder telling me that if I don’t carry forth the mantle of sartorial judgement…the slippery slope of sartorial slovenosity will become ever steeper.

So it’s no longer upon me to declare white bucks and seersucker the current Sunday costume of choice for the masses. But for me yesterday—I was pleased to pounce. Flusser gray seersucker sportcoat, pink diagonal tone on tone Flusser button down, nicely patinated Polo white bucks and an old pair of bulletproof Hertling Irish linen trousers.

I’ve commented on the architecture of this sportcoat before but here’s a little refresher. At first glance one could quickly conclude that it’s just another ADG Fuzzy Dice contrivance. Double vented, three two roll, patch pockets with a patch ticket…finished off with an open patch breast pocket. Give me a break man! If ever the evidence would support throwing the first stone of ersatz sartorial contrivance…this might be it. But hold on a minute before you start pelting. This exact model hails from the Brooks Brothers Archives courtesy of Alan Flusser. So there.

I love this jacket. Those of you who bespeak things know that even from the same pattern, singular garments feel and fit differently based on a zillion factors. This creation fits exactly the way I like. Don’t ask me to explain further. It’s not for you or me to really understand in toto.

And Hertling trousers? I can only speak for myself—since I’ve given up my authority—but I’ll never need a nicer pair of trousers than what rolls out of the Hertling factory. I just worry about what’s gonna happen over in Brooklyn after Julie Hertling gives it up. China I reckon.

Toad did a great update on white bucks the other day. And as much as I want another pair, it ain’t in the budget and these patinated babies are good for a few more seasons.

I exchanged emails with someone from back home recently and we got on the subject of funerals. A sartorial legend from S.C. passed away and he was filling me in on the funeral service. I offered the following comment in an email reply….. “Funerals…I used to worry like hell about what my family will do on my behalf—regardless of what I’ve outlined in my Will. My mom remains undone over the fact that I’ve requested cremation. I would love for the Shaw Singers or the Blind Boys from Alabama to roll in and sing two songs… “Oh Happy Day” and “Home to My Jesus”. Then I’d like for everyone to have cocktails. No open casket nonsense for me”.

So I’m gonna leave you with Home to My Jesus by the Shaw Singers. Excuse the silly dancers visual…I can’t find another version of the song to post. I love the grittiness…the granularity of this poorly recorded gospel standard. I also like what the Rev. Al Green said about the difference between the Blues and Gospel. Just substitute the words God/Jesus with Baby and you’ve got one or the other. I’m thinking the Rev. Al was hollerin’ for God not Baby when that pot of hot grits hit him upside the head.

Onward…throwin’ no stones…till Thursday…ADG

Jesus-Indians and Contraceptive Co-Pays

I don’t think Jesus minds too much if we miss the Handlin’ for good reason. The cocktail flu ain’t really a strong enough reason to not go and get a dose but the real flu probably gets you off the hook. If ever there was a time when you just might get bitten-it might be when you are throwing off some viral juju. A sip of strychnine out of the Mason jar though-might do you good.

I got dressed in an attempt to go but just didn’t have the stamina. So I had fellowship at home-with DayQuil. I leave tomorrow for another round of airports-hotels-meeting rooms and carpet reviews so I’ve gotta rest up. Besides-dressing right now in the mid-Atlantic area is no easy feat. The temps can vary as much as thirty degrees so it’s no man’s land regarding consistent requirements for fabric and clothing weight. And it’s been misty-rainy here as well.

Brittons was the bomb…as kids would say today. I don’t exaggerate when I say that their Main Street store in Columbia S.C. circa 1985 was as tasty as any haberdashery you would find in Gotham. It was nothing short of a miniature Polo Mansion. This was also a time when you could only buy Polo in a few places in S.C. and Brittons had the best of the best from the Polo line. They also had a taste level that allowed the creation of private label stuff that so mimicked the look of Polo-plebes like me could actually afford a few things. They did a ton of well customized Hertling and they styled stuff from Country Britches that to this day-I can visualize. I didn’t have the money to buy anything Polo at regular price back then but I was first in line for their sales twice a year.

It never really gets what I call “tweedy cold” in South Carolina so many of us who were trying to sport that classic Polo look back then did so mid January in a pool of sweat. It just didn’t get cold enough to wear head to toe tweed and flannel. I wore it anyway-surprised?

My company also demanded that we wear suits so tweed sportcoat were nonexistent in my closet. But then I walked in and spied this bullet proof baby.

I call it bullet proof because after almost 25 years of accompanying me around the world-this coat remains as pristine today as when I bought it-at half price-for the stunning sum of one hundred and eighty dollars.

I was making 29k back then as a hospital rep for a drug company-that was a lot of dough…for the coat and for a 24 year old kid to bring home each year.

I had never seen pockets like this. Mainly because I’d never seen The Shooting Party or any Merchant Ivory stuff or read any English explorer biographies like Mallory or had never seen turn of the century golf photographs. They stood out kinda funny but I liked them. The stiffness of this fabric made them stand out even more.

I even closed the throat-wind latch on this baby one day when it became a ...brrrr chilly 58 degrees. Almost did that auto-asphyxiation thang on myself before I could get it undone. Ever been in a situation where calling 911 was not out of the question but not so much that before dialing-you had enough presence of mind to realize how embarasing it was going to be when the arrived? This was one of two times I've been caught in those tentacles. The other was when I accidentally zipped up my ........

Some of the Mallory team....I can hear them now..."Hey guys-before we attempt Everest-lets swing by Brittons in Columbia South Carolina and get kitted out for the climb"!

Never have I owned such a versatile coat. Jeans-earth tone cords-gray flannels-seersucker-gingham-lycra…it goes with everything! In my attempt to make it to fellowship, I paired it with a fifteen year old pair of Polo cords and brown suede brogues.

What’s the oldest thing in your clothing cupboard? Speaking of cupboards-LFG turned in her first of four book projects the other week. The Indian in the Cupboard was her choice for project uno. She had a choice of making a shadow box-a book cover or an advertising poster to accompany the more thorough written report to be turned in. I love working with her on the right brain projects. I struggle to help her with the left brain stuff-I had to hire a tutor to get me through grad school statistics. I is a Liberal Arts man.

LFG knocking out another page or two of The Indian in the Cupboard post Cotillion last month. My mother had to knock my a_s out to get me to read anything at that age.

So LFG decides on creating a book cover. We find some clip art to her liking. I print our various sized for her and then she goes to work.

I really thought it was cool when she suggested that we put the little Indian in the side pocket of Omri’s pants. Cool no?

Ok….gotta get to work here. No chemotherapy strategies today. I’m down-market with perplexing issues regarding women’s contraception and hormone replacement. Still blows my mind that the cash out of pocket co-pays for oral contraceptives are often times higher than the co-pays for Viagra. That’s logical right? Being the father of an only child-a budding woman…should turn any man into a feminist to some degree.

Onward-With little Indians-And Big Tweedy Bellows Pockets-And Higher Co-Pays

ADG