Pleasures

Well there is Marrakesh and all of the associated sentient triggers there. Sounds, textures, and colors in the souks. Those great kilim and other colorful textiles house slippers that seem like just the right things when you are there—only to get them home and declare “now where the hell will I ever wear these things again”. And the smells…some not so good and most others really great.

But there was also Skeets Barbecue near Darlington South Carolina. Their sweet tea that after my being gone from the South for over twenty-five years throws me into a diabetic swirl after one glass. But the vinegar based barbecue cuts that filmy sugar right out of your mouth. Nice.

Then of course there’s boiled peanuts and my mother’s homemade sourdough bread fresh out of the oven. Hot. With my aunt Kat’s plum preserves comingled with melted butter. And there was Tant’s in Birmingham Alabama and cocktails and red meat at Rule’s on Maiden Lane in London—preferably in the room upstairs—the private one where Bertie, Prince of Wales entertained his paramour Lily Langtry.

A Kir Royale or a French 75 in Paris after traipsing through Musee Carnivalet. And dinner at Le Grand Colbert is appealing again, too. Now since the booth that Jack Nicholson and Dianne Keaton occupied during the filming of Something’s Gotta Give has been requested over the last decade by a thousand tourists and thus thankfully the crowds have moderated. Roast chicken there but also chicken from a roadside stand on a dodgy side street in San Juan—eaten without utensils and washed down with a cold beer. All while standing.

Maybe I’ll wear my funny house slippers…maybe a different one on each foot. Then I’ll be like a Marrakesh bazaar. You won’t know what to look at first.

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

I Have Nothing To Say

So listen up. If you’ve read my drivel for any length of time you might remember the randomanalia posts. Well really--all of them are random to a great degree but I used to pile on a huge load of irreleventia from time to time when I didn’t have the focus for a vaguely more cogent yarn. 2013 has seen me thus far mired in a zero bandwidth and nil focus stew pot when it comes to telling stories so I figured I’d drop a poorly edited pile on y’all this morning.

This was desert. Last night. Desert last night at the home of a guy who like me, has a delightful daughter and an affection for Alden shoes. He also has a lovely wife and a really cool son. Oh, and a network of eclectic, smart, grounded and delightful friends. A gaggle of whom shared in the fellowship with my dinner hosts last night. I’d never met face-to-face my Alden pal till last night. We’ve threatened to have a drink together for a year now but you know how it goes. Life is busy. But I was determined to not let anything get in the way of last night’s dinner invitation from Alden Guy.

So why do I share this? Because most of the reasons I continue to blog are the reasons I did so in the first place and they are predominantly superficial. But there’s also been an anything but superficial result of this blog. I’ve met some really great people and I’m gratified to know that some of them will be lifelong friends... the kind of friends who will take your call at 3am if you need them. I’d like to think that I’d do the same for them. Ask Toad.

My blessed but manic life isn’t special. My joys and challenges can easily be trumped by others who are also trying to navigate their day-to-day journeys with gratitude and sanity. But the odyssey of my mom’s illness is one for the record books and as I’ve said before, I will write about it somewhere—but not here. I know way too much about healthcare to just accept some of the shit that has been passed off as the care continuum for geriatric chronic disease and end of life management. My humble advice to you is if you have a family member who is deeply mired in this goat rodeo of a healthcare system we have in the States, you better find an informed advocate to question every damn thing done for you beloved. This saga has wrung me and my sibs out...emotionally, physically and, if we had any, intellectually.

On a happier note, my mom is lucid, cogent and fighting daily to get well enough to go home. It is amazing to see and we hold no false hope about how long we may have her. And if she can get home for even a few months—with daily nursing care—it will be fantastic. All I know is that if she dies tomorrow, the recent moments that I’ve had with her…moments where she and I have been able to once again have reflective, tender and deep conversations are gifts of inestimable value. Why? Because in March we took her off the respirator so that she could die yet now, she’s flipping the bird at the physical therapy people who are putting her through rigorous paces. Life is rich. And I swear to God that till now, I never saw my mom flip anyone off. Ever. When I was growing up. Shut up.

So let’s get to the superficial stuff. I’ve had two jackets awaiting a first fitting at my man Puerto Rykken’s Paul Stuart atelier since last December. That’s how damn crazy my world’s been. So last Tuesday I finally bit the bullet and did an Amtrak up and back in the same day to get fitted as well as drop in on a couple of other Gotham destinations. My go-to navy blazer is so ratty that I sorely needed to replace it. Now I have other ones—my blazers see more action than anything else in or out of my closet but my go-to sees the most combat. Instead of replacing it identically, I opted for hacking pockets versus three open patch. It’s gonna be strong. Trust me. Or not. I don’t give a damn ‘cause you ain’t gonna be wearin’ it. Shut up.

And my summer 2013 jacket, which based on the delay in getting it fitted, I’ll be able to wear for maybe three weeks, is a linen-wool-silk contrivance that’s gonna be sublime. The coloring is really gonna enhance my jaundice and the cut? Hugely complimentary to my alcoholic malnourished attenuatiousness.

I'm going to write a story about Made-to-Measure, Custom and Bespoke processes and the differences. Don't ask me when I'll get around to it. I have no idea. But I can tell you unequivocally that what my man Rykken is doing for me over at Paul Stuart is anything but some demi-ass MTM sleight of hand. It's as close to Savile Row paper pattern cutting as I'll ever need. 

Three-two roll—peak lapels—hacking flaps including ticket—double vented. With a half-vinyl top. Bam!

So after my Rykken fitting and before the train slog home, I dropped in on the Belgian Mother Church to see what, if anything was new. And I defined new as a pair of monochromatic calfskin navies. And I ordered another monochromatic-contrivance that’ll be here probably around Labor Day if I’m lucky. Stay tuned. Or not.

Oh, and thanks to those over at my tumblr who helped me select that next round of kilim slips from Pammie-Jane over at Nomad Ideas. Typically, I ignored the feedback of the majority and did my own thang. And these thangs I like.

Anyone care to guess what trad purveyor occupied this space for years?  I passed it in midtown last week and once again had that pang of regret for having missed their salad days. Hint? "GTH Mother Church."

Let me close this out with an update on one L. F. G. She finished the school year having made nothing less than all A’s. She’s becoming such a lovely young adult and it’s killing me every step of the way. Y’all told me it was typical-predictable-boilerplate and text book. But I still don’t have to like it.

But I know she loves me. The latest evidence includes her agreement to take me to the Toy Soldier Shop in D.C. and select my Father’s Day present(s).  

She squealed with glee when she was younger as I’d sit on the front steps of the shop while she and Mister Neil narrowed down my broad choices and boxed and wrapped them. This most recent round of “pick daddy’s present” was at least tolerated with stoic elegance.

Ok. That’s enough drivel for now. Onward. Kinda. With two Brooks Brethren striped BDs that were on sale.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: It’s Random

I’ve never been short of ideas for stories with precise themes. You know…the ones that require editorial rigor and focus in order to have a single subject resonate. While it’s never been a strong suit of mine—focus that is—I’ve been known to tackle a singular subject with respectable outcomes. This is my long winded set-up for the fact that this little visit with you ain’t gonna be one of those.

It’s unfocused randomanalia time again, y’all. Rather like the multi-sensory deliverable of Whistler's Peacock room. Unfocused randomessence mainly because I am blessed to be covered up with work stuff that pays well but is sucking all of my time and mental disk space. I love writing about sartorial stuff but to cobble the same number of words together about pharma-biotech-diagnostics-medical device strategy is pretty much joyless. The part of my job that I love is when I’m interacting with customers or when I’m speaking to groups of clients or conference attendees—not coming home and writing case studies and summaries and follow-up. When I’m doing the live with groups or individuals thing, it’s my validation that I’m doing what I’m called to do professionally (with the exception of the only other thing that I’ve ever really done for the proverbial wage—worked after school in a Trad haberdashery—which upon semi-retirement and getting LFG into college—I might do once again). So as I’ve posited on other occasions, it’s either a random load of this-ness, or nadda. Now buckle up. Shut up.

Ivy Style at M.F.I.T. deserves and will receive next week, a blog story devoted exclusively to the exhibition, symposium and the accompanying book. But for now I’ll offer a few top-line comments. First, when Patricia Mears from F.I.T. called me over a year ago and wanted to talk about the evolving Ivy Style project as well as where the blogosphere fit in the oeuvre, I was happy to provide whatever insights I could. I’m on the record for being an ersatz-academic nerd type and could make matchbook collecting and curating an erudite endeavor. So this was right down my alley. Or does one always go up an alley? In?

But after my first phone call with the delightful Ms. Mears, (Who by the way, is well published and knowledgeable about women’s fashion and haute couture but was admittedly flummoxed about the whole Trad-Ivy-Preppy menswear thing) I thought…“Hell, if you wanna get this Ivy Style thing right, just get Paul Winston, Richard Press, Charlie Davidson, George Frazier IV and Bruce Boyer in one room and you’ll have all the literary, blood lineage and Trad-Ivy Mother Church retail stores legacies that you’ll need to land on a great version of what this was and is all about." I never needed to say it because that’s exactly what Patricia did. And with a dash of writers like Christian Chensvold and academics from around the globe, the book is and symposium will be—a home run.

I’ve yet to make it up to Gotham to see the exhibition and won’t until I head up to attend the conference but I’ve seen most of the exhibits in photos. And I’d say that just the opportunity to see Richard Press’s dad’s cashmere Prince of Wales Glen plaid sportcoat would be worth the trip.

Bottom line is that the Ivy Style exhibition catalogue is more than just another picture book. And I like most picture books. It’s a visual treat with academic heft. Like me.

So let’s shift gears inelegantly and just make a hard left turn and recap my previous five or six days. See the hands on the left? Those are the wise and learned but still learning—hands of Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, my good buddy and author of To the Manner Born blog. I had to rescue him last Thursday and my best strategy for Toad recovery-rehabilitation included the following unguents…a boutique hotel in Old Town Alexandria, cocktails, great food and finally, a lovely woman to accompany us during dinner so that both of us would come off as better looking and cultured. Mission accomplished. 

Sunday night saw me at Urbana with Dominic Casey and George Glasgow, Jr. from the George Cleverley mafia over in London. I stopped by their suite at the Fairfax Hotel on Embassy Row for a quick and vaguely conjugal visit with my next pair of Cleverley’s that are mid-way through their gestational coming about. Half of you will marvel at them while the less courageous and unimaginative remainder of my seven readers will want to check me for a fever. Until I have the time to write a story exclusively devoted to explaining every weft-warp detail of this fuzzy fabrication, I’m only gonna show you the deliberately edited and aggressively cropped photo above. Stay tuned…or not. I don’t care. And if you think I'm kidding--about the not caring part--you might need to check your own damn self for a fever. I don't care.

Oh, and this is a try-on model that the Cleverley boys had sitting about in the suite. Preening actually. The hide is carpincho…from the rodent-esque Capybara and it’s sublime. Glove leather soft and chances are you’ve a pair of gloves made of it. 2013 might see me carpinching a loafer of some sort in it. I care.

But the most delightful event between Toad Rescue and Cleverley Contrivances was my two-night visit with LFG. She came to my partially dismantled Casa Minimus and I reveled in her homework catch-up and her dance class shuttling and sleep deprivation recoup. No sleepovers, no competition from other, more appealing weekend options. It was bliss. Like the old days. You remember, don't you? It was a year ago.

My Sperry sportin' little dancer…post classes…bagging the goods for our valve closing white-trash taco party. White trash tacos are heavy on processed ingredients and the only allowable meat for the trailer park, anything but esoteric, Pawn Stars-Pickers version of the concoction is ground beef.

Add the chemical packet included in the kit. Bam. Just add a neighbor and their three year old little boy and we gotta party. Party be a noun.

This ain’t hyperbole or drama. I feel whole again...restored as a dad…after my two-night LFG weekend. And for those of you who are hyper-vigilant regarding my digs, the original upholstery on my sofa is what you see here. The decade old slipcover is currently under forensic review and fumigation. After that, it’ll probably be on ebay.

Further along the random trail…I’m always late to the technology party but this Instagram photo thing for the iPhone is new to me. And I love it. I posted the photo above on my tumblr and several of you asked again about the source of these Kilim slippers. So here you go, again. Contact Pammie Jane Farquhar at Nomad Ideas. Tell her what size shoe you wear in European sizing. She will send you a photo of what she has. You select your poison and send her your card details.

I hate shopping but I like stuff. And my stuff affinity is usually rather precise and eccentric so my dosh gets spread all over the globe. But I urge you, if you live in the D.C. area and are in need of anything Alden or Crockett and Jones or from another smattering of tasty shoemakers, please go by and see the guys at Sky Shoes on Wisconsin Avenue. There’s little in this aesthetically barren town that I buy…save for the lovely offerings at Sterling and Burke and an occasional Polo/J. Crew tchotchke. But Sky Shoes will always be my go-to place for some of the more mainstream shoddings that my anything but mainstream a_s desires. Go see them. Spend money.

This is it for now folks. I’ve gotta rejigger my to-do list and then not do it.

Onward. Sandy unimpeded. ADG II

Ps…and speaking of Sandy…an older cousin of mine—I had about twenty first cousins—gave me two Sandy Nelson albums when I got my Slingerland drums in the 6^th grade. I played this stuff over and over and over till I finally blew the speakers out of my mom’s big a_s piece of furniture stereo in the living rooms. And forty years later, my eardrums are in about the same shape.

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: The Debate Results

Trad-Ivy Tuesday Thursday

After careful deliberation and of course; your input. I've made my Kilim decision and am now prepared to also reveal my 2013 GTH trouser choice. The decisions were not easy. Since the offerings were seductive and the reality that one shouldn't have all of 'em seemed to waft in and out of decider land, I was vapor-locked and flummoxed during various moments during the trade-off process. 

Editorial courage is something I seem to have plenty of during work hours. I spent seven tedious ones yesterday working with two brand managers...creating first, the vetting criteria for tactical resource deployment and then guiding them through go-no go decisions based on the criteria. After seven hours of editorial rigor that netted them over a million dollars in marketing budget efficiencies...that's fancy talk for savings...I told them I shoulda taken the project for a percentage instead of my day rate. 

So why can't I practice the same level of efficiency and restraint in my personal and sartorial realms? I suppose that mainliest reason is that I damn don't want to. Thanks. After days of wearing such rigs as evidenced above, I'm looking for the quirk when I get home. 

Only one of you nailed the trouser choice. I've already got tons of reds and blues and all the other spectra of usual GTH colors. So why not be gaudy? Why not be impertinent? In less predictable hues? 

And thanks for all of the suggestions regarding my next pair of Kilim shoes. Certainly some of the choices that I disqualified from the get-go were tasty. But I already have a pair that lands similarly, color scheme-wise so again, I was looking for something different. To diversify the quirk. Shut up.

Flo suggested that I darken the lighter regions of this Kilim construct with a slapdash of strongly brewed tea. That's exactly what I'm a gonna do when this pair arrives. A Tea Party. Yep. Or maybe some skrong coffee. Flo gets me. Indeed.

Onward. Slammed. In all good ways.

Eighty Gee, Twice.

Trad Ivy Tuesday: GTH 2013

Cheers from Old Town. Its 459am and trust me when I tell you that this is gonna be a big pile of nothin’. As  much as I’d love to be blessed with a couple of hours of playtime to write something that even I would like to read—alas—I’m buried. Buried and blessed with a flurry of project work and travel that leaves me no time for focused, curated, artisanal and certainly not edited…whatever. So this is what I have till I can get back to drafting more focused impertanalia.

The joy of writing about things that muster passion and delight becomes the beacon of hope when one is amidst the drudgery of flogging the keyboard for the man. I lashed myself to it yesterday and banged out a three thousand and fifty-six word White Paper on Accountable Care Organizations and Diabetes Quality Measures. I never got dressed. I never left the house and it like to ‘bout killed me. But I had to get it done because I’ve got a bad habit of eating, paying the three mortgages and bespeaking all kinds of stuff. Oh and there’s that thing about LFG wanting to go to college and the rest of the cash-only work that I’ve gotta have done on my jaw.

So let me just throw some Trad Ivy Tuesday chum in the water and be done with it. And I suppose there’s no better place to start than GTH togs for 2013. I got an email from those Greenville North Carolina tumblr guys…Preppy By the Grace of God and Carolina Style. It seems that Bills Khakis was having a little trunk show down at the sartorial oasis where these two edgy cats work. And they were wondering if I might want something from the Bills' 2013 line-up. Folks, it’s still hot inside the Beltway and I’ve not yet switched my closets over to the corduroy moleskin toggery for fall 2012. And these cats are throwin 2013 GTH taunts my way. Plus, I thought Bills was a khaki company—not a purveyor of my kinda fuzzy.

So I pounced on one of the paisleys. I’ll leave it to you to guess which one of those swatches will be transformed into the ADG 2013 GTH statement. And no, I didn’t buy more than one pair of the paisleys. Oh and before you ask, I ordered the flat-front model...size 33. Yep...a 33 waist...I'm starting to get a little paunchy. Shut up.

And I did, just to kinda balance things out, jump on a pair of tan linen trousers because lord knows--my tan linen trousers are next to nil. Interestingly, I’ve never bought anything from Bills. I’m aware of them and their quality and their commitment to producing their goods domestically but this will be a first for me. Maybe I'll write a damn three thousand and fifty-seven word White Paper on 'em. And I’ve never been to Greenville, North Carolina but who knows; maybe I’ll run down there and pick these babies up in person.

Ok, let's close it out with Kilim. I'm down to two options for my next Kilim slipper installment. My interest leans obviously towards the brownish fall colors and I'll pull the trigger soon as y'all tell me A or B. Talk to me.

Ok, I gotta go. Onward. Still walking several paces behind.

ADG, II

Houndstooth Diagonality

Everything I write here is twee and superficial. But it’s been a while since I’ve limited my impertinence to purely sartorial drivelosity. Maybe it was the tumescent houndstooth carpet in the hallway at the Sheraton Jacksonville this week that inspired yesterday’s houndstooth rig. Or maybe it was the radical change made in my diet over these past many weeks.

You see; after at least a decade of “dry-up-three olives”…and often times, jalapeno stuffed ones…I’ve taken to my martinis with a twist. I think I’ve reached the point of olive overload. So after months of leaving two of the three olives alongside my cocktail napkin, drying out slowly…taking on that sandpapery dullness like a beached dolphin parching in the sun…I quit ‘em. No need to waste the briny bulbs of ‘tini ballast. For years I was as hooked (not really—I’m lying my ass off) on the olives as I was the hooch. I liked, especially with the taste buddian Fourth of July pyrotechnics offered by the jalapeno stuffed ones, the bitter tantrum that a gnashed morsel of olive would offer amidst an ice cold swig of clear comfort. Kinda like a Quaalude with a half sour.

Oh. Right. I was going to stick to just the sartorial stuff this morning. So it’s finally cold enough here to consistently wear winter togs. And it’s about time since our weather swings have been crazy. “Brown houndstooth and light gray flannel? That doesn’t match.” Do you EVEN remember who’s writing this sh_t? When did I worry about what matched? I consider light gray a neutral color. Shut the…

It wasn’t my original idea. I saw this little houndstooth-gray flannel snap of God Flusser over twenty years ago in a New York Times menswear supplement and it made sense to me. So there’s the attribution. Let’s move on.

But let's don't--for a moment. Here's the hint of gray flannel prairie doggin' out from under the swath of fabric.

This is a strong rig. Don't argue it with me.

Oh, and let me address the issue of diagonality. I’ve already anticipated the blowback that’ll be coming off of this but here goes. My preference is to angle a tie bar in a rather extreme manner. 

One could argue that since the tie has diagonal stripes, a horizontal placement would create enough visual dissonance to make all of this junk geometrically interesting. Exactly. And that’s exactly why I wouldn’t do it.

And another point—please. DO NOT use a collar pin AND a tie bar. You’ll over collateralize your rig with unnecessary accoutrement…making redundant one of the two pieces of hardware. And you’ll be on the cusp of blingy. But you DO need one of them. Let me explain. A collar pin heightens the visual interest of the tie knot. It perks it up by cinching it in a way that creates a proud perch. We call it Proud Perch Perkiness. Every fraternity had one of those guys...Proud Perch Perky. Who was yours? 

However, collar pins on these classic rounded collars is a no-no. It causes an already attenuated collar flap to almost disappear. Case in point is H. Ross Perot and his, for decades, ubiquitous round collar pinned (collar bar) ensemble. The giant sucking sound of collar nothingness is the endgame here. Don’t do it.

Ok, so if we can’t use a pin on these collars, how do we achieve Proud Perch Perkiness? You do so with a tie bar. Same outcome, different tactic. “You’ll never find a winning characteristic of one approach that fits all collar situations. Globalization of strategy is precarious.” –Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

So you wanna longer rounded collar that you can pin? No problem, when you bespeak shirts, just order a straight point collar and have them round the points for you. Request a rather significant rounding of the points and you’ll achieve the stellar outcome that Richard Merkin was known for when commissioning the same.

So this vintage Flusser jacket is a Brooks Brethren inspired model. Notch lapels…a deviation from my standard Flusser order of single breasted 2/3 peak lapels.

Patch and flap pockets and a ticket pocket to boot. I like the sprezzaturated insouciance that preens just a tiny bit—courtesy of the doggie eared pocket flaps. Shut up.

You can’t really see it but the breast pocket is an open patch as well. And all of the seams are welted. Only thing missing is a hook center vent. I don’t do center vents. Hooked double vents? Maybe.

The tie is Purple Label Ralph and the shirt is a twenty year old Alan Flusser end on end. Cuff Snaps? Yep. Georgetown Flea Market. Fifteen bucks. Bam.

I rounded this out with chocolate suede Edward Green Monkstraps and spent the day at Providence Hospital in Washington D.C. If you wanna be assured of a greater level of gratitude for your less than perfect life, spend a day at one of the only two hospitals in  a large urban area that will care for certain subsets of Medicaid patients. Humbling. Back home, in my three hundred square feet of divorced man-nest, I kept my rig on for a while. Butcept I slipped into some kilim slippers. Diagonally. With a twist.

Onward. Mixing and matching. 80G-2