Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Uncurated Randomanalia

So for this Trad-Ivy Tuesday I’m back to unedited-uncurated-unfocused randomanalia. It’s just flat-out easier to throw a pile of this at you than it is to distil anything more thoughtful. It also seems that you people like the random stuff better than my more thought-out, scrivened gyrations and (I’m delusional, I know. Hang with me.) keyboard-esque hip thrusts. Shut up.

I now have an editor and I’m pleased by it. On the other hand, we are amidst writer-editor conflict right out of the gate. “Anonymous asked you: Good writers deserve good editors- not just to pare their prose, but to suggest topics. Until you get the editor you deserve, you has me. May I humbly suggest that the Blogosphere is full of stories of O’Hara and the Brethren? Why not a post on boxers? Whip out a half dozen pair and photograph them. Maybe discuss the subtle virtues of buttons vs all over elastic and the outrageous expense of Edwardian style tie backs. Touch briefly (ha) on knitted models. Tell about white linen show thru…”

Ok editor, you make a good point. The O’Hara anecdotes and his sartorial whateverishness have been done. And done. And done. But I’m still gonna eventually write about it for a few reasons. First, I write all of this stuff really, to please me as opposed to editors (Sorry…my new editor) or paying clients/publishers. If someone paid me to do this, I’d be mildly but not too much so, more compliant. Next…O’Hara and his Brooks Brethren buttoned-down poseuressence have indeed been done. But not by me.

I want to write about how I was late to the O’Hara short story party and what an impact a couple of them had on me. And how Appointment with Samara didn’t do it for me but the son of a legendary Boston Globe columnist who is associated with an O’Hara Brethren button down story did think Samara was ok. And I have some never told information that I want to peck out on the keyboard in my words and see how my retelling resonates. So thanks, new editor. Don’t abandon me but give me some wiggle room on the O’Hara thing. I bet you’re gonna find it tolerable. Whew. After that, I feel like I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.

How the hell do you smoothly transition from that? You don’t. You just move on. So now I’ll thank one of my readers for giving me a heads-up about the pair of Edward Green Oundle monks that were half-price at Leffot and coincidentally, just my size. Leffot has an incredible shodding line-up and I’m pleased that a tasty goods purveyor like Leffot doesn’t choose or seemingly have to play price point grab-ass with the public. All retailers it seems; must start some 20% off hoochie coochie sh_t with their new season’s goods within one week of announcing their arrival. For anyone with an IQ hovering above 90, which is a stretch for South Carolinians, the fact that the week-one discounts are built into the made in Outer Sweatshoplandia price point is obvious.

Leffot is a tasty joint and Will over at A Suitable Wardrobe says it better than me...“Steven Taffel of Leffot, on Christopher Street in Manhattan, has assembled what is probably the best collection of shoe brands offered for sale in the Eastern United States, with hard to find delights like Corthay and Aubercy complementing better known names such as Alden and Edward Green.”

Susan Tabak Photo

So Leffot needn’t have massive unit price discount promos very often. But Messrs’ Taffel et al a couple of times each year, clear out a few things. I’d cruised the discounted remainders as soon as I got the Leffot sale email but saw nothing in my size. A few weeks later my reader ping-pinged me with a link to the Oundle. I don’t win raffles and I’m never very lucky at chance games but karma and juju washed over me in this instance. 

My Edward Green Westminister double monks that I demanded be special ordered for me in what was ultimately the wrong size, went to a reader courtesy of a hugely discounted and lesson-learned-by-shoe size/last shape know-it-all…me. So the karmic shoe energies of the world prevailed the Oundle on me at a price that has me back to the original investment I had in the Westministers. I need another cigarette after rationalizing this one.

Sticking with shoes for another moment…these are now about a zillion percent off at the Brethren. But I still won’t take ‘em home. And don’t you either.

Even though we’ve passed the official “it’s after Labor Day, now put your linen, madras and seersucker away” deadline, I’m gonna hang on to my darker tan linen trousers for a few more weeks. My cousin Willie   (you've seen him before in another post, wearing his Scottish Kit, on the right in the above Kodak) who still lives down in that moral cesspool known as South Carolina, offers that below eighty-five degrees is his break point for eschewing linen in S.C. Makes sense to me—down there.

Moral cesspool? Yep. I was searching online for an update on the publication of Mel and Patricia Ziegler’s memoir about their brilliant for the first six years, concept known as Banana Republic. So when I googled keyword stuff I not only got the Ziegler update that I was looking for, I also found the above. Eight bucks and five days later, courtesy of Alibris, I was in to this page turner. I blew through it in about three sittings. 

We always avoided Myrtle Beach except for an evening drive down to the Pavilion from time to time when I was a little kid. As the smarm moved north, my parents even decamped the wood framed screen porched gentility of Ocean Drive and built a house at Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina. I was bored mindless there.

Ok…off of my little Carolina rant and back to clothing. I noticed something a while back when I came home with my nine thousand dollars’ worth of dry cleaning. Even though I love my weekend GTH stuff, my standard fare linen is hugely monochromatic. I think the khaki indoctrination from years ago became an immutably imprinted imprimatur, declaring the color tan to be the little black dress of men’s trouser palate options.

My baby began 7^th grade last week. Shitake. It seems like just yesterday that she was in preschool and the kitting out process meant nothing more than a navy blue uniform.

And I think uniforms are great. Really. Just look at these future Old Etonians. We’d probably get better behavior out of our boys and girls if they had to wear top hats to class. And I’d demand that they wear them properly. Not like the topper that the guitarist Slash from Guns N Roses wore. That hairy mugwump gives the proper topper a bad name.

I'm pretty much out of the fray when it comes to taking LFG shopping for her clothes. It was a no-brainer when she was in that three to seven year age range. I could simply buy those smock thingys at the Gap Outlet and if I was within one size of correct, all was good. I did though, accompany trail her by fifty feet to Georgetown the other day and bought her a pair of must-have flip flops. "Flip flops" her mother axed? "It's back to school shopping time." Yep.

As well as a pair of Mossimo lace-up Bluchers from Target. Yep.

Students—style—duende—deportment? I don’t see it with my thirty-something year old clients so why should I look to see it amongst the ranks of students? Here’s a young undergrad named Walter Cronkite. I rest my case regarding the decline. In clothes and evening news anchoring.

I tole you this was gonna be random. When I was searching for pictures to help me tell the story about my daddy’s Mustang, I ran across a cache of pictures depicting the racing life of the Ford Falcon. I’m not gonna poach too much from what I found because there’s another unique post therein. But the photo above cracked me up! Talk about incongruence. A Ford Falcon atop a Citroen transport vehicle. Suffice it to say, they weren’t headed for Daytona or Darlington. Citroen. Just saying it out loud with my country ass accent cracks me up. Falcon. Imagining a French aristocrat saying it in high French cracks me up. High German? Could be impressive. High? I must be.

Wanna talk interior design for a moment? Good. Neither do I. But I will share that even though I’m not a hoarder, I remain flummoxed by the amount of accumulata that I’ve managed to pack into a thousand square feet in Old Town Alexandria. I’m trying to edit ruthlessly but its tough going. Plus, I’m dragging my feet getting to Bethesda as my ten to fifteen minute radius from LFG’s house hasn’t yet yielded a place with the right bones for me to resettle my damn self.

And please, shoot me if I ever experiment with Chinese red lacquer again. 

Or as Reggie Damn Darling refers to it..."Retail Red".

I lost count of the number of primer coats it took to cover this mess.

I’m priming the darker colored rooms…my hunter green bedroom, LFG’s purple Dr. Seuss bedroom and the hallway before I have the painters come in and do the entire place rental property beige. Again.

LFG shared recently that even if I wasn’t moving, it was time to take down all of her formative years artwork from the LFG kitchen gallery.

I disagreed. She prevailed.

Pert near kilt me to take it all down. Daddy Land be closed.

Shut up. And I mean it.

Ok. I’m thinking that one thousand four hundred and almost seventy words are enough for this Tuesday’s load. Onward. Editing. With scant efficacy. And wondering wherever my head of college hair went.

ADG II

Sartorial Sunday…Random Rambles

And I intend for this to be as rambling and disjointed as I am this morning. I rolled in kinda by accident on a honkey tonk in my ‘hood last night after dinner and stayed till two a.m. You young whippersnappers are surely laughing at that but for me it was unusual. There’s a basement bar called the Bayou Room in Old Town that I used to frequent over twenty years ago and back then it was a little more sedate. And for some reason, while the rest of DC and Alexandria are pretty much smoke free, this joint and the Basin Street lounge two floors above it, remain thick as hell with cigar and cigarette smoke.

Here’s the perverse thing about it. There’s a reason I stayed till two. I loved it. I reveled in the eye irritating haze of smoke and the none too healthy second hand hits I got from cigars. It reminded me of all the years that I did this kind of thing every Friday and Saturday night and when smoke was part of the package. And I knew that my hair, albeit less of it, and my clothes were gonna be thick with smoke smell this morning. It was just a really fun and safe, given that I drank watered down vodka tonics in plastic cups one after the other and didn’t have to drive home. And let me confess this…I danced nonstop for at least an hour. And I’m talking loud head banging music about which I knew nothing. There was no music in the mix that was remotely elegant or crisp or civilized enough to render the shag an option. This was primal body wigglin’ stuff and my whitey whitey white can’t dance self was right in the middle of it. It’s not the beginning of a trend. I might not ever do it again but I sure had fun last night. My ears are ringing and my smokey head hurts.

Ok, on to sartorial stuff. It was a joke, folks. I stated on my tumblr that I was taking a portion of my shoes to the thrift shop in Old Town. Don’t go, they won’t be there. I had them out for a couple of reasons. I am going to get shed of a few pairs but I already have folks who wear my size who are usually willing to transact some second hand shoe business with me. And I’m also pondering what I can go ahead and pack, even though I know not where yet, I am going to land in the Bethesda Chevy Chase area. Additionally, I’ve still got tons of work to do on my place to get it ready to rent.

Yes, it seems that I’ve accumulated a ton of shoes. And there’s another pair of Cleverley bespokes in the works as well as an absurd mongrelizationated green shell cordovan boondoggle gestating presently at Rancourt. It’s gonna be a bell ringer one way or another. And the Cleverley 2.0 effort? Suffice it to say that you should go ahead and practice tisk-tisking now. Two eyelet suede Dainite with tasselled shoe strings in a suede color that you’ve never seen before.

Also, here’s a tragedy for me and an opportunity for someone else. My suede Edward Green Westminister Dainite Double Monks…Dainite Double Monks…sounds like either a Franciscan or Jesuit clique or one of the bands whose songs I wiggled to last night. My Westministers that I’ve worn maybe a half dozen times after waiting nine months to arrive are too big for me. And it’s my fault therefore my only recourse is to sell them. I insisted on a larger size so I own the mistake. I did not listen to my expert guys at Sky Shoes and demanded the size without appreciating the difference in the last. So instead of a perfect 8-D U.S. which is what I needed, I got a perfect 8.5-D U.S. If you are an 8.5-D and you want these, shoot me an email.

They are just too nice and too unique for me to try to live with them avec an innersole or some other compensatory manipulation. Check the retail price of Edward Green Westministers at Leffot or Leather Soul and then add a hundred bucks to that number for the special order/Dainite option and you’ve arrived at what I paid for these. Do not email me and jerk me around with some bullshit offer. But please, if you want them, shoot me an email at maxminimus2000@yahoo.com  . They are essentially brand new and I’ll be willing to let them go at a hefty reduction and if you are in the contiguous 48 states, I’ll cover the shipping. Just make sure you wear an 8.5-D U.S. because once they arrive at your house, they ain’t coming back to mine.

The most daunting packing task ahead is wrapping and packing the small fortune in lead toy soldiers that are guarding this joint. Someone remarked about all of the artwork and the aggravation associated with taking all of it down. That’s easy breezy compared to the old and fragile lead soldiers.

My latest addition…I don’t know what happened to my spending lockdown…is a partial set of the hard to find Heyde Polar Exploration Team. I remain amazed that any of this stuff survived. I had plastic “army men” when I was a kid and we freakin’ destroyed them.

Surprise I know but I don’t give a damn how nerdy my hobbies appear to others. I am completely fascinated with antique, as well as some of the modern lead soldiers. But it is a nerdy hobby. I’ve taken some comfort in knowing that Douglas Fairbanks Jr. had a massive collection for years. So did Malcolm Forbes as well as artist Andrew Wyeth. That’s Sam Torode above, in Wyeth’s studio surrounded by Wyeth’s little lead legions.

I got a kick out of discovering the following passage in the Andrew Wyeth biography that I’m currently re-reading amidst an obsession with the Wyeth clan and their Chadds Ford lives. Andrew Wyeth reflects on being newly married to Betsy…a nineteen year old gal and he only three or so years older. “Wyeth remembers…We were absolutely broke. Best thing for us. We’d go to a movie and spend twenty-five cents for dinner. We started out with an empty living room, a stove, icebox and a lot of toy soldiers.” It was obviously a good start. When Wyeth died, he and Betsy were in their sixty-ninth year of marriage.

And Heavy Tweed Jacket asked me over at my tumblr if “there really are toy soldier swap meets?” Well, they aren’t swap meets per se…they are called Toy Soldier Shows. There’s a huge one each year in Los Angeles, Chicago, New Jersey, the Philly area, two in DC and a couple in London. There are also specialist auctions several times each year. I remember taking LFG to one when she was about four years old and she thought the “show” was going to include a performance of toy soldiers. She wasn’t too crestfallen and I think we both got a chuckle out of her misconception.

But sartorially, toy soldier collectors are walking disasters. Keep the nerd variable in mind. Here’s the visual evidence to support my point.

Also, I’m probably one of the youngest collectors and it worries me on a couple of fronts. The older guys with plenty of dough and memories of actually playing with lead ones, keep the market for the better stuff rather high. Mass produced plastic soldiers, coupled with concerns about lead toxicity, essentially wiped out the commercial appeal of lead ones by the mid-1960s. I also fear that as the older guys start dying off, the market will plummet…at just the time when I’ll need to start selling off my stuff to pay for LFG’s sorority dues. Life’s risky ain’t it? But hell, its risky leaving the house looking like sport model soldier collector guy above, no? So the shows are fun and I always buy something. And I always remain cognizant that I’m the only guy who’s ever worn Belgian shoes to the “Show.”

Final word on shoes for today…My Trad-Ivy Tuesday will actually arrive on Tuesday. It’s already written and in the queue. Scary I know. I’ve finally taken up the task of a full report on my Cleverley dealings over the past year. That’s Cleverley above. Brown shell cordovan. Arriving in August at Leather Soul. Can you image how incredible the patina is gonna be on this number after a couple of years? I’ve said it before…if you can’t see art, talent and God in something so sublime, I worry for you. But don’t worry for yourself. Because I see the same things in hand painted lead toy soldiers.

Ok. I’m done. It’s off to the shower to rid myself of bar smoke. I’ve got a lunch date with LFG. She no longer stays with me on my LFG weekends so lunch is the best I can wrangle. These next however many years are gonna kill me. I don’t regret one bit of the investment I’ve made in this child. But I can say unequivocally that I’ve invested in a way that’s left me unprepared for this current phase. The “she’ll come back to you” statement that everyone who’s already trod this path offers me lands logically on my rational self and falls into nothingness when it touches down on my heart. But please realize that I’m not wallowing in it too much. I’m taking action to adjust to this new and healthy next chapter in LFG’s journey. And I remain mindful of how blessed I am to have a healthy and happy child...who only grunts at me.

Onward. With shoes. And soldiers. And a head/heartache.

ADG-Two

Wholecuts are Tricky

A reader over at my tumblr asked…“Speaking of shoes, I don't see you wearing many lace-up shoes. (other than white bucks) Is it because you don't hang with the suits? I gather from many of your comments that you are often the most dressed up guy in the room- and that usually means you are That Guy With That Thing Around His Neck. But, if you were in serious banking or, God forbid, law or finance, would you wear oxfords, wingtips, captoes- blucher or otherwise? Special bonus question: where do you stand on wholecuts?”   So I decided to answer the question over here.

Lace-ups? Your observation is correct. They aren’t a huge part of my lineup anymore mostly because suits are such a rare part of my kit these days. The classic Brooks Brethren wingtip above is indeed just that--classic. But it isn't relevant to me anymore. And when I do wear suits, monk straps seem to be adequate. Suits in general and the dressiest most elegant versions especially, might deserve a dressier shoe. Trust me, I know the rules and at one time in my life I used to abide by them rather faithfully. I’m on the record having posited that the world, sartorially and deportment-wise, is already at the bottom of the slippery-ass slope. So when I put on a pair of not-dressy-enough monk strap shoes with a suit, unfortunately, I am by default, better dressed and shod than 89.3783% of humanity. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not better than or earlier in the queue for heaven than 89.3783% of humanity. I come in at about 47.8765% on the former and 22.2232% on the latter. (We don’t round our numbers here. Shut up.)

And yes, I am usually "The Guy With That Thing Around His Neck."

I worked for a very strict and culturally rigid pharma organization for thirteen years. And during those years it would have been career suicide to wear 90% of what I swath and shod in today. My work wardrobe was suits only—no sportcoats, white or blue solid dress shirts, maybe a basic stripe thrown in if my most recent performance review was stellar. And shoe-wise, I wore two lace-up variations exclusively...all-day every-day--for thirteen years. The black cap-toe Allen Edmonds example above represents what was on my feet probably four days a week for thirteen years. Maybe that’s why I have an aversion to black shoes today.

When I was away from the Corporate Colon in New Jersey or Basel, either working in the field or working out of one of the regional offices, the most ambitious I’d ever get, shodding-wise would be a suede cap-toe with a bit of punching/brogueing similar to the above. I’ve often said of my corporate years, before the business casual boondoggle, that I was one of the best dressed guys you’d ever see, Monday through Friday and at best on the weekends…Preppy Homeless. And it was true. After being cinched up...suiting swathed and cap-toed all week, I’d have on a pair of beat-to-shit khakis, Alden tassels or Bean bluchers—no socks of course unless it was snowing…a popped collar knit shirt in the summer or a Shetland crewneck sweater in the winter. Underneath it all however, was always LaPerla.

I’m not anti-lace-ups per se but it seems that in our slovenly world and in my now more casual phase, monk straps are my alternative to a slip-on. But here’s a bit of an update. Be patient and I’ll let you peek at something…probably mid-October. The boys at Cleverley are working on a mongrelized two-eyelet lace up for me. I’d ask that you “picture this” but a healthy mind probably can’t. The shoe above? That’s an Edward Green classic that I literally wore till it could no longer be refurbished—recrafted—resurrected—resuscitated or re-anythinged.

So I’ve re-imagined my old Edward Green shoe but with fuzzy mongrelizations that are gonna make most traditionalists harrumph and cause more ardent devotees and adherents to hurl. Instead of brown suede I’ve opted for a suede color that has slightly more yellow in it than the tobacco or snuff colors that are so beautiful and therefore so ubiquitous. The Cleverley name on the swatch I selected is Brass. To further bastardize standard time-tested models and shapes and colors, I’ve requested an Algonquin split-toe, raised stitching, Cleverley suspiciously square-ish toe, Dainite bottomed assemblage to finish this monkey off. Oh, and with tassels on the laces of course. Picture the Edward Green Leffot shoe above but with the aforementioned tweaks. That’s the best I can do to create a remotely relevant example of how to help your normal mind get a read on what my beautiful mind has con-shod-ulized. Shut up…at least for now. You can howl at me in October when I show you the mess-in-progress.

And I was asked about wholecuts. Bottom line…they are tricky. The very thing that defines the shoe also sets the stage for its rapid…and I mean Astroglide rapid descent down the slippery slope towards Pimp-Disco. Wholecut above? ADG no likey.

The wholecut paucity of line…the sports car prototype sleekness of design are just two things top of my mind that stand me in awe, yet on the cusp of ugh. And any shoe maker will tell you that the skills involved in  making a wholecut properly is a high calling. Go here to see evidence of what I speak. Wholecut above? ADG could probably grow to likey. If you gave it to me.

But man oh man…wholecut slippers? Loafers? It’s a whole ‘nother fuzzy thang.  Go here to see The ShoeSnob’s post that offers a nice representation of ‘em. If you can’t see art and God and beauty in the manifestation above, I feel sorry for you. And so does Gaziano and Girling, the inceptors and creators of this stronger than nine-rows-of-spring-onions example.

I’m broke. Seriously. But in doing some gandering around for examples to augment this story, I’ve happened upon the Bamford by Edward Green pictured above, courtesy of Leffot. And I think I'm gonna have to Bam!

Folks, this is bigger than me…bigger than all of us. This is girlie-slipper-Belgians-ADG fuzzy all to be damned. And how would I wear it? Just like the proprietor of Leffot is preening it above…but without the Sandra Dee jean cuff. Oh, and I’d wear it with Marcoliani socks from Will or Kabbaz and gray flannel trousers or linen togs with no socks. Hell, if I can ever get Roxanne Burgess back over here, I’d wear the darn things nekkid.

When I finish this post I’m gonna cull the requisite number of antique lead soldiers from my shelf, arrange a sale to my go to collector-buyer that I swap such goods with, and take the dosh to Sky Valet and commission the Bamford today—before I go and get my former daughter LFG from dance. But what hide? Have you ever seen the Edward Green swatch book? I only have a zillion choices. Help me. Would you go with suede? EG only has fifty colors. What about shell cordovan? Talk to me.

So it’s off to Los Angeles next week on business. Maybe I better hold off on any more of this shoddingossity till I get to Leather Soul Beverly Hills. Check out Will's story on them here.

Onward. Broke. Bespoke. And shod all to be damned…but only in Belgians this morning. ADG II and soon, but for only a night; the only thing that makes my heart come back alive, one Miss LFG.