Lumber Jack Noir and Trad Miscellanea

Whew. After such an unintentionally provocative story the other day, it’s time for some superficial randomanalia. And all of that over a straw hat. Don’t get me wrong, I loved observing the back and forth between all of you and wouldn’t want to inhibit that in any way. But every now and then we need some mental floss—a cerebral palette cleansing dose of something. And here it is. Because trust me, I’ve got some heavy duty shitake coming in the next few weeks.

I’m prone to hygiene holidays when I’m alone and now that I’m wracked with what I call the respiratory crud, the no-shave, baseball cap option is even more appealing. But I did clean up the other day for a brief trip to the office and then to dinner—alone—again—naturally.

Winter white moleskins from Cordings. I bought three pairs of moleskins and two pairs of corduroys at Cordings in June of 1995 at about a zillion percent off. And they’ll probably last forever—bulletproof. Yep. So along with a pair of Ralph wool socks I channeled what I call Lumber Jack noir. Shut the ____ up. I don’t feel well and I have no one to play with this week so I don’t want to hear it.

No break. And I mean it. Flat front trousers with narrower legs demand a clean culmination in ankle land. No break. And these 1 5/8 inch cuffs were installed before my two inch epiphany.

But it’s two inch cuffs from here on out. Don’t argue this with me. Two inchers in all their Polo Ralph flat front beltless glory Surprise...I had them made in orange. You saw it here first. Right here.

So I left the office and headed over to my little French greasy spoon around the corner. What you see as you walk the quarter of a block is Christ Church. The Anglican installment best known for being George Washington’s church when he “came to town.” Young Bobby Lee worshiped there as well…after his mama, Ann Carter Lee had to decamp Albemarle County and Stratford because Light Horse Harry Lee pissed away all of the family dough. And Roosevelt accompanied Churchill to Christ Church during one of Winnie's visits. Seems logical. New Amsterdam WASP shuttles the uber Anglican Winnie over to the local Anglican house of (poised/restrained) worship.

I'm gonna do a story about Winston Churchill in caricature someday. But for now, here is a snap of two Winnie caricatures that live in my little hallway...awash in retail red.

So I took my usual place in the dining alone corner and began my comfort food journey. Painfully cold weather calls for Cassoulet but the Dover sole was whispering… “Order me again…order me again you lonely, yet intriguingly, in an impish sort of way, sexy man.”

Well damn, how do you deny such a siren call? Against my better judgement, I did. But not before I had a slice of middle of the road pâté. Good ole country pâté would worry me if it was anything but average. This stuff kinda appeals to a southern boy in a Boudin, liver pudding, hogshead cheese kind of a way.

I’ve never had a bad Cassoulet even though this one was a little bit dry and as always, too much.

 And I now offer this from a perspective of morphological admiration…not lust. The waitress must have been doing a ton of yoga. Stellar derrière…sublime. And I bet it would be just the same if I hadn't had two of those magical concoctions I so love. That would be ice-water.

Peach Melba, Café au lait and I’m done.

Till I get home. It’s a holiday week and I generally don’t drink hard spirits alone but I needed one of these see-throughs to see me through till bedtime. I was out of NyQuil. Shut up. 

 So let’s shift gears and revisit my Bobby from Boston gets. I’ve pretty much sorted out with you the two covert twill coats that I snagged. But looky at the perfecto navy blazer. Whether you bespeak something from Savile Row or buy sixty five dollar jackets from Bobby; there’s an immutable issue regarding fit that must be reconciled before pondering any other adjustment. Sleeves can be shortened, sides can be tapered. But the true index for whether or not a garment is for you is the way it fits the neck and shoulders. 

There’s very little that can be done to lower a collar or adjust shoulders. That’s where most of the handwork is manifest and where most of the customization has already occurred for the original owner. If the fit sucks in neck/shoulder land, the garment’s always gonna look kinda sucky. I’ve had enough clothes made for me over the last twenty years to know when something fits. And I’ll tell you that the shoulder/neck fit on this little Bobby from Boston ditty is as good as I’ve ever had.

Griffon amongst retail red. (sorry...I'm stuck on the retail red thing...it remains funny to me but I'm sure it will subside in another post or two) Now the Griffon escutcheon could mean a hundred things. The original owner could have been a member of “The Griffin/Griffon Club” or they could have been a veteran of one of the British Ranger battalions that use the Griffon as part of their iconographic manifestation. But I’ve debunked this one. It’s the logo for Elmer and Lurlene Griffin’s Auto Body. Elmer and Lurlene opened a bondo slathering, chicken wire and hay baling twine car put-back-together emporium years ago. In Pamplico South Carolina. Shut up.

My other rare foray from home so far this week saw me, even with the respiratory crud; manifest cabin fever so I drove out to the country and grabbed my usual supply of Crane Crest secret salad cologne.

And my hygiene holiday manifested in jeans, Red Wings and my LFG Patagonia thing. Red Wings. A real work boot and made in America. At least they were when I bought these in 1996 on King Street in Old Town. Back when a family owned work shoe—boot store remained in business. It’d been there for fifty years when I bought these. And of course they are long gone. Most everything now on King Street is a frou frou boutique of some sort butcept two wig shops. I want the wig shops to always be in Old Town. It reminds me of how dodgy upper King Street was in 1989. Canaries in the coal mine of gentrification…when the wig shops go; we’ll be 100% uppity. Upper King Street 1989…the antithesis of Lower Sloane Street in any decade.

 Someone emailed me and axked if the Patagonia top was as shockingly green in real life or had I enhanced the photo. Nope. It’s green. Fuzzy green.

My Restoration Hardware chair remains in Georgetown. I stopped by to check on it the other day.

Right after I bought pediatric Blunnies for my little buddy who I’ll see next week.

And the chair also remains in the Old Town location as well. And no I’m not gonna buy it. Six months from now, a half dozen of these will find their way to the Restoration Hardware Outlet in Leesburg. They’ll have a ding or two on them and they’ll have an adjusted MSRP of around nine hundred bucks. Just watch.

And so I’ll close this installment of superficialia with a couple of things. Is it just me or is Jennifer Beals looking more and more like the late Dixie Carter? I’d say that’s a compliment for either of them.

 Continued Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. This time from the junk man in Old Town.

Onward. En route to replenish my DayQuil/NyQuil cache.

ADG II

A Patriotic Mess

It didn’t dawn on me last Monday when I left the house that I’d essentially manifested a Fourth of July rehearsal kit. Our weather was unpredictable but it seemed that moleskin would be ok and a pair of Incotex rouge ones were yelping for release. Plus my buddy M.O. sent me a Union Jack pocket square that I’d been hankering to wear so Britannia and Italy fostered my patriotic boondoggle.

The classic tattersall is getting harder and harder to find. Don’t get me wrong, you can still find them but they all seem to be fiddled-with in some way. Brown buttons or some funky-ass pocket treatment or whatever. I couldn’t even score one in London during my last visit. But you can bespeak them if you wanna. And I wanna-ed so I threw redneck all over this one. This one-by the way-being 80 cotton 20 wool and very, very fuzzy. And we've gotta do something about this white chest hair. I'm open to suggestions...from girls only. Shut up.

Incotex. Nice enough trousers but I wouldn’t pay retail for a pair of them on a bet. I don’t need trousers that nice. Specially with so many women tugging at them. These tuggables are about fifteen years old by the way. Tug on—tug off—tug on—tug off. Shut the ____.

I never intended for the Hoof Pick belt to be a seasonal thing but it’s become one. And it’s back…happily.

There’s tons of good news in this photo but what I’d like to point out is that the iPhone 4g now has Paul Frank covers that fit. I had to sacrifice, much to LFGs frustration, my old Paul Frank cover when we switched to the 4g. LFG located this one for me. A new monkey from my Monkey. And trust me when I tell you that the day Verizon has access to the iPhone 4g, I’m dropping AT&T like a bad habit.

Onward. Manifesting a patriotic mess over here.

ADG, II

Corduroy Catch Up

Ahh…the weather is cooperating…cooperating with what? I’d suppose that Mother Nature chortles at our categorization of weather being anything but, well, weather. But the humidity and heat has abated enough for me to be reminded that September through early November here is perfecto convertible car weather. So the SaabMinimus will see hopefully, more days with the top down than not. And by the way, someone asked about the status of my new car acquisition efforts. Actually, since I don’t buy new cars I suppose the update is better characterized as my “three year old car just off of lease” acquisition efforts. There are a couple of mechanical things going on with my Saab that when one does a cost/value/benefit analysis; the repair costs exceed the value of the car. My original intent was to sell or trade my Saab while it had albeit scant, some dollar value remaining to use towards another car. I’ve changed course and have decided to drive my Saab till it literally coughs up its last gasp of Swedish whatever.

So in the midst of Saab-Top Down weather, an annual sartorial dilemma manifests. It ain’t cold and it ain’t hot. Swathing from the waist up is a no brainer but the trouser decision matrix is scant with inputs at best. Linen is out. Moleskin cotton and corduroy must wait for a bit of a nip in the air. So this tweener-time has me going to two pairs of trousers for work. Ok, maybe a pair of flat front khakis will suffice in some client meetings but I done told ya more than once…I’m only gonna dumb down my sartorial standards to a certain point…I don’t care how much my clients are slumming sartorially. I’ll get off of that tirade because I’ve tantrum-ed in front of you before about this issue. The pair of lightweight cavalry twill trousers above represents my bulletproof-go to togs for this transitional weather. I’ve had ‘em for years and they truly are the hardest finish-sturdiest stalwart trews in my lineup. My other go to transitional trouser is a ten year old pair of Polo Purple label butter soft gabardine babies that I’m wearing the hell out of. I’ve got a zillion and a half pairs of trousers but I’m needing something…one more pair of transitional togs to hold me over till it’s corduroy-moleskin time.

I love corduroy and moleskin…both very casual materials intended for the country or the weekend. However, it’s a regular part of my business casual lineup given that my clients and their corporate campus dress codes have allowed a hygiene holiday…and that’s being generous. But it’s still too early to consider buying or wearing either. The Brooks Brethren outlet in Flemington New Jersey offered a few corduroy choices about two weeks ago when I checked in on them. It was ninety-eight degrees at six o’clock that day and I popped a sweat just looking at anything intimating autumn.

But remember the horizontal corduroy trousers from J. McLaughlin last year? The really tripped my fuzzy diced trigger but the price point for said folly was a bit too steep for me. 

Until…until…they gave them away after Christmas last. Fuzzy is good. Fuzzy at a billion percent off is even better. I’m a free market kind of a guy. 

Business need to make money. But when cash flow needs for a retailer necessitate this kind of markdown, I’m only too happy to oblige. And oblige I did. This one, obligingly, is for the ladies. 

I was in Georgetown recently and popped in to J. McLaughlin to see what might be cooking for the season. And the horizontal cords were on the front burner. So was this stunning specimen of womankind who gladly held these cords so that I could take a snap or two. After accommodating about thirty minutes of poses and varied camera angles, she finally balked at my suggestion that she model a few of the women’s half price bathing suits. Just so you know…a pair of tightly rolled-up corduroy trousers, wielded as a nightstick-baton and fuelled by the rage of an athletic and  insulted woman, hurts when it pops the side of your noggin’. I waited till I got outside to cry.

And certainly, GTH cords are worthy of consideration. But the need for multiple pairs is nonexistent unless you are the early retired, hooch marinated guy who spends every afternoon in the bar at the Club. Afternoon defined for these archetypes as beginning around 2:39 pm. That would not be me. 

However, our Buffalo based Trad stalwart O’Connells is offering a limited trove of new-old stock GTH cords in clever and stunning contrivances. And unlike the bleeding madras mother lode that sent many of us trad-nuts over the edge, they actually have a few pairs of these babies larger than a 32.

Ok, on to some miscellaneous catch up…

My LFG weekend was just the tonic I needed and we enjoyed every minute of it. The Snow Leopards won their first game and that’s of course, a great way to get the season going. LFG’s mom showed up for the game and I noted with whateverishness that LFG is on the cusp of being as tall as her mom. I’ve said it before, LFG may not play basketball but she’s gonna make a hell of a jockey.

And for some reason, the soccer fields on Saturday teemed with large SUVs and stern looking people with earpieces and dark sunglasses.

So after soccer we had an errand or two that included buying a few more school supplies. We tried our newest junque boutique…an intriguing little operation called Five Below. Of course they had spiral notebooks and the other things we needed. But with everything in the joint priced at less than five bucks, coupled with my southern white trash DNA, we had a hell of a time procuring tchotchke. LFG got these fuzzy little footies for a dollar. I approved the pounce for several reasons-unit price being a key variable. The other trigger for affirming the purchase was knowing that her mother would be rolling her eyes for the entire week. Just realized what a gnarly juxtaposition my ugly leg hair is in concert with such a dainty little fuzzy-horizontal foot. Shut up.

Oh, and I'm learning to pick my battles. This was not one of them.

The coup for me included two books. One, originally priced at thirty bucks was essentially an illustrated history of Aardmann Studios and their plasticine-hand sculpted magnificence. LFG and I are huge fans of Aardman and have in our permanent collection everything ever done with Wallace and Gromit as well as Creature Comforts and a vignette DVD of all the television commercials Aardman has produced. I love their low tech, excruciatingly slow and primitive method of producing their clever tales. One could write a Master’s thesis for film school on the communicative power of Gromit’s eyebrow movements.

And the muscle car book is a fun but heartbreaking treatise on what was and what will never be again. Each Detroit show of muscle includes a year by year capture of the cars performance specifications. Sadly, there was a year that saw Chevrolet offer a Camaro with a, I kid you not, 90hp engine. Folks, the first Miata debuted with 120hp. I’ll race ya.

Wouldn’t you know it, we forgot that Old Town Alexandria hosted their annual arts fair last weekend so after Five Below, we walked down King Street and enjoyed the artists. LFG is in the midst of redesigning her bedroom and decided that this whimsical little print would be just the thing for her nest. I complied.

Restoration hardware is on King Street and while we don’t buy much stuff there, it’s a really cool place, literally, to gander about and rest your weary dogs for a moment. They are in the midst of totally redefining their strategy and while LFG and I are not trained interior design lackeys, we liked some of the things we saw.

LFG was especially intrigued with this Campaign Furniture inspired work area that literally closes like a travel chest. She vetoed my suggestion that she close me up inside this thing and let me yelp for help, claiming that it attacked me and that I’d not sue if they’d just give me one of these babies.

Then we got a bit artistic with our self portraiture efforts. Shut up.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. National Airport saw me off to Boston on Sunday early evening.

But Boston wouldn’t have me as intended. The Road Warrior-Consultant On-The-Go Gods decided to manifest four hour ground holds that left me ultimately at JFK airport with no connections remaining to Boston. By now it’s eleven thirty pm and I’m speaking in Boston at eight a.m. So might the above captured moment have me somewhat beleaguered and less than ebullient? Certainly. Because it’s three-thirty in the morning and after three hours of sleep, I’m about to jump in a car that’s been arranged for me and head over to LaGuardia and catch the six o’clock shuttle to Boston Logan.

At least the LaGuardia carpet matched my rig. I walked in to the conference room at the Westin in Wellesley at seven-forty five, fuelled by adrenaline and caffeine, a PowerPoint deck of drivel illuminating the screen five minutes later and I over-delivered for my client. Like Dizzy Dean once said… “It ain’t braggin’ if you done it”.

I was front and center till five p.m. Went straight to the bar and had one of these, then room service dinner and REM sleep by eight-thirty.

Onward…amidst tenfold more blessings than challenges. Repacking the bag for a project pitch in New Jersey in the morning. My partners and I will win this project.

ADG