The Stories…

The Stories…

I’ll probably never write. I mean my head is full of them—and good ones, too. But I don’t think they’ll make it to daylight anytime soon.

Ennui by Walter Richard Sickert circa 1914

Why not? Ennui came to mind but that’s not it. Not at all. Ennui to me denotes waiting for something—a protracted, slow moving state of simmer—with a barely fueled yearn for something, even if you don’t quite know what that something should be or is going to be upon arrival. And I’m so settled on this rather comprehensive definition of ennui that even if it’s miles off the mark, my definition stands.

Writer’s block would indicate that I’m a writer so that one’s out too. Boredom? Not so much. Inability to concentrate, to hold a thought long enough for it to morph into a cogent flurry of words? Now we are getting somewhere. Inertia.

My blessings outweigh my challenges and my decades old strategy of taking the proverbial plusses and minuses inventory to reground me remains a decent technique. But one thing I’ve learned in the last year and a half is that pain and suffering are unique and the degree to which anyone suffers should never be discounted, regardless of how their pluses and minuses exercise nets out. I’ll never again trivialize anyone’s pain just because I view it as comparatively trifling.

Bottom line is that I think I’m still grieving. And I’m trying hard to step into it, to participate in its coursing through, yet not wallow. But it’s cold here and flannel sheets and lush robes and shearling lined bedroom slippers are conducive to a bit of wallowing. Shut up.

So if I could write I’d finally do the promised story on this shirt from the nice people at Sebastian Ward. 

I don’t shill so you know that if I agree to write about a product, it’s gonna be unvarnished. And  I’ve already got the title. Quirky Shirts. Because they are. And of course that suits the hell out of my fuzzy-diced, “give me one of everything that you can possibly add to a garment, please” proclivities. 

I asked for a third sleeve with holes for three cufflinks and the narrow thinking, unimaginative bastards at Sebastian Ward shut me down. Thank you.

And then there’s the story that if I did write it, I’d title it Miracle Mark. About my might as well be blood brother Mark Rykken and the fact that back when I was solvent, I had Puerto make an updated version of my favorite W. Bills brown houndstooth jacket.

Rykken and I are both getting a wee bit long in the tooth. I honestly could afford to gain eight to ten pounds; Rykken?

I had a bulletproof, go-to version of this baby that my sartorial daddy, Alan Flusser in concert with Rykken, made for me a zillion years ago. You can read all about that one here. And we did that one faithful to the old Brooks Brothers model…open patch breast, patch and flap side pockets, welt seams and my ADG 3/2 tweak. Just fuzzy enough, right? But times change, and gorge, button stance nuances, and other impertanalia redefine themselves. Redefinitions be damned because W.Bill was out of this houndstooth for several years. You couldn’t make, or remake one if you wanted to.

 But then a bolt miraculously emerged. So I transferred the old jacket to a faithful buyer who takes almost any and everything ADG bespoke off of my hands for win-win prices and put a down payment on the new one. And it took me a over year to finally get it finished. Both payment and fitting.

I've always had a thing for brown/tan houndstooth. Here I am in London twenty years ago with my other daddy R.E.B. Read more about him here. I'd just discovered the vintage clothing shop, Bertie Wooster in the Fulham Road earlier that day and pounced on the 3/2 peak number that I'm sporting for the photo opp.

Then a few years later, here's R.E.B. and me again. This time its October in Ponte Vedra and I'm to be married the next day. This houndstoothian version was wool and silk. I wore it to death. Alas.

Rykken didn't seem too chafed by my dilatory-essence. He offered that the jacket spawned a few additional sales when others gandered it. And after W.Bill ran out of the wool bolt, Rykken simply offered a one-hundred percent cashmere version to his more moneyed masses. 

And there’s the story that I never did on my friend Nick Hilton I titled Nick of Time. And it was going to be a good one too. About his kindness and renaissance man-ifestations and how his wife is as lovely as she is nice, too. Nick made a couple of jackets for me a zillion eons ago and I have things to say about them but also about his dad, Norman. And the mantle Nick bears and the Ralph connection and all of the other stuff that’s been rehashed along these lines. But not by me.

How could I not ideate on a story about my good friend Hetom at Sky Shoes? The Sky’s The Limit is the working title of that one. Hetom is a trained shoemaker who, given the right circumstances, could turn out bespoke shoes right here in D.C. He won’t do that for you but he is the go to oasis of shodding knowledge inside the Beltway and I don’t know why others don’t seek his counsel as often as I do. Crocket and Jones and Alden and other unique tasty goods are there for the having.

So the blue suede C&J bluchers don’t come with suede tassels? Not a problem. When your shoe supplier is also a shoemaker, he emails C&J and requests enough blue suede to make tassels and add them to my shoddings. Aftermarket fuzzy dice on demand. Bam!

Sky's new line of almost Belgians are off the hook.

And they are almost not as expensive as the NYC originals that I’m such a sycophant about. Shut.

SteinMart and Daddy Flusser would be in the queue for round two of Alan Flusser and MyMama or vice damn versa. Why? Because the Flusser goods at SteinMart continue to be tasty, fun and just fuzzy enough to have me pounce on them.

The nylon quilted goods this season are strong and at south of forty bucks, I now own three of these quilted vests.

The FlussMart collection, for the money, is the tastiest thing in the store.

I’d also tell you about Alan ringing my phone one morning. “I’m in a car, headed to Florence to do an appearance at your hometown SteinMart. What’s the name of that barbecue place that you always talk about? And your mom…” Alan asked about going to visit my mom. I demurred, knowing full-well that my hospital bed in the middle of the den, mama would be too embarrassed to receive strangers without me there. But I’ll never forget the gesture.

My baby’s too old for me to revel you with twee little stories about our daddy-daughter vacations and silly antics. But she’s still my baby and I’m so proud of her I could just bust. Burst? Whatever.

And last night she and her dance company sisters did an open house, pre-recital “let’s give the parents an update” kind of revue thing. 

She no longer a little ballerina prancing about on stage. She’s a serious dancer and she has chops.

She was just transitioning out of believing in Santa when I first shared her with you. Thirty-six months from now and, if the Lord tarries, LFG will be off to college.

Onward. 80-G-2

Holiday Miscellany

And miscellany this shall be. Shut up.

Oh…but before you shut up and I take over; let me pop this story with something sartorial. Because it seems like that’s what this venue used to focus on. I need to confess my guilt…about over-fuzzying this jacket. I’ve taken a perfectly sublime, ain’t gonna see ones-damn-self walking down the street in the same Russell Plaid jacket, ADG tasty contrivance…and tarted it up so over-the-damn-top-ly that even I, the Potentate of P-tang, can’t wear it out of the damn house. 

So I’ll have that Velveteen Rabbit meets a Vegas hotel suite sofa cushion collar…removed. And then I’ll write a proper story about how this jacket came to be. Shut…I’m serious. I don’t want to hear it.

I’ve said it to scores of people…While my blessings absurdly outweigh my challenges, I’ll be giddy when 2013 is over. It’s been a rich year, life-learning wise and my lessons learned-humility account is filled to the damn brim. My pugnacious declarations regarding my desire for 2013 to pass are  balanced with the knowing that if I crow too much about ’13 being behind us, the karma coordinators may show me a 2014 that makes this one look like a stroll through Burlington Arcade. It’s all about balance. Or something.

And one of the most amazing blessings this year has been my mother’s decision to not yet leave us. I believe, deep, deep, down in my being, that if we; amidst chronic disease or the end of our life journey, have some unfinished something that we've yet to reconcile or say or do or experience, we won’t let go. I’m not sure why my mom didn’t die in March. All I know is that the doctors remain pretty much speechless and when science and data driven clinicians use twee-ass words like miracle, I take notice. So amidst the humbling—for her and us—duties involved with helping my mom, we are all aware that every day she remains with us is indeed a blessing.

I drove over to spend one evening with her after my uncle’s funeral the other day and she was to say the least, on her game! Sharp as a damn tack and in my grill about how I was arranging her leg pillows and her three blankets that have to be just damn right and her little footies that I put on her feet inside-out and you’d a thought that I’d chopped her feet off. And then we laughed after I finally, barely, got things arranged to suit her.

I hadn't been to the family farm in years so my trip down was filled with all sorts of memories and speculations about how I’d feel when I got there. While it’s sad to see the once bustling tobacco farms essentially idle—mainly because it’s winter—we rent the land to other sower-reapers so during the seasons, there is life and activity and the fallow fields are planted and life emanates. But I loved being there and my uncle’s funeral was sweet. More later on the farm because there’s fodder for at least one story.

Before…

After…And yes, I realize that you're doing the “what the flip is this project ‘cause I know that LFG ain’t a part of it” head scratch right now. Well just wait till I write the story. 

Socks…I told you this was gonna be a disjointed pile of irreleventia and collateralia. My latest obsession is with these oversized houndstooth thangs that F. Todd HogFarmer Howell of Coffman’s Menswear has been sending me…NOT for free. I pay the freight because my man FTH has a lovely little gal to spoil and I know what kinda dough that requires. So when I find something I like, I get duplicates and I’ve had FTHogg, the most mismatched swathier alive, supply me some spares of these babies.

And I owe my man Vinnie of DeoVeritas shirts a story and review of this bulletproof pink oxford cloth shirt that I commissioned over at his site. So until I do so, please go over to his fully automated, order with ease website and make yourself one. Please.

LFG was supposed to be over here at my Bethesda digs like every other day after I moved within five minutes of her, right? I mean...wasn’t that the strategy for moving here? Well so far it ain’t happenin’. What was I thinking? That her blessed and over-scheduled life would suddenly be less so? Christmas is in six days and we still ain’t got no tree. I’m gonna go and buy an inflatable one today.

But her holiday dance recital last weekend was just great. Surprise I know, but I’m as proud a parent when in the audience as anyone could be…regardless of how the performances go.

This year was different though. I can see real talent and I can see an incrementally more skilled and accomplished dancer in my not so little LFG. Her mother and I both marvelled at how this year’s recital showed us a daughter who’s a really talented performer. And then I went home. Alone.

Meermin…If anyone should pay me for shilling…which to-date nobody has, it should be Meermin. At $240.00 a throw, I’m awaiting pair number two. Merry Christmas. To. Me.

Let me close this one out with my mom’s next door neighbor, Harry. I shared photos of Harry and my mom when we finally got her out of the house and Harry bounded over to love up on her. I posted this on my tumblr but it’s sublime enough to share again. The best by far, Christmas card of 2013.

Onward. Randomly and Houndstoothically.

Eighty-Gee. Bofe

Oh! And one more thing. My all-time favorite Christmas song is Boogie Woogie Santa Claus sung by Mabel Scott. But her admonition for Santa to ... "run, run, run Mister Santa--jump, jump, jump Mister Santa" disturbs me. He's overweight and probably a type-2 diabetic with mild congestive heart failure. And we don't need his jolly ass on Worker's Comp. bam.

Spring 2012 Preview

Since my capricious and sophomoric gabardine drivel caused so many tisk-tisks, swish this one around in your style blog pie-hole for a bit. 

Three shirts. Early Spring 2012 prototypes. Riveting...no? This IS the kind of thing you want to be updated on when you check in over here, right?

And a reader over at tumbler posited..."Cowboy yokes? Is that wise?" My response..."Not only is it wise, it's prescient."

Onward. Yokin'


ADG.Two

Linen--End on End--In Tampa

Greetings from Tampa and my reprieve from the tentacles of a never ending east coast winter. I remain winter-time-pasty and it's a bit too early for linen back home but I had to bring it out for Tampa. And end-on-end shirting fabric is generally meant for warmer weather. But my fuzziness and impertinence beckons end-on-end year a damn 'round. In case you are uninformed about end-on-end cotton... "The interesting subtle texture is created by alternating colored threads, usually a dominant color interwoven with white. End on end was first invented by the French (fil-à-fil), a fabric in which white thread is interwoven with a colored thread to produce a subtle textured effect."

Jules Hertling et al over in Brooklyn contrived these Irish linen togs for me...years before the birth of my little gem LFG. Bulletproof is an understatement.

Well of course we tart up our end-on-endings...just like most of my shirts. Shut up.

And as always, I don't care how much of a dressed down hygiene holiday my clients take, this is as dressed down as I'm gonna go.

One of the things that I enjoy doing when I'm on the road is penning letters to LFG. She gets a kick out of it and I love telling her why I love her. Why don't you write someone a letter today?

Onward. From Tampa. In linen. Thinking about summer and the music that used to go along with such contrivances as suntans, gin-tonic and linen.

ADG, II

Ms Grace

Be a Man. Starch Your Shirts

Heavy starch that is…or why waste the money? All of the twaddle about starch destroying your shirts is…is…true. But do it anyway. The crisp fortification is worth the slow-growing attenuation of your cotton fibrations.

They don’t decay overnight and that’s my main defense for starching them up nicely. Plus the fact that you’ll actually look rather well put together…something that’s sure, in this day and age, to set you apart from the get-go. And have them folded if you travel.

And yes; part of my affinity for heavy starch probably goes back to college. OCBDs slathered in Argo and professionally pressed to assure that one felt like they were armoured when shrouded in crispy cotton. Then covered with things like Munsingwear v-neck sweaters. And the khakis are starched as heavily as the shirt...khakis for three dollars from a Fayetteville, N.C. army surplus joint. We'd ride up there and buy fifty pairs at a go and then head over to Hay Skreet. The Faye...home of Fort Bragg and at about this same time, billeting my cousin Tintin. Shut up. I’m tired this morning.

This shirt is twenty five years old. Starch will ultimately claim it…but when? W.G.A.S.

And this one’s a baby. Only twenty years old.

Twenty year old uberstarched shirt to accompany the twenty year old Flusser nail-head suit. And for my sturdy-girl readers…I know, I know…it isn’t fair. Not fair that men can have togs in their lineup that endure for so long. I’ve always said that there’s a predatory component to women’s fashion and retail. I feel your pain…your frustration. Now come sit in my lap and palpate mine.

Clean crisp shirt linen isn’t necessarily a contemporary thing. Contemporary? Who am I kidding? There’s nothing contemporary about my orientation to anything. But caricaturist Carlo Pellegrini, “Ape” of Vanity Fair fame, was obsessed with finery and luxury…an example of such affinity being his starched white shirts.

He was even known for using the cuff of his starched shirts, in an impromptu moment, as a sketch pad to capture the mug of someone in-the-moment when he saw an expression that he knew was robust fodder for caricature.  Of course he would use anything else within reach as well, including a restaurant check, like the one above.

Pellegrini was a pet of Society…a sort of endearingly pidgin-english speaking, Medici lineaged, Italian Truman Capote. And once he captured your visage in study for a subsequently full-flourished caricature, he’d shout mid-dinner party… "Now I gote you!” The note above, penned to the English actor and theatre manager Squire Bancroft, reflects Pellegrini’s playful misuse of language…a rather pidgin-esque go at wordplay methinks. Who else does that?

Bancroft, in his memoir Empty Chairs, captured the essence of a dying Pellegrini and the importance of his starched shirts…."I saw the "Pelican" as Pellegrini was called by his friends...in his last illness in his rooms in Mortimer Street. Shortly before the peaceful end he said pathetically to his faithful servant: "Wil-li-am, put me on clean shirt...I die clean." "

And I need starch when I’m teaching and conducting competitive strategy simulations. My clients test the hell out of my credibility and rightfully so, during every moment I’m in front of them. I don’t know what it is about the discipline of strategy that makes people so damned edgy. Perhaps it’s all the MBA and consultant esoterica that’s tarted up the discipline and has made people uncomfortable with it. All I know is that when I’m shepherding their journey for eight hours a day…usually two or three days in a row, I am as “on” as possible and I then crash spectacularly for a few days.

Onward. Crashed. In my own bed. Till Sunday.

ADG, II           Starched.

Oh…and p.s. …It’s St. Patrick’s Day right? You know, the day to wear green and avoid the rookie drinkers. If you can’t wear green today then eat green. Maybe some green peas, as suggested by little caricaturist LFG in her drawing that adorns my kitchen.