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

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.

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