Part One: Birmingham Alabama—In Alden Pebble Grain

South Carolina, my home state.  Number forty-eight in SAT scores and number two  in gonorrhea. We always jokingly said “thank God for Mississippi” because it always seemed that we were in a death roll headlock scrambling with them to either stay off of the top or bottom of some damn list.

Arkansas—my friend Dawson revels in forwarding me links to news reports about the always absurd shenanigans that go on in South Carolina. She feels better about her native Arkansas when she finds a little bit of embarrassing S.C. skinny to share. And even she’ll admit that her hopes for Bill Clinton’s presidency offering Arkansas a bit of polish were childish. Instead of a spiffed up image, Arkansas “got nothing but a schmear of tarted up red lipstick”. Her words, not mine.

It seemed that a few years ago there was something going on in my state every week. And this was several years after they finally got the damned rebel flag off the top of the state house.  Everyone knows about our governor being  MIA while supposedly taking a walkabout on the Appalachian Trail.

And an assistant state attorney general and former legislator, old enough to be an historical relic, found drunk in his SUV with a teenage hoochie coochie merchant and an array of sex toys and poppers throwed all about in rolling playpen. I got an urgent SCUD email about both of these unfortunate events, annotated  of course by Dawson.

And the one that Dawson took particular relish in sending over was the video clip of a South Carolina beauty pageant contestant speaking some kind of Pig Latin pidgin incoherency when answering her finalist impromptu question during the Miss Teen USA pageant. Her email simply said “You must be proud”.

It ain’t always easy being Southern. Oh, and before I go any further with this overwrought sub Mason-Dixon workout, let me say that the rest of the contiguous forty-eight ain’t any cleaner. It’s just that when we Southerners sin, we do it with relish. Sweet pepper relish. And devilled eggs, and pimiento cheese, and sweet tea and…shut up.  

I’ll never forget a documentary I watched about the efforts to integrate the University of Mississippi. They interviewed students who  were there amidst the conflict. And one member of the 1962 SEC champions, undefeated OleMiss football team from that year choked up during the interview. He confessed to the journalist that he’d been trying to make peace with the legacy of his beloved state for his entire life.

He was a big boy, and one who seemed disinclined to show much emotion and certainly not while a camera was rolling.  But you could tell that he was still hurtin’. And he said to the journalist in halting utterances, parsed to hold back his tears; something to the effect that “I’ve been speaking to any and every one of you who’ve ever contacted me over the years. And none of you get it right”. I don’t think the boy felt like anyone had ever really heard him and I think he felt like none of this journalist’s predecessors had done anything to help Mississippi heal.

Oh sh_t, I’m five hundred and fifty words in and I got side tracked. This was supposed to be about Alabama and Alden Pebble Grain tassel loafers. Hang with me, crackers.

I’m not sure why Alabama never entered my mind as I sought solace through finding at least one other Southern state to benchmark my crazy ass Palmetto patch against. Surely it hasn’t been easier to be from Alabama. Let me see here…Bull Connor, firehoses and attack dogs, church bombings and of course, Selma.

One of my colleagues when I was in the pharmaceutical industry revealed to me something one night. And within his confession, I could tell that after all these years, he still didn’t know how to wear it. He tugged at the too tight collar of it all while uttering every word to me. He grew up in Montgomery and it was his municipal bus driving uncle, his father’s brother, who ordered Rosa Parks to the back of the bus.

"Get your left hand off of my ass Mister President"

Thank God for Harper Lee, Truman Capote, Zelda Fitzgerald, Helen Keller, Winston Groom and Bear Bryant is all I got to say. Oops. I just realized that I threw a few crazies in this thank God compensatory Alabama bandage.

My sister married her high school sweetheart the October after they graduated from college. Just like she was supposed to. They moved to Birmingham and thus my association with the Pittsburgh of the South began.

My brother-in-law was my five year older brother. Not the older brother I never had. I had him. He was my brother. He was the older brother who told me that if I wanted to be a Knight of the Kappa Alpha Order like him, I had to do this, that and the other before I ever hit the doors of college so to better my chances of getting in. I had to pull my baggy Levis 501s up and cut my hair. And after I pulled my baggy jeans up I was told to trade them in for some khakis. And I bought a pair of Weejuns and remember thinking that if I didn’t get a KA bid, I had no clue what I’d do with those shoes. 

Mind you, I was still trying real hard to be a hippie—something I never was really good at.

I’m on the record as saying that I’d a sold my mama to get a bid from the KA’s. And y’all know how much I loved my mama. (Let me clarify. He wasn’t my actual blood brother. My characterization here is strictly metaphorical. I just panicked at the realization that some of you Yankee asses who read my caca might actually believe that we Southerners marry our siblings. That’s an ugly stereotype. We draw the line after first cousins.)

And so my two or three times a year visits to Birmingham were always fun. Visits made more so by the addition of young’uns—first a nephew and then a niece and another nephew after that. But my brother-in-law used me like a tool while I was there and I loved it.

I was his excuse for getting out of the house and going honky tonkin’. And he’d sorted out all of the best ones…the nicer, more respectable places around Five Points as well as the low-er brow ones sprinkled all over town. And God knows how back then I loved  a hyper-air conditioned Southern juke joint. I still do. Here I am one morning after a Birmingham night out. L.L. Bean Mocs, LaCoste knit shirt, old surplus khakis from Fort Bragg. Just about to spew.

Tants, The Plaza, and some really dodgy joint out near the airport come to mind. We would drop my brother-in-law’s Jaguar off with a guy who detailed private airplanes. His name was Ike and he detailed the dooky out of cars too. We’d then go to this joint nearby and eat a cheeseburger and have a dozen beers. Nirvana.

My Birmingham sorties trailed off for various reasons and until a couple of months ago, I hadn’t set foot in Birmingham for a decade.  My sister and brother-in-law divorced he, the  Topsider wearing, heavy starched khakis, bourbon and branch swilling good ole boy has been living with his current wife in New York for many years now.  

My mother’s  twenty month odyssey before leaving this world was transformative for me. Her passing was too slow coming and she’d be the first to tell you so. And it wore me out so as easy as I can say that it was transformative, it’s too soon for me to tell you what the final transformation will net-out.  

I was just getting used to wearing my orphan existentiality when I got the text that my niece was dead. It’s been three months the shocking cruelty and acuteness of it still has my head spinning. It’s a punishing world when four months after ones mom passes, the universe decides to rip the fledgling scab off of your heart by taking someone so young.

So my sojourn back to Birmingham was gut wrenching. But I was happy to be in the service of my sister while there. I ran the errands and did the mundane as well as the less than joyful duties involving retrieving ashes and such. But after a few days, I needed a break. So I let my errand running send me over to Mountain Brook in search of the old Richard’s of Mountain Brook haberdashery site. 

I’d revelled in my buddy TCD’s email from a few years ago about the shop and I posted it in a previous blog story but let me share it with you again….

Richards of Mountain Brook

“Every now and then when I write something that really resonates with someone; I’ll get a private email in response and sometimes the correspondence itself is post-worthy. I wrote Nuanced Authenticity back in August and received a delightful recollection about a haberdashery in the affluent area of Birmingham, Alabama known as Mountain Brook. I’m sharing it with permission from my buddy TCD because his email is to me, as evocative as my original story.

Or maybe it just hits all of my maudlin buttons. At any rate, here’s to the “Richards of Mountain Brook” caliber haberdasheries of days gone by. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m sorry that y’all…the younger set of Trads…missed these gems. And as my cousin Tin-Tin says of our now more derivative than ever world…“Not as good as it was. Better than it will be.”

Here’s TCD’s email…

“This post hit so many memory keys that I can't take the time to list them....but....

Our version of "your Singleton's" in a suburb of Birmingham, AL called Mountain Brook was "Richards of Mountain Brook".

It was located on a shady side street called Petticoat Lane in an old Tudor style building with two bay windows flanking an imposing door with a leaded glass coat of arms.

We knew we were adults when we graduated to Richards from the "CanterburyShop" a half a block away.

"Canterbury" was our "nuance 101" with Bass Weejuns ( $14.95), Gant OCBD, surcingle belts in about one hundred color combinations, Corbin trousers & Southwick Blazers & sport coats....

"Richards" took a high school freshman to his Dad's world & instantly verified it was where you wanted to be even if it had not occurred to you before.....

As you stepped into the doorway, you were confronted by a huge round mahogany table with reps, clubs, & foulards (all of course labelled..."made in England expressly for Richards".... arranged spoke in-wheel around the table grouped by color. Guarding the display on either side were two complete suits of armor.

Beyond the battle-ready armor were shelves and credenzas of Troy Guild OCBD....

Just down the center-hall, waist-high shelving displaying shoes (Crockett & Jones) and socks....

Suits (private label with requisite..."made in England" as well as Norman Hilton)....

Richard had a great eye and understood "Nuance" whether in selections offered or in antique furnishings which abundantly decorated the shop...

Just a great place (& owner) with a sixth sense in how to deploy service and an intelligent knowledge base of background of fabric, weave, fit, hand, & pattern as well as a flair for what was complimentary in terms of tradition or, if you dare, sprezzatura!

He magically combined both during the Christmas Season when posted Welsh Guards in full regalia in front of the shop and conducted Changing of the Guard twice per day....and then, when you had made your purchases....all were gift-wrapped in festive holiday color combinations of paper & ribbon in complex bows, each of which held a Johnny Walker scotch miniature.....

Thanks for the nudge to remember the late 60s and early 70s.....wonderful then and cherished now!””

And I found it. The old Richard’s of Mountain Brook space is now some kind of design shop. But as I snapped a few iPhone photos, I imagined it as TCD described it. And standing there gave me the same great feeling that I so enjoy when I walk any patch where years previous or centuries past, something significant occurred. 

I kid you not, the feeling is no less when I discover a Richards of Mountain Brook site than when I’m standing in the Huey Long assassination corridor fingering the bullet pocked granite walls of the Louisiana State House or looking through the sixth floor window of the Texas School Book Suppository. (Ask any country boy…that wasn’t an impossible shot by any stretch)

So my errand running reprieve from bereavement nourished me even though I knew that the unguent was short acting. I shot some photos and emailed TCD to let him know that I was on the grounds of his former sartorial mother church. And then I rounded the corner…

I'll have Part Two ready for you sometime in early 2017. Shut up.

Onward. 80-G-2

Cheever at Six

I’ve written about Cheever. God knows I’ve written about Weejuns—ad nauseam. I’ve even memorialized as my blog header; courtesy of my friend—the stunning on all counts, LPC, Weejuns as metaphorical currency when trading in stories that transcend just clothes and shoes. Writing about and for me, reading Cheever was a bit more onerous than scribbling about Weejuns. But I digress. Already.

Cheever wore size six Weejuns. Big whup, right? He was a little guy. Small enough to make me look less so. Rather like my favorite artist, American expat Whistler, who was referred to as a “pocket Mephistopheles.” Rather unlike Whistler, Cheever fought more devils than manifested them. Whistler wore attenuated little low-vamp pumps which accentuated his small feet. Cheever wore clunky shoes. But even clunky…or even Weejuns…in a size six…looks fey.

So AllanGurganus writes about the woulda now been a hundred years old, Cheever and his size six Weejuns in the New York Review of Books. And it motivated me to do this post for reasons beyond Cheever’s little Weejuns. First, it took me back to the onerous but couldn’t-put-it-down journey that I took a couple of years ago when I read Blake Bailey’s Cheever biography. Couldn’t put it down because I just couldn’t…in a drive-by-a-wreck-shouldn't-look-but-can’t-not…way. Onerous because I am Federico Cheever to my father’s John. And that shit still hurts and always will.

And second, I was reminded, through Gurganus’s voice, of the fine caliber of writer that comes out of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Rocky Mount North Carolina’s Gurganus is such a product. So was the lexiconically overwrought, lupus laden Flannery O'Connor. And a woman who I dated right after my divorce. Gurganus met Cheever there and, well, you can read the story here. But for now, I’ll share with you a few of Gurganus's lines that caught me.

"We peeked into Cheever’s classroom. He was seated cross-legged on a blond oak desk and looked like a Noël Coward leprechaun. Blue-and-white-striped Brooks Brothers shirt, unpressed khakis. John Cheever wore size-six Weejuns. (You know? I’ve always wanted to write that! For its interior rhymes, for its being factual, for its snappy attempt at sounding both as smart and clear as, well, a John Cheever sentence. So, yeah, “John Cheever wore size-six Weejuns.”)”

“Cheever’s fiction celebrates daylight as a form of salvation. Of course his pages creating brilliance had to be offset by a contrasting ink-jet blackness, as dark as the pitchiest corner of a Goya masterpiece. Cheever’s impish human essence showed that same ratio of dark-to-light. He later guilt-tripped me into attending an Iowa Episcopal service; there, in the bone-plain church, he dropped a mid-aisle contortionist’s genuflection that looked downright papal.”

“Confronting Iowa hostesses who looked too much like Margaret Dumont, he’d goose those ladies. He would. The wisest of them giggled, “Oh, now John, you bad bad boy. Not again!” He was Cole Porter one minute, Groucho the next, suddenly a drunken stumblebum, then the wisest of Chekhov’s cynics. John was selfish and ruined. He was a child, he was a genius. He was a scamp, he was a man.”

“John taught me and, later, without my knowing, sent and sold my first story to The New Yorker. When gentle William Maxwell whispered this news by phone to my one-room apartment, I said, “Yeah, and I’m Mae West, who the hell is this?””

“His habits and unhappiness had nearly killed him. By now his cough could clear waiting rooms. He was the Pompeii where cigarettes go to die.”

“John later introduced me to his wife and kids. They all forgave me for having forgiven him. Weren’t we all fellow sufferers of his snobbish exuberance?”

Onward. At six on Sunday morning. Now turning my vague-ass writing skills back over to…the man.

ADG II … Wage Slave.

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Back to Basics—Birdwells and Topsiders

I’m not making this up… “LFG, your foot is almost big enough to wear the smallest size women’s Belgian loafers. Would you wear a pair if maybe in a few more years I got some for you?” Her reply… “Maybe to a costume party.” The woman has decided tastes and opinions and at twelve years old, she now parses them out liberally, transparently and without so much as a flinch. From where her traits come, I don’t know.

So LFG let it be known that the only shoes…Belgians and huaraches… I packed for our recent vacation “embarrass me, dad.” I know, I know…a dozen of you have told me that this is only the beginning. She’s a bit weary of seeing me almost exclusively in Belgians on the weekend and my cheap, buy a pair every other summer, huaraches that for some reason were ok last year but were met with the tisky of tisk tisks last week. Huaraches? I mean come on…if they were good enough for Dean Acheson then they should be good enough for me.

Oh, and my fifteen dollar Gap Outlet bathing trunks/board shorts (The idea of me being in something called “board shorts” at my age is funny. Maybe bored shorts) she also found appalling. And I’m sure, based on the photo above; many of you will find them appalling too. So let me get defensive in advance. First, they were too long so I cut them off. “Quelle horreur” my not so little LFG declared, having aced 6^th grade French with straight A’s all year long. Butcept when she expressed this while in South Carolina, I kinda figgered it would be pronounced Kale (as in the leafy greens) or better yet Cale (as in my boyhood hero Cale Yarborough) har (as in hardy har har) are (as in how are you doing?) Kale-har-are? Come on baby, it’s just a pair of swim trunks and we are headed to Delaware, not Capri. But still LFG declared that the only thing I could wear swim trunk wise that wouldn’t elicit that Kale-Huarache revulsion would be a solid color trunk. Listen, I’m coachable but I do need, like most people, specific direction on what needs to be tweaked.

And one more thing before I move on from the swim trunk thing. The record shows that I’d have at least another 150k in the bank if I hadn’t indulged in my sartorial passions. Wait, I take that back. If it wasn’t clothes it would be the Mercedes SL that I still covet or shotguns or art or a boat or something. Thanks. I needed to get that rationalization codified for the delusional record. But I don’t spend big money on swim trunks.

In order for me to be excessive in some areas, I must be frugal in others. Case in point was my lunch yesterday. Courtesy of CVS in Old Town.Y’all can buy those Villabaququi’s if you want to. I’d rather put that kinda silly money towards a pair of Belgians—that LFG is tired of seeing me wear. When was the last time you had Funyuns?

I’ll get back to the swim trunks dilemma in a moment but for now, let’s stay with the casual shoe issue. I’ve no shortage of other casual shoes including various Bean camp mocs and bluchers and canvas Sperrys etc. But the current LFG shodding arbiter sieve won’t allow any of them to pass. So my casual goof-off shoe line-up is suddenly in kidney stone mode. And trust me; I’ve had a kidney stone. When amidst such an event, you’ll do almost anything to mitigate the traffic jam. So LFG and I set out to a place that sells surf gear and sunglasses and flip flops and TOMs shoes for kids and Toad’s second to Topsiders favorites…Crocs.

Never in a million years did I think I’d be back in a pair of these. But alas, here we are. I wore these standard fare Sperry Topsiders in college when I wasn’t wearing one of the three versions of Weejuns…brown, navy blue or tan pebble grain ones. Literally, those were all the shoes I owned. But then I discovered Bean camp mocs and bluchers and dropped Topsiders during college. After a few more years of even fancier offerings courtesy of Gucci and Ralph driving mocs and Topsiders were off my Trad radar screen forever. 

Topsiders just began to look inelegant compared to almost every other option…leastways to me. So why did my Bean mocs and bluchers not fall prey to the same inelegant designation? I don’t know. Might be something about the brown soles and the rusticated Adirondackness of them that left my mind’s eye settled on the fact that the Bean line-up in all of its inelegance by design was still less twee. I don’t know. Don’t press me on the issue any further. Oh, and maybe if I’d been a sailor, the classic Topsider would have remained in my cache.

Nothing against the classic boat shoe and God knows that my best buddy Toad loves Topsiders and has a gaggle of ‘em at all times. He’s sporting a pair of blue ones in his Father’s Day post and I think, without going back to verify it, that he gave one of his young’uns away in a seaside wedding ceremony…in Topsiders. And I eventually had blue ones too…when in undergrad. But they were Docksides, not Topsiders. Whatever that means to some retentive “get the story correct” boat shoe historian out there. Shut up. Blue boy.

So my LFG goes straight to the Topsiders at the store and says “here…get these.” I was mildly flummoxed and immediately sought clarification and validation from my little boss woman. “Yep, these are fine dad.” “Ok, are you certain that I won’t embarrass you when publicly preening…shod in these?” (You think I don’t really use those actual phrases when talking to my kid, don’t you? Wrong.) Once I was sure of her seriousness and clarity on the issue, the deal was done. Elegant? No. Functional and acceptable? Yes. LFG tisk-tisk eye roll minimization? Worth every penny of the almost seventy clams I paid. Cheaper somewhere else? Probably. But I needed to turn back the humiliation tide post haste. And I'll learn to live with the embossed logo dooky that now adorns them and didn't...way back. Then.

But we still needed to solve the swim trunks issue. LFG’s next charge was to look around the zillion pairs of board shorts and whatever the latest vernacular and brand centric truths that were on display. They had every brand about which I know nothing. Other than the Gap Outlet cheapies, I’d been wearing whatever running/workout/gym shorts I had available to me. Things aren’t a problem until they are defined as a problem. And to date, no one ever identified my swimming tog choices as problematic. Little five year old LFG didn’t seem to have a problem with my elastic waist draw string ditties from Target seen above. But then again, they were a solid color. And no funny comments about the left leg of  my Target draw string ditties being longer than the right. We all have things that must be accommodated and coped with. Shut up.

LFG wanders over to the swim togs rack and pulls these out. Bam! Birdwells. Then the child thought for sure that my head had jumped timing. I was, surprise, completely animated and energized by my Birdwell recollections (You can read about it here) and launched into one of my storytelling autodidactilated verbal spews. 

I was fueled surely, by the memories of my seventeenth summer which was one of my greatest...ADG the one hundred and thirty pound lifeguard is seen above. Thanks be to the good Lord that nobody needed saving at the Country Club of South Carolina. But then I caught myself. And stopped. And asked LFG if the Birdwells met her approval. Upon affirmation, I tried them on for size and we were at the register and out the door in no time. All’s well that ends well. What goes around comes around. We could cliché this one forever but I won’t. What I will say is that I’m happy when LFG is happy and our mission was accomplished…

…till we got home. “Dad, your Sperrys look too new.” It’s always something, no? So my Sperrys were  brined in a sorta Delancey Street pickle barrel dirt melange for a week.

LFG and I have another week’s vacation starting this coming weekend and hopefully now extricated and baking in the sun, the Sperrys will be a bit, shall we say, “curated-cured-weathered-dirty-personalized?” Whatever.

Onward. Birdwelled. And not the least damned bit embarrassed.

ADG II

Trad Randomanalia and My Girl--Say Yes

Just ‘cause I've got the yearn, doesn’t mean I’ve got the time or neuronal bandwidth. No, I’m not breaking up with anyone but I might keep that sentence on ice if I need to. I’ve got the yearn to tell stories and I’ve got a good dozen of them in my noggin but I don’t have the juice to write ‘em right now. Crafting an even remotely cogent ditty requires time to organize ones thoughts…even though I’m on the record more than once, admitting that the best I do editorially over here is use spell-check. I don’t have the time or quite frankly, the desire to have someone else read my drivel and offer pre-posting editorial insight.

So why are you writing to say that you don’t have time to write?” Because what I do have time to do, before jumping on a plane to Dallas, is throw one of those keyboard stream of consciousness thangs at you like I used to do in the old days. It’s easier to scratch the writing itch by throwing piles of twisty-turny junk like this at you than it is to write thoughtfully. So let’s twist and turn for twenty minutes about stories yet to come.  

About…

…the story that somehow came together in my mind regarding my Bookster-Flusser boondoggle contrivance.

...and the shooting party days of times past where folks wore such contrivances.

…and how my mind then went straight to the Vanity Fair subjects who were part of those days past. Stay tuned for my Bookster-Flusser-ADG Shooting Party story. I’ll have it done by August 2013, if I’m still here. Or hell, if any of us are still here.

…low vamp sensibilities. Or at least what seemed to be sensible in 1987. There’s a hell of story here. I kid you not. A recent query found me digging through the archives for these babies.

…my precious LFG who used to adore me. The rational me knows that she still does. The reptilian brained baby in me says that she dropped me. Fast. Like a bad habit. On a Wednesday afternoon at 3:47pm…and that she won’t ever come back to me. All of you warned me about this. The efficacy of denial is breathtakingly efficient for the short-haul. The sequelae thereafter … are palpable. Who am I to declare that none of this should or would happen ‘til my baby was fourteen?

Who am I? I’m her dad—the guy who has placed perhaps an inordinate amount of himself into her at the expense of not crafting a draw-down strategy. The good news is that my straight-A student, empathetic participant in the world, dancer extraordinaire is thriving and feeling none of the sequelae of anything associated with my feeling dropped. She’d tisk-tisk me and roll her eyes at even the remotest possibility of any emotional fallout. Tisk-tisking and eye-rolling. Its part of her new oeuvre—the one that damn showed up on a Wednesday afternoon. At 3:47 pm.

…Cleverley shoes. I’ve got two drafts on file about this incredible bespoke experience. But for now, let me just say that I’m floored by the level of service and exactitude that Cleverley et al have manifested amongst this, my maiden bespoke shodding expedition. They are remaking my shoes. From scratch—starting over. None of this revisionist tweaking here and there of the current pair. After two exchanges regarding a couple of non-deal breaking issues, Cleverley declared that the only way THEY would be happy is if they started over. Perhaps the reason I’m so over the top taken by their decision is that service in general seems so poor in most aspects of life these days. Kudos to Cleverley. They’ll be in Washington next month with my replacement try-ons.

…Catcher in the Rye. I finished re-reading it last night. I gave Salinger another chance after being jaundiced too much by his reclusive eccentricities. And I loved it this time. I loved it almost as much as I was indifferently “What’s the big effing deal about this book?” the first time I read it. I was nineteen the first time. I’m a decade older now. And a lot has gone on in these subsequent ten years to change my worldview. I’ll re-read Tender is the Night and The Great Gatsby every year for as long as I’m able to read. I won’t put Catcher in the Rye in that same queue but I’m glad I read it again. Salinger’s ability to write those catchy, clippy little sentences really got me this time. His ability to capture the angst and brooding of a hugely messy kid through staccato line-ups of surly rhetoric made it worth my time. Rat-a-tat-tat mother____.

Oh, and one more thing that I got this time. The connection between Holden and his little sister at the end of the book really, really hit me. His humanity peeps out from time to time earlier in the book but Salinger gives Holden permission to allow it to further manifest in the end—of course though—only in a governed, cadenced, WASPy kind of way. Why did this resonate with me this time? Was I a sociopath the first time I read it? Nope. If you really want the answer, read the LFG paragraph herein. Again. You know…the one about my daughter. That should explain it. Geez. It really pisses me of when people don’t get it. And that one should be easy to get. Really. It’s easy.

…why I wore brown Belgians and purple socks to the Georgetown Club last week.

I looked professorially sartorial up top. But I’ve got a problem with convention-construct and authority that seems to be getting worse in my old age. Hold me.

…why I’m just going to leave you wondering about this one. Yes, he played a Penfold. With a diaper on his head.

 …my golf bag that hadn’t been unzipped from the travel case in eleven years. Yep. Eleven years. I’m shedding stuff over here and I don’t play golf anymore. But I used to…a lot. And the stuff in one of the pouches, as I dumped it on the floor, became an exhibit of a life I used to live. A life of marriage, in-laws, cigars…Cubans and lots of them. Sea Island….courtesy of my in-laws. There was even a receipt in the bag from a pro shop in Boca. It predates my marriage. And no, I’m not going to make a f_cking collage out of it. I kept the Snap-On Zippo lighter and threw the rest of the shit in the trash. Remember, I’m shedding over here. My little casa will probably be a rental property once again, as it has been for more years than not. I’m the American Dream in reverse—so far—other than rental property. My plan is to move to Chevy Chase. There’s a woman there who needs me to be closer.

…why these shoes with the toes make me hurl. They give me the creeps. I don’t give a damn if as soon as you don them; your net worth increases by seventy percent, your boobs or wanker gets perkier and your breath never stinks again. These things are scary. Scary in a Lon Chaney…Vincent Price kinda way. Not a Hitchcock kinda way. He’d a never stood for ‘em.

…about why two inch cuffs are adequate. But why I’m gonna keep this mistake intact. At least this year.

…the pedestrian, base, inappropriateness of wearing my new A Suitable Wardrobe Spring 2012 linen pocket square during the winter…avec wool thornproof swathing.

Read the previously posited drivel about my problem with rules, construct and authority. Kiss kiss.

Oh, and Will also sent me a sample of Timbuktu…one of the nice fragrances he now offers.

…the fact that after the next round of stunning expenditures on my mouth and jaw, I’ll never have another penny to spend on anything. “Come on ADG, smile more.” Folks, I’m gratified to even be able to chew and swallow food. You have no idea. With this as context, I’ll be ok not to have a mouth full of beautiful Kennedy-esque ivories. Every bespoke supplier in the world who services the desires and proclivities of ADG threw up a little bit a few weeks ago and never knew why. Well now they’ll know. I’m outta play ‘till at least April 51^st, 2014. And the antique toy soldier market value index dropped 30% on the same day. Analysts knew not why but were certain that they'd see it rebound momentarily. It won't. Word up for da antique toy soldier market analysts…April 51^st, 2014. 

…about the Merkin the Teacher story that I will finish writing—even though I’m not qualified to do so. I’d be at Carrie Haddad’s this Saturday night for the opening reception of her next Merkin exhibition but I’m busy. LFG still trumps everything else.

 …the story of my little pictures. Oil on Masonite caricatures mostly by Dickens illustrator Fred Barnard. One of the pictures is of Barnard himself. These belonged to him. All of the subjects are of his contemporaries…other illustrators who worked in late 19^th-early 20^th century London. But the better part of this story never to be written is the onerous-ass process of finding a corner to hang the little fellers in. Littler is the opposite of easier—proxemics and scale-wise. I had to take four times my normal dose of Adderall to tether myself down for the task. Pert near kilt me.

…about my intent to pounce. Even with the fun-money evaporation issue aforementioned, I’m gonna pounce on one of these. This is gingham on steroids. Double Elephant Folio Gingham. Uber Gingham. Larry the Cable Guy Gingham. And I need not worry about how to style this shirt. I don’t have to worry about the nuances of yokes, sleeve buttons, pleated pocket or no pocket and a discreet monogram—opposite button number four. (The traditional placement for a monogram on the torso is “oppo-five”…opposite the fifth button. But I prefer mine “oppo-four”. It makes the garish-no consequence impertinence of visible monograms…more visible…and less pertinent. Shut up. Shut up I said.) The scale of this gingham makes all considerations, beyond simply saying “yes, I’ll have one”, irrelevant. Now I just gotta figure out how to get them to say “yes” to my request to forgo the four shirt minimum usually required by bespoke shirt makers. Martini and Rossi-on the rocks-say yes. Scary...the stuff I can recall from my childhood.

Ok. That’s it for now. These run on sentences sure are a lot easier to string together. And enjoy the O’Jays…Use ta Be My Girl. LFG will always be my girl. But right now, she’s redefined what that feels like. Oh, and I just remembered… some cover band was playing Use ta Be My Girl at the Florence Country Club one night just as the KA Summer Party was getting going. And B.G. aka “The Charmer”, sauntered in with a gal on his arm about ten-fold out of his league. It was his first and unbeknownst to him at that moment, last date with her. The Charmer had on a killer madras sportcoat. But M.M.’s date had just thrown up a moment before The Charmer and his ten-fold date sauntered in. The Charmer, smiling ear to ear, swathed in madras with the ten-fold gal on his arm, went down. Slipped his elegantly shod and swathed ass down…in the vomit.

Ten-fold girl remained upright, having extricated herself from The Charmer’s hold as he barrel-rolled and Cab Callowayed his tanned ankled, Weejun shod, madr-ass around before finally ending up on the floor. You couldn’t help but laugh. My date was slapping at me, telling me to quit laughing at The Charmer while at the same time, laughing her ass off.  I’d never seen a man go from Cock-of-the-Preening-Walk to Beet Red Emissary of Emesis in seven seconds flat. And I’ve never seen it again. Ten-fold girl was stoic. Poised. Which made the whole thing even funnier. At least to me. Ten-fold girl, you see; used to be my girl.

Onward. In a run on stream of consciousness kinda way.

ADG Two