I think
one of the things that draws me to madras—other than the obvious fact that
there’s no better foundation—no better pulpit from which to preen impertinently
and manifest CAC vulgarity, is its place amongst my childhood memories. I’ve
mentioned before, how I coveted a madras shirt and an alligator belt when I was in
grammar school. My older cousins had ‘em and so did the other older boys in my
town and I wanted them too. I’m on the record positing the fact that you can’t
start your kids on madras too soon. But all of that’s changed now.
Oh…and what’s
CAC? It’s my newly derived species within the WASP genus. I’m absent a few, by
my definition, key attributes necessary for inclusion amongst the purest of pure WASP
species. And you can best believe that I’ve been tore up about it since I was
old enough to figure out that I wasn’t one. Even though my father’s people to this
day have been on the same land in South Carolina for over two hundred years, my
stock still doesn’t stand the most rigorous test of WASP pedigree. And on my
mother’s side, we even have a signer of the Declaration of Independence. You’ll
see his signature just below that show-offy flourish of one Mister John
Hamcock. Peer pressure and jealously; consistent with what the Good Book, my
mama and my grand-mama and Uncle Wiley and Mr. Dawkins, my Scout Master said,
is a seductive and ultimately, toxic force. My WASP envy got so bad at one
point during college that I would curl up and in a tight little ball and cry
like a baby about it. And my college gal, Roxanne Burgess, in all of her desire
to sooth me, was an enabler.
Roxanne
was about two and a half times my size. Big, obviously, but height-weight
proportionate. And she was a stunner. So I’d curl up in her lap and commence
crying. "I wanna be like the Alsop
brothers” I’d holler…tears puddling and then tributarilating, trickle-down like,
into Roxanne’s ample cleavage. And then amidst my waterworks, after gulping
some air, I’d whine a clarification on my jealous desires.“…but
actually I wanna be like Stewart Alsop because he had hair and liked women.”
The more I cried—wailed actually, the more focused and engaged she’d become at
trying to sooth me. And sooth, oh my goodness, she did. Looking back on those curled
and unfurled moments with Roxanne, I’m rather glad I didn’t
arrive at the CAC categorization back then. I’d a had to figure out another
pathos over which to have a breakdown. Because one thing was for sure, lap
curling and unfurling with my Miss Burgess, was a must-do. Oh lordy, I still
haven’t uncloaked the CAC acronym. I am, unequivocally, a Carolina Anglo Cracker. Hold your applause. Shut up.
This was
supposed to be about madras right? The iconic badge of Ivy-Prep-WASP-CAC ness
right? I’m sitting here typing this drivel in my Brooks Brethren patch madras
robe avec white pocket handkerchief and it pains me to declare my final verdict
on Madras 2012. I was conflicted regarding whether or not to ban it for 2012. The Brothers Brooks, amidst some of their other misguided Spring 2012 offerings, has
done a rather admirable job with Brethren Madras this year. So much so that at
one point last week, I was ready to simply declare that Madras 2012 in all
iterations, would be wide a_s open. But then God availed to me, a peek at Eric
Clapton. And in a flash, I reversed my 2012 decision. Folks, it had to be a divine intervention
because I’d a never found this without His help. Bing Crosby in madras...yes. Clapton? Not so much.
Clapton
you say? Yep. Clapton is not God but
there was a time when that phrase was bandied about. The graffiti was
everywhere back in the early 1970’s. Even my uncle Rembert, direct descendant on
my mama’s side, of my family's Declaration Signer, would come along and add his affirmational personal signature to the graffiti. Butcept always with red spray paint. Clapton was always one of the
first to disavow the comparison. He's never been God but he continues to be an incredible
guitarist and part of my hearing loss is due to playing Layla over and over
again on my mom’s stereo while I banged my drums. Clapton’s great. But he’s not
God.
This is
my Eric Clapton. Kinda like how Cal Naughton, Jr. and Ricky Bobby
conceptualized their Jesus in Talladega Nights. You have your version of Clapton and I have
mine. This is my Eric the way I like to think of him…tentative in his budding
fame. And awkward as hell in his 1973 rock star sartorial ensemble…in a bad,
side zippered boot kinda way. Oh, and his heroin skinny carcass topped by an “Eric, you oughta try perming your hair”
mop. He’s evolved over the years. Fits and spurts and side trips and failings
and victories along the way are part and parcel of the Clapton journey. Kinda
like madras. But Eric appeared to have most of his fits and troubles early on.
Madras, it seems, only started getting trashy in the last half-decade.
Clapton
is a good man. Clapton still has most of his guitar chops intact. But Clapton…at
least my Clapton, shan’t be wearing any madras cargo shorts in concert. I know
they’re comfortable. But they aren’t on strategy for Clapton. At least not my Clapton.
From
heroin chic to patch madras cargo shorts in thirty-eight years. And I suppose
the pre-concert email suggested that all participants consider madras cargo
shorts. Vince Gill got the email. Thanks be to God that my girlfriend, Sheryl
Crow didn’t. Clapton in madras cargo is my new embodiment of madras gone wrong. Madras. Where it shouldn't be.
So let’s give madras a rest for the rest—of the 2012 season.
Onward.
In linen.
ADG X
