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