Trad-Ivy Tuesday

…will now appear whenever. I ran out of Tuesday before I ran out of stuff to do. So till whenever, here’s a small flurry of ADG Randomanalia to hold you—as if you need holding. I damn sure do.

The further decline in sartorial rigor and deportment in general…if you read my tumblr, you probably caught the text that I posted from LFG. My little gal who turns 12 (I cannot believe it) in three weeks texted me and told me not to wear a sportcoat to her dance recital last Friday night. I am the only parent who does and LFG is at that age where she wants nothing in her world to stand out/be different/manifest outlier status/draw attention. I have, in my effort to maintain some standard of not looking like one of the school kids, become an embarrassment to my little gal. I did upon her request, leave the above sportcoat in the car. She was elated.

You’ll see fewer photos of LFG on my blog from now on. I won’t belabor the point but she’s getting older and it’s appropriate that I allow her a higher level of privacy as she becomes the stellar young lady that I see blossoming before my eyes.

Her dance recital was great and it’s evident that she’s really found her passion in dance. I hate that we no longer play soccer—it was a venue where I could be more involved and also get the additional chance to see her on the non-LFG weekend Saturdays. Nothing traumatic brewing and nothing unusual amidst the current trend…but I’m having to schedule appointments to get access to my little gal. As many of you have told me… “She’s at that age…” You can tell me all day long. I still don't have to like it. 

Acheson…I learned so many interesting things about the man that I’ve got one more Acheson post in the queue.

But I decided against doing a post on Trad Swimwear. Mainly because I don’t give a damn about it.

On an entirely irrelevant note (Isn’t all of this irrelevant), I’ll brag about my work for just a minute. I spoke in Dallas a couple of months ago to a group of about five hundred home care—hospice professionals. I did a one hour keynote on the value of their services amidst the complexities of the current healthcare economic environment. (Outside of the sartorial realm, I am unequivocally a wonk-nerd/one trick pony professionally) One of you a couple of years ago posted a comment on one of my stories and you speculated whether I spoke the way I write—and if so—people would pay the ask just to have me talk on any subject. I got a chuckle out of that comment and appreciated the speculation. My gifts are modest but like Max Beerbohm posited about his…I’ve learned to leverage my gifts…as modest as they may be. So after I finished the talk, I had to dash from the podium and grab a cab to the airport. As I was making my way to the door, a hospice nurse thrust this card into my hand. And before you start the snide comments (if I was reading this, I’d be the first one to throw out a snarky remark about ADG bragging...and the word that we all can't seem to decipher on the card is (sp) "rejuvenate") …NO, she was not some little trixie who wanted to “get together next time you are in town.” She was sincere and I was humbled. I think good hospice professionals are truly living their mission—their dharma. And professionally, I know that I’m living mine. Don't ask me about my personal dharma. Thank you. 

But I also picked up some extry money last Sunday when I did a little baby sitting. You should see this boy’s mama. And LFG loves this little fella too. She calls him her "squishy little love nugget." I don't know where in the world she gets those lines from.

I’ll write at some point over the summer, more about my move to Chevy Chase/Bethesda. I need to be around the corner from LFG and the Corner Slice pizza joint that she and I have come to enjoy.

You’ll soon get an expose regarding my upcoming hair transplant surgery that I’ve budgeted for.

Cleverley posts are also in the queue. Here’s Cleverley’s Dominic Casey. I took him to dinner the other week when he was in D.C. I ordered a Stoli martini and he figured he’d like to try one too. After one sip, he eventually regained his normal respiration…looked at me and essentially said that it seemed impossible that someone as small as me could drink such a thing. He declared the cocktail to be…“tricky”. I declare that if you drink enough of ‘em, you get good at it. I then drank his too. Tricky D. Shut up.

My next automobile centric post will extol the dangers of ADD people trying to do their own rallye stripe projects. Don’t. Do it.

San Francisco...I have two more stories from my trip. One will focus on my bespoke green gator card case commission.

Kinda like the redundancy of another Hemingway, Fitzgerald or Robert E. Lee biography, I figured that the subject of good ole starched khakis had been done and done and done. But a tumblr reader’s question has sparked a khaki post idea. I’ll get to it. Whenever.

And speaking of Tuesday. Listen to General Johnson's take on it. This is one of a handful of songs that transport me back to the KA summer party or Spring Break at Ocean Drive and The Pad or Providence Road Sundries in Charlotte or the Tally Ho or the Library or Wits End in Columbia or Bubbas out near the Highway Department in Florence or the Chinese Disco in D.C. It reminds me of how quickly I realized that if you were a even an average shagger, girls would talk to you and dance with you. And all of the previously mentioned honky tonks were packed by eleven pm and were one hundred degrees inside. How starched were your khakis? Weejuns shined to a mirror glazed buff? Tanned ankles? A little bit too much sun on your face from earlier in the day? Tan lines popping on the shoulders of pretty girls in sun dresses. It mattered who you dated and how much liquor you could drink. 

Onward. Till Tuesday ADG II