I Have Nothing To Say

So listen up. If you’ve read my drivel for any length of time you might remember the randomanalia posts. Well really--all of them are random to a great degree but I used to pile on a huge load of irreleventia from time to time when I didn’t have the focus for a vaguely more cogent yarn. 2013 has seen me thus far mired in a zero bandwidth and nil focus stew pot when it comes to telling stories so I figured I’d drop a poorly edited pile on y’all this morning.

This was desert. Last night. Desert last night at the home of a guy who like me, has a delightful daughter and an affection for Alden shoes. He also has a lovely wife and a really cool son. Oh, and a network of eclectic, smart, grounded and delightful friends. A gaggle of whom shared in the fellowship with my dinner hosts last night. I’d never met face-to-face my Alden pal till last night. We’ve threatened to have a drink together for a year now but you know how it goes. Life is busy. But I was determined to not let anything get in the way of last night’s dinner invitation from Alden Guy.

So why do I share this? Because most of the reasons I continue to blog are the reasons I did so in the first place and they are predominantly superficial. But there’s also been an anything but superficial result of this blog. I’ve met some really great people and I’m gratified to know that some of them will be lifelong friends... the kind of friends who will take your call at 3am if you need them. I’d like to think that I’d do the same for them. Ask Toad.

My blessed but manic life isn’t special. My joys and challenges can easily be trumped by others who are also trying to navigate their day-to-day journeys with gratitude and sanity. But the odyssey of my mom’s illness is one for the record books and as I’ve said before, I will write about it somewhere—but not here. I know way too much about healthcare to just accept some of the shit that has been passed off as the care continuum for geriatric chronic disease and end of life management. My humble advice to you is if you have a family member who is deeply mired in this goat rodeo of a healthcare system we have in the States, you better find an informed advocate to question every damn thing done for you beloved. This saga has wrung me and my sibs out...emotionally, physically and, if we had any, intellectually.

On a happier note, my mom is lucid, cogent and fighting daily to get well enough to go home. It is amazing to see and we hold no false hope about how long we may have her. And if she can get home for even a few months—with daily nursing care—it will be fantastic. All I know is that if she dies tomorrow, the recent moments that I’ve had with her…moments where she and I have been able to once again have reflective, tender and deep conversations are gifts of inestimable value. Why? Because in March we took her off the respirator so that she could die yet now, she’s flipping the bird at the physical therapy people who are putting her through rigorous paces. Life is rich. And I swear to God that till now, I never saw my mom flip anyone off. Ever. When I was growing up. Shut up.

So let’s get to the superficial stuff. I’ve had two jackets awaiting a first fitting at my man Puerto Rykken’s Paul Stuart atelier since last December. That’s how damn crazy my world’s been. So last Tuesday I finally bit the bullet and did an Amtrak up and back in the same day to get fitted as well as drop in on a couple of other Gotham destinations. My go-to navy blazer is so ratty that I sorely needed to replace it. Now I have other ones—my blazers see more action than anything else in or out of my closet but my go-to sees the most combat. Instead of replacing it identically, I opted for hacking pockets versus three open patch. It’s gonna be strong. Trust me. Or not. I don’t give a damn ‘cause you ain’t gonna be wearin’ it. Shut up.

And my summer 2013 jacket, which based on the delay in getting it fitted, I’ll be able to wear for maybe three weeks, is a linen-wool-silk contrivance that’s gonna be sublime. The coloring is really gonna enhance my jaundice and the cut? Hugely complimentary to my alcoholic malnourished attenuatiousness.

I'm going to write a story about Made-to-Measure, Custom and Bespoke processes and the differences. Don't ask me when I'll get around to it. I have no idea. But I can tell you unequivocally that what my man Rykken is doing for me over at Paul Stuart is anything but some demi-ass MTM sleight of hand. It's as close to Savile Row paper pattern cutting as I'll ever need. 

Three-two roll—peak lapels—hacking flaps including ticket—double vented. With a half-vinyl top. Bam!

So after my Rykken fitting and before the train slog home, I dropped in on the Belgian Mother Church to see what, if anything was new. And I defined new as a pair of monochromatic calfskin navies. And I ordered another monochromatic-contrivance that’ll be here probably around Labor Day if I’m lucky. Stay tuned. Or not.

Oh, and thanks to those over at my tumblr who helped me select that next round of kilim slips from Pammie-Jane over at Nomad Ideas. Typically, I ignored the feedback of the majority and did my own thang. And these thangs I like.

Anyone care to guess what trad purveyor occupied this space for years?  I passed it in midtown last week and once again had that pang of regret for having missed their salad days. Hint? "GTH Mother Church."

Let me close this out with an update on one L. F. G. She finished the school year having made nothing less than all A’s. She’s becoming such a lovely young adult and it’s killing me every step of the way. Y’all told me it was typical-predictable-boilerplate and text book. But I still don’t have to like it.

But I know she loves me. The latest evidence includes her agreement to take me to the Toy Soldier Shop in D.C. and select my Father’s Day present(s).  

She squealed with glee when she was younger as I’d sit on the front steps of the shop while she and Mister Neil narrowed down my broad choices and boxed and wrapped them. This most recent round of “pick daddy’s present” was at least tolerated with stoic elegance.

Ok. That’s enough drivel for now. Onward. Kinda. With two Brooks Brethren striped BDs that were on sale.

ADG II

Quality or Service--Don't Make Me Choose

A reader over at my tumblr asked this question ages ago and I’ve finally made the time to respond…

“OK, as a veteran consumer and occasional custom orderer, which would you say is more important, assuming you had to choose---decent product, with good, friendly, responsive customer service, or excellent product with crappy service. Obviously, you shouldn't have to choose, but some days life isn't as it should be. Whole retail empires have been built on rude clerks (who suddenly fawn when the Special People come in) and McDonalds didn't get where they are by striving for exceptional quality.”

Good question. McDonald’s got where they are via one, maybe two, very compelling strategy (ies) since their inception. I use McDonalds as a teaching metaphor pretty much every week of my professional life and like ‘em or not, they are great strategists. They have been since day-one when Ray Kroc took the McDonald brothers idea on the road. Their strategy…which allows breathtaking wiggle room in areas of quality and customer centricity is crystal clear. It’s …Kids. Yep, kiddies. You get the kids and you’ll get the rest of the family.

So here’s my answer to your question. I will not choose. I will not trade-off either of the two crucial variables that you posit. Well let me qualify my answer. When it comes to the higher priced…bigger ticket items that I purchase, I refuse to compromise. Case in point above. Do those two Cleverley bespoke shoes look the same? Of course not. The lighter one is my replacement pair that showed up after Cleverley, of their own volition, certainly not as a result of any tantrum on my part, declared that they’d start over from scratch and remake my first pair of bespoken shoes. I was poleaxed that they’d actually remake the things. Why? Because the issue at hand wasn’t a deal breaker by any stretch. But after a few back and forths they declared their re-do intent. And I was even more poleaxed when they f_&ked up the specs on the remake.

The price point involved in this example is such that one shouldn’t compromise quality or service or any damn thing in the fulfillment process. This was a FUBAR without explanation and Cleverley did acrobatics to make it right. One day I’ll get off my ass and do a proper story about Cleverley but until then, let me just say that their commitment to getting things right resulted in another bespoke order from me as well as two pairs of their ready-made shoes landing stateside with my name on them. The value equation inputs haven’t really changed...it’s just that fewer people seem to use the centuries-old formula anymore.

Product or service quality/benefit divided by cost is the basic math for value. Consultants who want to make a buck have tweaked the equation a bit in order to make a buck but the core inputs are immutable. One could also blend things like customer experience, customer service and whatever additional smattering of variables deemed important for your value equation. And this varies from person to person, no? I playfully challenged a young kid who purveys rather tasty stuff to take a shot at what he thought was my trigger. It was obvious that to answer such a question about my quirky ass required a bit of thought. But after a moment he said, “Dust…for you, a big part of this is the “experience”.” I think he’s right. I’m a sucker for the story. Hell, it’s why I started blogging. I collect many things but one of my favorite procurements is a moment that becomes a memory. And those moments end up in….stories. I love clothes and I love the clothing business so yes, I’m one who loves the experience. 

On the other hand, I have a childhood friend who enjoys wearing high quality things but told me one time that “I don’t need anyone in a store to necessarily know my name or call me when they have something they think I’ll like.” He’s a rather impatient hunter-gatherer and I can assure you that his value equation doesn’t include an experience variable. He likes high quality goods and any purveyor would be pleased to have his custom but he ain’t gonna be hurt if you are simply courteous and focused on helping him quickly hunt and gather.

Another example…I’m a fairly easy fit for a tailor. Other than my slight stoop, I’ve got no other significant anatomical issues to flummox a cutter. And the good ones know how to get the collar to hug the neck of a stooping plonker like me. (Stooping Plonker…sounds kinda like an 18^th century Prussian military man) But if you have enough clothes made, you are gonna end up having one episode where the play hell getting it right. The suit above is one of my favorite Flusser rigs. But it took them a half dozen tries to get the collar correct. And all of the Fluss team involved in the effort agreed that after the final go, if it wasn’t right, the Fluss would start over.

One of the top ten best humans in the entire world, G. The Bruce Boyer told me about an Anderson and Sheppard suit that he bespokeydoked some thirty years ago where, upon review by the Head Cutter, he was told just to keep that one for “digging about in the garden and piddling around” and that another one would be cut for him post haste at no additional cost. Bottom line was that after fiddling about with the garment for a few goes, it was time to begin again from scratch.

Here’s another example. I’m gonna do a lengthier story later on about one of the nicest guys I’ve met in the last year…Nick Hilton. But for now…I literally stumbled into his Princeton shop one day and met him. Of course I’d heard about Norman Hilton and the Norman Hilton—Ralph Lauren lore of legend etc but I’d never been in Nick’s shop and I didn’t know him. Long story short, he was running a bit of a promo on some piece goods and twenty minutes later, he and I were designing a jacket. Surprise…windowpane…peak single breast…three/two…double vented…open patches…I’d be an easy mark for an assassin.

But there was one problem. Nick happily sent me a smart phone photo of the jacket when it arrived at his shop and my heart didn’t sink but I wasn’t ebullient. I don’t order open patch hip pockets and a jetted breast pocket. But that’s what came in. Not a deal breaker but not a crowd pleaser either. At least when the crowd consists of one person and that one is me…the tariff payer…ADG. But Nick and I couldn’t discern from our conversations or from the paperwork who fumbled the ball or quite frankly, whether or not a ball had even been fumbled. Ok, enough about balls.

I couldn’t swear to Nick that I emphatically asked for an open patch breast pocket and Nick couldn’t swear, paperwork wise, that I did or didn’t. I was prepared to be happy with the jacket and to chalk it up to a need for more precision in my communication. I made no demands for any adjustments, jacket or pricewise because I had no right to. Oh, and as is always my policy, Nick at that point, had no freakin’ clue that I blogged about things sartorial. You already know that I don’t play that card.

Perhaps miracle is too strong a word but it ain’t far off. After seeing the jacket in situ and discovering how they converted it from jetted to patch, I’ll tell you that the open patch breast pocket now adorning my jacket is nothing short of clever. If purveyors want customers for life, this is how you get ‘em and keep ‘em. I can only say good things about Nick Hilton and his crew.

Ok, ok, so you rightfully conclude that my examples are only relevant to the nuts like me who spend crazy money on custom things. Well, my advice is to compromise little when spending money in even our more mainstream places. If Macy’s doesn’t treat you right, offer objective, instructive feedback to their management and then go to Lord and Taylor or whatever comparable store you can access.

There’s a gas station near me…yes…a good ole gas station, well not just a gas station per se whose service bays are always packed to the gills. Why? Because they are focused and competent and professional and walk their talk about being customer centric. They charge a little more and people happily pay a little more. There’s no compromised asked by either party.

Even Brooks and Press et al no longer have but a few salespeople from the days when the value equation was Gospel. But the lethargy and benign indifference of a lot of their hourly workers is still better than what you get elsewhere and I can sometimes live with traces of that. But only traces. One of my biggest gripes with even the Polo Ralph Mothership Mansion is that there are very few people working there who can actually explain why you should pay Purple Label prices for Purple Label clothing. And here's another thought...If you don’t like the service at the Macy’s caliber establishments, prolong your purchase(s) for a while…save some additional money and then go to Saks or Nordstrom. Or seek out the few remaining independent retailers who still value your custom.

So I reckon I’ll close this with a point about trade-offs. When I lived in Montclair New Jersey in the 1980’s, I discovered nearby, a little shoe shop in a strip mall near Pal's Cabin where all of the Baker Benjes Polo shoe samples from NYC ended up. And most of them were my size. A colleague and I would hit it about once every two weeks during our lunch hour and gorge on the giveaway priced tasties. The look, the quality and the price trifecta was such that I wouldn’t then nor would I today, give two hoots and a damn about the experience or the attentiveness of the staff. What I got for what I paid was so incredible that they coulda had poo throwing gorillas tending the register and I’d a still navigated the gantlet to buy the goods. But whenever I’m spending amounts of time and money that even marginally exceeds my 1980’s shoe sample experience, I expect a baseline level of kindness and professional competency from everyone.

Ok. That’s it for now. Time to wake my not so tiny dancer, LFG and get her going for another round of dance recital nirvana. The "don't take photos Gestapo" was in full force last night so I could only sneak this little photo when the house lights came up. She's sixth from the left, front row. But you knew that.

Onward. Heading back to South Carolina on Tuesday to help out with my still deciding mama.

ADG II

Poor Man’s Brooks Brothers

 “Poor Man’s Brooks Brothers.” I’m not sure where or when I first heard that but it made sense the moment I did. That’s what Joseph A. Bank was back in the early 1980’s when I discovered them. My first encounter was in Washington D.C. during the summer when my liver and I pretended to work for the Senate Judiciary Committee while really working the mean streets of Georgetown and the beer soaked floors of the Day Lily Restaurant, aka the Chinese Disco.

My KA brother and Presidential Gardens roommate, WHS and I rolled into the Washington, D.C.  Jos. A. Bank one Saturday and the Poor Man’s Brooks moniker stood. The place was brimming with 3/2 sack goods and bevies of button downs and foulards and Brooks aping collaterals that would leave one believing their fake-it-till-you-make-it strategy could be tactically supported by this singular purveyor. I bought a gray seersucker 3/2 sack sportcoat that afternoon and wore it for the next decade.

My next Bank encounter was in Charlotte, North Carolina after I somehow ended up in the pharmaceutical business. No longer indigent but certainly not flush, I was a regular at Bank-Charlotte. My first ever Aldens came from there. I was ready to deepen my footwear bench beyond Weejuns but wasn’t ready or able to add shell cordovan to the queue. I wear to this day, my calfskin Alden tassels, courtesy of Bank-Charlotte.

When you see this logo, rest assured that you are looking at a pair of Aldens in excess of twenty years old.

And if you ever see this logo, rest assured that you are looking at something that once existed but based on the edematous piles of poo currently purveyed at Jos. A. Bank, will never be again. The idea that Jos. A. Bank at one time offered a line-up including Alden seems laughable today. But they were at one time, a Poor Man’s Brooks Brothers. Indeed.

Onward. Still vigilating and mama tending. In calfskin Jos. A. Bank Aldens.

ADG II 

Black Fleece Summer 2013

Gentlemanmac, a very pertinent reader left a snarky message for me over at my tumblr. Here it is…

“Are you ever gonna change that stupid York Street picture that's been up for two weeks? At least put up something cool, like a rottweiler, while you're not posting stuff.”

Spot-on old sport. I couldn’t agree with you more. I don’t have time at present to read or write blogs. So as a placeholder and an alternative to my J. Press York Street visual fiasco that so offended a reader, feast your eyes on the Brethren’s Black Fleece offerings for warm weather ’13.

Surely this Goat Rodeo Forrest Gump Bobo sh_t is much more soothing, no?

Oh, and before one of you emails me and gives me the standard… “Yeah, those ensembles do look rather silly but several of the individual pieces would look great as a separate entity, not all bound up in a gaggle of other Black Fleece stuff.” Ok, here’s the deal. If you really believe that; then let me buy you these teabagger britches. We’ll all be waiting to see a picture of you sportin’ em.

Tell Forrest I said hey.

Shut Up; then…Onward.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Sartorial Washington, D.C.

I’m probably on the record somewhere in this blog stating that living inside the Beltway—residing as I do—literally seven miles from the Hill—six miles from the White House—and not being in politics is like living in Hollywood and not being in the movie business. Washington, D.C.  is a three-button sack coat, goofball town, awash with sycophants.  

This wasn’t always my opinion. There was a time when I loved the academics of politics. I loved United States constitutional history and I loved reading the 17^th and 18^th century political and social theorists. And I worked for a U.S. Senator the summer between my junior and one of my senior years of undergrad. Then the taint wafted in. Slowly. And rather like slow growing hardwood trees, the taint; when it did unfurl, was sturdy to the point of calcification and in my mind—it was here to stay. I love the academics of the political process. I loathe politicians. My rather decided view of all this culminated when during one of my several assignments within the pharma industry, I lobbied (I love the new, perhaps more palatable characterization of special interest tactics. Instead of lobbying, it’s advocacy now) agencies, legislators and policy shapers.  

Even the most well-meaning newly elected legislator will, within their first term, become to some degree, converted…turned. The big money, the court of jesters that include staffer toadies who would literally, I kid you not, wipe a legislator’s butt if asked, are laughable on one hand and downright pitiful on the other. I moderated my Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. bias slightly after reading his diaries but only a little bit. Loyalty is good. Unwavering allegiance without question scares me. I honestly believe that Schlesinger would have done anything to or for JFK and RFK...upon demand. Ok, so perhaps he wasn't a bow tied sycophant. But he was a J. Pressed lap-dog. 

I’m ok with ego and eccentricity but I’m less disgusted with gaudy shows of power and money when one comes about it in ways other than at the people's expense. And what we have on the Hill today are not servants of this country’s citizenry and our best interests. Oh, and state legislators are just as bad or worse. My home state’s legislative branch was for years, flat-out; for sale.

So it becomes rather obvious why sartorial panache doesn’t have to be part of the success formula in political Washington, D.C. The currency here is power—not style. There are a few exceptions to the rule but unfortunately, most of the best examples are historical ones. Come to think of it, sartorial Washington has fallen from its rather low-set three-button goofball sack coat perch and has landed on less defined ground. Even the most sociopathic political opportunist woulda looked ok if they’d just had one of their butt-wiper staffers drive them over to J. Press for a couple of suits and matching accessories. Remember Jim Traficant?

And with the exception of those Ivy League keystone cop knuckle heads at the CIA who led JFK to green light the Bay of Pigs—and with their hiccup or two regarding Vietnam, we’d be better off morally and sartorially if United States foreign policy was still led by those patinated statesmen who wouldn’t dream of stepping out of the house unless swathed and shod in Chipp, J. Press, The Brethren Brooks or some visiting Savile Row tailor or cobbler. Acheson and Harriman come to mind.

The current round-up of politicians offers more bad sartorial examples than good ones so let’s look back for a moment. Texan John Tower who was anything but towering, physically…was a natty dresser. Never did I see him without well placed linen in his breast pocket. And his ties were impeccably dimpled. I wonder if some of his sartorial knack came from hanging around Savile Row while attending the London School of Economics. Tower was a great sartorial specimen even though a little too Adolphe Menjou-esque in his studied perfection.

But I’ll take too well-studied and over-groomed any day, compared to the myth busting carriage of Barney Frank. So much for the prejudicial stereotype that says gay men are fastidious, neat and aesthetically advanced.

And I’ll say that the Kennedy brothers were an exception to all of my biased generalizations regarding sartorial Washington. Why? First, it’s their genetic predisposition for big, white incisors and really thick hair. Next, it’s their wealthy father’s investment from an early age, in their wardrobes rich in London bespoke and New England Trad-Ivy content. They learned it early on and never wavered too far from it. 

If Jack and Bobby had lived long enough to see Nehru Jackets, Members Only windbreakers and Nik-Nik shirts, something tells me that they’d have taken a pass.

So what about those other Texas boys, Connolly and Johnson? I love this photo. Lyndon and John at a ceremony honoring their mentor and surrogate father, Sam Rayburn. Friends and power seekers…at each other’s expense—one in the same. Texans without hats? It seems unthinkable. 

Connolly in a three-two peak lapelled single breasted rig. Rail thin. University of Texas.

Might this be Exhibit One in the “Does a picture really say a thousand words" Trial? Texans can do hats. Most times, it’s better that non-Texan politicians eschew the urge to top. But look at the HappyWarrior in the middle. He’d a looked even less comfortable with an obligatory “when in Rome” temporarily donned Stetson but geez…could there be a greater divide…a more dichotomous gaggle than HHH and these two Texans?

LBJ’s sartorial performances weren’t ghastly but it was obvious that he didn’t give too much of a damn about clothes. He was the hang-dog, jowly, big-eared Uncle Cornpone to JFK’s Trad-Ivy everythingness. But LBJ was a master strategist and a formidable tactician. History now trends toward assigning LBJ the rightful assignation of the most legislatively capable operative to ever occupy the Senate. He was the United States Senate for almost twelve years. Don’t believe me? Read Caro’s latest LBJ volume, Passage of Power. The first forty-seven days of LBJ’s presidency saw him reach back into the Senate and pull JFK’s stalled legislation out of the proverbial shitter. He knew how to get it done. The Harvards, as he called them, who ran the Executive branch before he took over, did not. Even though he urged...begged actually...most of the Harvards to stay on for at least one year before resigning their posts, it took his tactical, pragmatic, Cornponessence to legislatively actualize what JFK's Executive had initiated.

But there were a couple of things in Caro’s latest volume that challenged me. So consistent with my pseudo-academic, mighty-erudity-ness, I wrote Robert Caro to seek some clarification. Stay tuned for the response.

Ok, I’ve wandered aimlessly here and haven’t really made much of a sartorial point. I reckon the gist of this is that I live inside the Beltway for reasons that damn sure exclude ones political, sartorial and duende-acious. I am mad about clothes. I am mad at politicians. Now let me go see about what’s left of my hair.

Onward. Having already voted, I am…ADG II...your humble servant in all things sartorially random.

Oh…one more thing. The last campaign I cared about was when LFG ran for the Presidency of Wonders, her aftercare program when she was in the 2^nd grade. I’m a strategy consultant but fearing a biased, daddy taint if I actively engaged too much in LFG’s campaign; I delegated the task to my one of my business partners and his daughter who is LFG’s age. And I've already been clear on the risk that politicians take when trying to wear hats or helmets. Candidate LFG on the other hand, rocked her little pillbox topper don'tcha think? Even her Chief of Staff, Gromit, is reasonably well topped in his rain hat.

Here’s my partner’s write up on the winning LFG campaign strategy…

*Strategy Works for Seven Year Olds

“LFG, age 7, recently decided to run for the Presidency of “Wonders”, her after school care program. When asked what she would rely upon to get votes, she paused for a moment to reflect on differentiating strategy options. Subsequently, she declared that the kids attending the aftercare program should be empowered to have more choice in the selection of activities and resources for their utilization.

LFG then concluded that she should hire the services of a strategy consultancy to assist in building a winning position around the theme of “kid’s choice”. L.T.I.  (Lauren, Tommy Inc.) was retained to craft the strategy. Lauren S___ weighed in on the “Choice” strategy and along with her associate, Tommy S___, created the following strategic playbook for LFG:

As part of the consulting arrangement with LFG for President, LTI (Lauren, Tommy, Inc.) have developed a strategy built on what LFG has said is most important to her constituency and designed to ensure her election as President of Post School Care…

Let us set the scenario…

LFG strides into the main play area and up to the Daisy Duck podium.  She turns, recognizes the Speaker of the Playground and those who were unable to attend due to nap time.  She grabs both sides of the podium and stares directly into the eyes of Madam Post School Care Facility Owner.  She pauses for dramatic effect and says…

“It’s all about making the Right Choices

The Right Choices for…

•             Healthier Snacks

•             Kid’s Toys in the Playroom

•             Frequent Field Trips

•             More Cooking Days

The CHOICE is really simple…LFG, the Right Choice!”

She stands still and relishes the applause, nods her head one time, turns and exits to the standing ovation she will so richly deserve.

LFG won a hard fought contest utilizing the well-honed “Choice” strategy created through the collaborative efforts of her team and L.T.I.”

*This is a true story. And yes, LFG won.