Aldens and Love

I recently declared to a small gathering of other clothes nuts that if I was ordered to source my shoes from just one maker for the rest of my life it would be Alden. To a man, they were mildly shocked and I can see why. Once you co-mingle a reasonably deep bench of Aldens with the likes of Edward Green and Cleverley, Aldens take on a little bit of what I’ll call a ham-fisted, American clunk.

Additionally, one could argue that EG and Cleverley offer less clunky versions, slightly refined without being slick, interpretations of all the Alden favorites. I agree but still, there’s something familiar and comforting and American about Aldens that I enjoy. And there’s little remaining here in the Colonies that’s truly an American invention.

Sorry but the aforementioned Aldens ditty was a sleight. I spoke truth in the sleight but it was just an excuse, a set-up, to talk about love. This blog was supposed to be about clothes and shoes and socks and sartorial fuzziness though I’ve never been very focused and true to that intent. But I just felt that I should at least kick off my musings with something vaguely akin to what I used to write about. The following is part of an email exchange from early this morning. After reading it a few times and making an editorial change or two, I decided to share it…

“I must be getting used to my ICU campsite because I slept my ass off last night. Literally. I’ve looked all over for it and it’s gone. Not that I had much ass anyway. But I had vivid dreams which let me know that I was in and out of a deep sleep. The dreams were inconsequential…nothing too Freudian or otherwise and unfortunately not vividly sexual. And I’m taken by the fact that I dreamt anything at all here in the ICU amidst all of the chirps, beeps and squawks of medical technology. This coming Wednesday will mark one month of chirping, beeping and ICU squawking.

Writing wise, I’m preferring right now to just free-form a fixation about the definition of love that I landed on for a while yesterday. There isn’t at least in my opinion, one correct, proper definition of love. I would offer that different people have different definitions of love and how they express it…and no one is incorrect.

I remember LLS, our medical writer telling me one time about her father, a man who deeply loved his family but who just flat-out wasn’t much of an emoter. He didn’t cry, he didn’t offer flourishes of verbiage extolling how much he loved his wife and kids. He was rather stoic. Not cold…but stoic. But at the same time there wasn’t a deficit in his kindness or goodness. The reason I learned all this about LLS’s dad was when in the midst of a project she was working on with us, she got news that her brother’s dog wandered off in the woods somewhere around Lake Tahoe. LLS’s father dropped everything and flew from DC to Nevada and walked the woods for three days and nights helping look for her brother’s dog.

So her father, amidst his stoic and rather clinical, Germanic posture, was fully equipped with what I’ll call the love mechanics…the ability to emote and demonstrate in his way…what love is. LLS wasn’t surprised by his gesture at all but the reason I think she shared with me the details was just to kinda marvel out loud at how he chose to love people.

A more enduring love I think, is evidenced by walking for three days and nights with an inconsolable adult son who’s lost his dog—as opposed to just blathering on about how much you love someone yet offering little in actions to back it up. I think about the number of times that I’ve said and meant it when I said… “I love you” to my mother but didn’t have to back it up with anything other than the phone call that allowed me to declare it.

So…it’s easy to be in love…it’s easy to say, “Damn, I’m in love with this person”…when all is fun and easy and heady and new. And the dog isn’t lost.  I’ve also learned that this definition of love is the most fleeting form. For if it’s based exclusively on a platform of life being fun and easy and unburdened, it’s likely to be unsustainable when life gets rocky…when the shit hits the fan. The year and a half leading up to me marrying LFG’s mom was one big, heady long weekend. We both travelled so we ended up rendezvousing in fun cities for great dinners and cocktails and music and museums and interesting, eclectic people. And when we were home it was more of the same.

Gracefully resolving conflict? Accommodation and compromise? Forgiveness only made genuine by forcing down an almost unpalatable portion of humility...the humility made unpalatable only by the taint from our own ego? I believe these to be tactical behaviors that support a robust love and I never had to face any of these with LFG’s mom prior to our marriage.

I believe that love is its truest and best when people in love can love themselves and others through the roughest patches. Otherwise, love might better be remaindered to the chemistry, infatuation pile. And I’ve been reminded during these recent weeks and events that love might also be an instructive taskmaster if we are willing to be accepting students.

These almost four weeks with my mom have seen me, the student, front and center on some days and flat-out cutting class on others. I’ve felt a more selfless love for my mother these past two days but I’m sure I’ll revert back to the egoistic, self-regarding, immature son who loves his mother but can’t be bothered too much longer with all this shit. You know, the selfish son who is angry that she lived instead of declining the absurd but surely transient second chance that we in the bleachers are now watching her toy with.

But for now, I’m feeding her small spoonsful of Cheerios and milk and I’m assuring her for the hundredth damn time that I’ve paid the lawn service fella to take care of everything that’s about to have the audacity amidst all this adversity, to bloom at home.”

Onward. Assless. ICU jockeying. Avec Cheerios and my mama.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Uncurated Randomanalia

So for this Trad-Ivy Tuesday I’m back to unedited-uncurated-unfocused randomanalia. It’s just flat-out easier to throw a pile of this at you than it is to distil anything more thoughtful. It also seems that you people like the random stuff better than my more thought-out, scrivened gyrations and (I’m delusional, I know. Hang with me.) keyboard-esque hip thrusts. Shut up.

I now have an editor and I’m pleased by it. On the other hand, we are amidst writer-editor conflict right out of the gate. “Anonymous asked you: Good writers deserve good editors- not just to pare their prose, but to suggest topics. Until you get the editor you deserve, you has me. May I humbly suggest that the Blogosphere is full of stories of O’Hara and the Brethren? Why not a post on boxers? Whip out a half dozen pair and photograph them. Maybe discuss the subtle virtues of buttons vs all over elastic and the outrageous expense of Edwardian style tie backs. Touch briefly (ha) on knitted models. Tell about white linen show thru…”

Ok editor, you make a good point. The O’Hara anecdotes and his sartorial whateverishness have been done. And done. And done. But I’m still gonna eventually write about it for a few reasons. First, I write all of this stuff really, to please me as opposed to editors (Sorry…my new editor) or paying clients/publishers. If someone paid me to do this, I’d be mildly but not too much so, more compliant. Next…O’Hara and his Brooks Brethren buttoned-down poseuressence have indeed been done. But not by me.

I want to write about how I was late to the O’Hara short story party and what an impact a couple of them had on me. And how Appointment with Samara didn’t do it for me but the son of a legendary Boston Globe columnist who is associated with an O’Hara Brethren button down story did think Samara was ok. And I have some never told information that I want to peck out on the keyboard in my words and see how my retelling resonates. So thanks, new editor. Don’t abandon me but give me some wiggle room on the O’Hara thing. I bet you’re gonna find it tolerable. Whew. After that, I feel like I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.

How the hell do you smoothly transition from that? You don’t. You just move on. So now I’ll thank one of my readers for giving me a heads-up about the pair of Edward Green Oundle monks that were half-price at Leffot and coincidentally, just my size. Leffot has an incredible shodding line-up and I’m pleased that a tasty goods purveyor like Leffot doesn’t choose or seemingly have to play price point grab-ass with the public. All retailers it seems; must start some 20% off hoochie coochie sh_t with their new season’s goods within one week of announcing their arrival. For anyone with an IQ hovering above 90, which is a stretch for South Carolinians, the fact that the week-one discounts are built into the made in Outer Sweatshoplandia price point is obvious.

Leffot is a tasty joint and Will over at A Suitable Wardrobe says it better than me...“Steven Taffel of Leffot, on Christopher Street in Manhattan, has assembled what is probably the best collection of shoe brands offered for sale in the Eastern United States, with hard to find delights like Corthay and Aubercy complementing better known names such as Alden and Edward Green.”

Susan Tabak Photo

So Leffot needn’t have massive unit price discount promos very often. But Messrs’ Taffel et al a couple of times each year, clear out a few things. I’d cruised the discounted remainders as soon as I got the Leffot sale email but saw nothing in my size. A few weeks later my reader ping-pinged me with a link to the Oundle. I don’t win raffles and I’m never very lucky at chance games but karma and juju washed over me in this instance. 

My Edward Green Westminister double monks that I demanded be special ordered for me in what was ultimately the wrong size, went to a reader courtesy of a hugely discounted and lesson-learned-by-shoe size/last shape know-it-all…me. So the karmic shoe energies of the world prevailed the Oundle on me at a price that has me back to the original investment I had in the Westministers. I need another cigarette after rationalizing this one.

Sticking with shoes for another moment…these are now about a zillion percent off at the Brethren. But I still won’t take ‘em home. And don’t you either.

Even though we’ve passed the official “it’s after Labor Day, now put your linen, madras and seersucker away” deadline, I’m gonna hang on to my darker tan linen trousers for a few more weeks. My cousin Willie   (you've seen him before in another post, wearing his Scottish Kit, on the right in the above Kodak) who still lives down in that moral cesspool known as South Carolina, offers that below eighty-five degrees is his break point for eschewing linen in S.C. Makes sense to me—down there.

Moral cesspool? Yep. I was searching online for an update on the publication of Mel and Patricia Ziegler’s memoir about their brilliant for the first six years, concept known as Banana Republic. So when I googled keyword stuff I not only got the Ziegler update that I was looking for, I also found the above. Eight bucks and five days later, courtesy of Alibris, I was in to this page turner. I blew through it in about three sittings. 

We always avoided Myrtle Beach except for an evening drive down to the Pavilion from time to time when I was a little kid. As the smarm moved north, my parents even decamped the wood framed screen porched gentility of Ocean Drive and built a house at Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina. I was bored mindless there.

Ok…off of my little Carolina rant and back to clothing. I noticed something a while back when I came home with my nine thousand dollars’ worth of dry cleaning. Even though I love my weekend GTH stuff, my standard fare linen is hugely monochromatic. I think the khaki indoctrination from years ago became an immutably imprinted imprimatur, declaring the color tan to be the little black dress of men’s trouser palate options.

My baby began 7^th grade last week. Shitake. It seems like just yesterday that she was in preschool and the kitting out process meant nothing more than a navy blue uniform.

And I think uniforms are great. Really. Just look at these future Old Etonians. We’d probably get better behavior out of our boys and girls if they had to wear top hats to class. And I’d demand that they wear them properly. Not like the topper that the guitarist Slash from Guns N Roses wore. That hairy mugwump gives the proper topper a bad name.

I'm pretty much out of the fray when it comes to taking LFG shopping for her clothes. It was a no-brainer when she was in that three to seven year age range. I could simply buy those smock thingys at the Gap Outlet and if I was within one size of correct, all was good. I did though, accompany trail her by fifty feet to Georgetown the other day and bought her a pair of must-have flip flops. "Flip flops" her mother axed? "It's back to school shopping time." Yep.

As well as a pair of Mossimo lace-up Bluchers from Target. Yep.

Students—style—duende—deportment? I don’t see it with my thirty-something year old clients so why should I look to see it amongst the ranks of students? Here’s a young undergrad named Walter Cronkite. I rest my case regarding the decline. In clothes and evening news anchoring.

I tole you this was gonna be random. When I was searching for pictures to help me tell the story about my daddy’s Mustang, I ran across a cache of pictures depicting the racing life of the Ford Falcon. I’m not gonna poach too much from what I found because there’s another unique post therein. But the photo above cracked me up! Talk about incongruence. A Ford Falcon atop a Citroen transport vehicle. Suffice it to say, they weren’t headed for Daytona or Darlington. Citroen. Just saying it out loud with my country ass accent cracks me up. Falcon. Imagining a French aristocrat saying it in high French cracks me up. High German? Could be impressive. High? I must be.

Wanna talk interior design for a moment? Good. Neither do I. But I will share that even though I’m not a hoarder, I remain flummoxed by the amount of accumulata that I’ve managed to pack into a thousand square feet in Old Town Alexandria. I’m trying to edit ruthlessly but its tough going. Plus, I’m dragging my feet getting to Bethesda as my ten to fifteen minute radius from LFG’s house hasn’t yet yielded a place with the right bones for me to resettle my damn self.

And please, shoot me if I ever experiment with Chinese red lacquer again. 

Or as Reggie Damn Darling refers to it..."Retail Red".

I lost count of the number of primer coats it took to cover this mess.

I’m priming the darker colored rooms…my hunter green bedroom, LFG’s purple Dr. Seuss bedroom and the hallway before I have the painters come in and do the entire place rental property beige. Again.

LFG shared recently that even if I wasn’t moving, it was time to take down all of her formative years artwork from the LFG kitchen gallery.

I disagreed. She prevailed.

Pert near kilt me to take it all down. Daddy Land be closed.

Shut up. And I mean it.

Ok. I’m thinking that one thousand four hundred and almost seventy words are enough for this Tuesday’s load. Onward. Editing. With scant efficacy. And wondering wherever my head of college hair went.

ADG II

Wholecuts are Tricky

A reader over at my tumblr asked…“Speaking of shoes, I don't see you wearing many lace-up shoes. (other than white bucks) Is it because you don't hang with the suits? I gather from many of your comments that you are often the most dressed up guy in the room- and that usually means you are That Guy With That Thing Around His Neck. But, if you were in serious banking or, God forbid, law or finance, would you wear oxfords, wingtips, captoes- blucher or otherwise? Special bonus question: where do you stand on wholecuts?”   So I decided to answer the question over here.

Lace-ups? Your observation is correct. They aren’t a huge part of my lineup anymore mostly because suits are such a rare part of my kit these days. The classic Brooks Brethren wingtip above is indeed just that--classic. But it isn't relevant to me anymore. And when I do wear suits, monk straps seem to be adequate. Suits in general and the dressiest most elegant versions especially, might deserve a dressier shoe. Trust me, I know the rules and at one time in my life I used to abide by them rather faithfully. I’m on the record having posited that the world, sartorially and deportment-wise, is already at the bottom of the slippery-ass slope. So when I put on a pair of not-dressy-enough monk strap shoes with a suit, unfortunately, I am by default, better dressed and shod than 89.3783% of humanity. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not better than or earlier in the queue for heaven than 89.3783% of humanity. I come in at about 47.8765% on the former and 22.2232% on the latter. (We don’t round our numbers here. Shut up.)

And yes, I am usually "The Guy With That Thing Around His Neck."

I worked for a very strict and culturally rigid pharma organization for thirteen years. And during those years it would have been career suicide to wear 90% of what I swath and shod in today. My work wardrobe was suits only—no sportcoats, white or blue solid dress shirts, maybe a basic stripe thrown in if my most recent performance review was stellar. And shoe-wise, I wore two lace-up variations exclusively...all-day every-day--for thirteen years. The black cap-toe Allen Edmonds example above represents what was on my feet probably four days a week for thirteen years. Maybe that’s why I have an aversion to black shoes today.

When I was away from the Corporate Colon in New Jersey or Basel, either working in the field or working out of one of the regional offices, the most ambitious I’d ever get, shodding-wise would be a suede cap-toe with a bit of punching/brogueing similar to the above. I’ve often said of my corporate years, before the business casual boondoggle, that I was one of the best dressed guys you’d ever see, Monday through Friday and at best on the weekends…Preppy Homeless. And it was true. After being cinched up...suiting swathed and cap-toed all week, I’d have on a pair of beat-to-shit khakis, Alden tassels or Bean bluchers—no socks of course unless it was snowing…a popped collar knit shirt in the summer or a Shetland crewneck sweater in the winter. Underneath it all however, was always LaPerla.

I’m not anti-lace-ups per se but it seems that in our slovenly world and in my now more casual phase, monk straps are my alternative to a slip-on. But here’s a bit of an update. Be patient and I’ll let you peek at something…probably mid-October. The boys at Cleverley are working on a mongrelized two-eyelet lace up for me. I’d ask that you “picture this” but a healthy mind probably can’t. The shoe above? That’s an Edward Green classic that I literally wore till it could no longer be refurbished—recrafted—resurrected—resuscitated or re-anythinged.

So I’ve re-imagined my old Edward Green shoe but with fuzzy mongrelizations that are gonna make most traditionalists harrumph and cause more ardent devotees and adherents to hurl. Instead of brown suede I’ve opted for a suede color that has slightly more yellow in it than the tobacco or snuff colors that are so beautiful and therefore so ubiquitous. The Cleverley name on the swatch I selected is Brass. To further bastardize standard time-tested models and shapes and colors, I’ve requested an Algonquin split-toe, raised stitching, Cleverley suspiciously square-ish toe, Dainite bottomed assemblage to finish this monkey off. Oh, and with tassels on the laces of course. Picture the Edward Green Leffot shoe above but with the aforementioned tweaks. That’s the best I can do to create a remotely relevant example of how to help your normal mind get a read on what my beautiful mind has con-shod-ulized. Shut up…at least for now. You can howl at me in October when I show you the mess-in-progress.

And I was asked about wholecuts. Bottom line…they are tricky. The very thing that defines the shoe also sets the stage for its rapid…and I mean Astroglide rapid descent down the slippery slope towards Pimp-Disco. Wholecut above? ADG no likey.

The wholecut paucity of line…the sports car prototype sleekness of design are just two things top of my mind that stand me in awe, yet on the cusp of ugh. And any shoe maker will tell you that the skills involved in  making a wholecut properly is a high calling. Go here to see evidence of what I speak. Wholecut above? ADG could probably grow to likey. If you gave it to me.

But man oh man…wholecut slippers? Loafers? It’s a whole ‘nother fuzzy thang.  Go here to see The ShoeSnob’s post that offers a nice representation of ‘em. If you can’t see art and God and beauty in the manifestation above, I feel sorry for you. And so does Gaziano and Girling, the inceptors and creators of this stronger than nine-rows-of-spring-onions example.

I’m broke. Seriously. But in doing some gandering around for examples to augment this story, I’ve happened upon the Bamford by Edward Green pictured above, courtesy of Leffot. And I think I'm gonna have to Bam!

Folks, this is bigger than me…bigger than all of us. This is girlie-slipper-Belgians-ADG fuzzy all to be damned. And how would I wear it? Just like the proprietor of Leffot is preening it above…but without the Sandra Dee jean cuff. Oh, and I’d wear it with Marcoliani socks from Will or Kabbaz and gray flannel trousers or linen togs with no socks. Hell, if I can ever get Roxanne Burgess back over here, I’d wear the darn things nekkid.

When I finish this post I’m gonna cull the requisite number of antique lead soldiers from my shelf, arrange a sale to my go to collector-buyer that I swap such goods with, and take the dosh to Sky Valet and commission the Bamford today—before I go and get my former daughter LFG from dance. But what hide? Have you ever seen the Edward Green swatch book? I only have a zillion choices. Help me. Would you go with suede? EG only has fifty colors. What about shell cordovan? Talk to me.

So it’s off to Los Angeles next week on business. Maybe I better hold off on any more of this shoddingossity till I get to Leather Soul Beverly Hills. Check out Will's story on them here.

Onward. Broke. Bespoke. And shod all to be damned…but only in Belgians this morning. ADG II and soon, but for only a night; the only thing that makes my heart come back alive, one Miss LFG.

Kicking 2012 Off...In Flannel Pajamas

The first three work days of 2012 have been blessed mania. Hygiene holiday hunker down in a baseball cap mania. I’ve been writing case studies for a strategy project and as usual—have been under the deadline gun. I was gonna tidy up the last bits of it during the Christmas holiday in South Carolina but then my mouth blew up and everything was on hold.

With the exception of donning an old pair of LL Bean flannel lined khakis and going to the bank to deposit an expense check, I’ve been self-exiled…sequestered…put away…sent to my room…literally, since last Sunday night. It kinda reminded me of grad school when I would hyper focus for thirty-six hours straight and maniacally write a soon to be due paper—thinking the entire time as I pulled the words out of my a_s, that this was gonna be the time that my procrastination and ADD whateverishness had finally caught up with me. But then I’d get a smokin’ hot good grade on the script. I’ve lost the boxes that contained most of my schoolwork. But I do have one paper that I wrote on the Geisinger Health System in Pennsylvania. My professor initially gave me an A-minus on the paper. But then he crossed it out and put “A+…You captured it perfectly.”

So a maniacal three days of writing isn’t anything new. Butcept this time I remained at home in my favorite pair of Brooks Brethren flannel pajamas for 100% of the time excepting the trip to the bank and the post office. Baseball hat and pjs and soup—I’m so freakin’ tired of soup. After I hit “send” on the email that jettisoned my out-of-the-butt panic writing…seven attached pdf files, I felt like I’d just been sprung from prison. And my Brooks pjs were gamey to say the least.

So I showered, shaved and layered on a dose of ADG sartorial absurdity and headed to Brooks Brethren in Georgetown. It was sixteen degrees yesterday morning and the skies seemed to say all day that they’d be offering snow. 

So I wanted some color to go with my layers. The resultant shodding and horizontal hosiery screamed … “look everyone; ADG’s been pole-axed by a gay Dr. Seuss!” Shut up.

And it was certainly cold enough for my Ralph Camel Polo Overcoat.

 My Christmas present to self Drakes/Flusser scarf tightened this rig up just right.

 And by the way, if you haven’t visited the Georgetown Brooks, you should. It’s a great store and I’d rather have it as the replacement of Larry McMurtry’s old book shop than the Pottery Barn that was there before.

While at the Brethren, I phoned a friend and proposed…not THAT kind of proposal…that we meet thereafter at Bistrot du Coin for an early dinner—given that my jaw has sufficiently recovered to graduate from soup to roast chicken. She laughed at my update on going to the Brethren and declared that I needed no clothes. No shit. After making her aware that I’d been living in the same pair of flannel pjs for three days, she without pause said…“Get two”.

But alas it was not to be. The flannel pjs are on sale and they are pretty much gone. They had a pair of extra-large but on my best, puffiest chest day, I’ll not fill those bad boys. And this was a situation of wanting it now. None of this “let me call around to the other stores and have them sent to you” thang. My gamey ones have now been sandblasted and detoxed—ready for another flurry of Occupy CasaMinimus.

I had some time to kill before heading over to Bistrot du Coin so I stopped in at Sky Valet on upper Wisconsin to check on the status of my Edward Green Westminster double monks that I ordered in October. Please go and visit these guys. They are a pedal oasis in an otherwise style devoid town. As much as I love my Gotham jaunts and sartorial finds in other cities, I’m gratified to transact some business with local merchants who purvey tasty goods. Alden, Edward Green and Crockett & Jones represent the bulk of their mens offerings. Oh, and they are shoe makers by training and do expert repair work. And right now, all of their Crockett & Jones and Alden shoes in stock are 10% off.

I’m not impatient. The Sky guys told me that special orders were bottle-necked at Green’s Northampton works and given the two-week factory shutdown at Christmas, it would be January or February before they rolled in. I didn’t figure they’d be in but it was a good excuse to stop by and say hello. Why the custom/special order? Hello. Did you forget whose freakin’ blog you’re reading? I wanted the lighter, reddish-yellowish tan/brown suede and I wanted a Dainite sole.

So the Bistrot du Coin roast chicken and pommes frites…swimming in a thin roast chicken gravy…was perfect…even though I had to gnash every bit of it on one side of my mouth. Worry not. I pre-medicated with a Kir Royale and then accompanied the one-sided gnashing with a twenty-four dollar bottle of a white Burgundy--no need to go overboard. There’s nothing better to sooth me, short of Roxanne Burgess, than French country comfort food.

Onward. Into 2012 full-bore. Reveling in the fact that I had the time and energy to cobble such quintessential randomanalia. And wearing hats like the one my mama made me wear in the picture above when I was three. Kind of a piccolo Stormy Kromer. It's cold here.

ADG II