Alan Flusser on Richard Merkin

My Richard Merkin self portrait hangs above me as I cobble together this little update. I sent Carrie Haddad payments on it for about six months before it rolled in to Casa Minimus. It's one of my treasures.

This Merkin portrait of Alan hangs in Flusser's Gotham office.

And of course his great friend Alan Flusser has original Merkin artwork preening in various strategic locations in his shop and office. 

I loved Merkin and am pleased to have been one of his lucky correspondents and telephone pals. I got to know him a bit too late I'm afraid. We never had that face-to-face fellowship that I so crave when I encounter special people. 

I wrote about Merkin from time to time but I couldn't be happier that Alan Flusser has now shared a story about his friendship with Richard. I'll offer you the first paragraph but then you must go over to Alan's Musings page and read its entirety. Here you go...

"Late in one afternoon in the fall of 1974 I was strolling up Madison Avenue when I spied a rather impressively dressed figure making his way towards me. Drawing closer, we both paused as to take each other in. I remember blurting out somewhat quizzically: “Richard Merkin?" To which he responded: “Alan Flusser?”  As if divinely arranged, our first encounter took place at the most sublime yet ironic of addresses, 346 Madison Avenue -- smack dab in front of Brooks Brothers...."  

Onward.

ADG-Two

The Stories…

The Stories…

I’ll probably never write. I mean my head is full of them—and good ones, too. But I don’t think they’ll make it to daylight anytime soon.

Ennui by Walter Richard Sickert circa 1914

Why not? Ennui came to mind but that’s not it. Not at all. Ennui to me denotes waiting for something—a protracted, slow moving state of simmer—with a barely fueled yearn for something, even if you don’t quite know what that something should be or is going to be upon arrival. And I’m so settled on this rather comprehensive definition of ennui that even if it’s miles off the mark, my definition stands.

Writer’s block would indicate that I’m a writer so that one’s out too. Boredom? Not so much. Inability to concentrate, to hold a thought long enough for it to morph into a cogent flurry of words? Now we are getting somewhere. Inertia.

My blessings outweigh my challenges and my decades old strategy of taking the proverbial plusses and minuses inventory to reground me remains a decent technique. But one thing I’ve learned in the last year and a half is that pain and suffering are unique and the degree to which anyone suffers should never be discounted, regardless of how their pluses and minuses exercise nets out. I’ll never again trivialize anyone’s pain just because I view it as comparatively trifling.

Bottom line is that I think I’m still grieving. And I’m trying hard to step into it, to participate in its coursing through, yet not wallow. But it’s cold here and flannel sheets and lush robes and shearling lined bedroom slippers are conducive to a bit of wallowing. Shut up.

So if I could write I’d finally do the promised story on this shirt from the nice people at Sebastian Ward. 

I don’t shill so you know that if I agree to write about a product, it’s gonna be unvarnished. And  I’ve already got the title. Quirky Shirts. Because they are. And of course that suits the hell out of my fuzzy-diced, “give me one of everything that you can possibly add to a garment, please” proclivities. 

I asked for a third sleeve with holes for three cufflinks and the narrow thinking, unimaginative bastards at Sebastian Ward shut me down. Thank you.

And then there’s the story that if I did write it, I’d title it Miracle Mark. About my might as well be blood brother Mark Rykken and the fact that back when I was solvent, I had Puerto make an updated version of my favorite W. Bills brown houndstooth jacket.

Rykken and I are both getting a wee bit long in the tooth. I honestly could afford to gain eight to ten pounds; Rykken?

I had a bulletproof, go-to version of this baby that my sartorial daddy, Alan Flusser in concert with Rykken, made for me a zillion years ago. You can read all about that one here. And we did that one faithful to the old Brooks Brothers model…open patch breast, patch and flap side pockets, welt seams and my ADG 3/2 tweak. Just fuzzy enough, right? But times change, and gorge, button stance nuances, and other impertanalia redefine themselves. Redefinitions be damned because W.Bill was out of this houndstooth for several years. You couldn’t make, or remake one if you wanted to.

 But then a bolt miraculously emerged. So I transferred the old jacket to a faithful buyer who takes almost any and everything ADG bespoke off of my hands for win-win prices and put a down payment on the new one. And it took me a over year to finally get it finished. Both payment and fitting.

I've always had a thing for brown/tan houndstooth. Here I am in London twenty years ago with my other daddy R.E.B. Read more about him here. I'd just discovered the vintage clothing shop, Bertie Wooster in the Fulham Road earlier that day and pounced on the 3/2 peak number that I'm sporting for the photo opp.

Then a few years later, here's R.E.B. and me again. This time its October in Ponte Vedra and I'm to be married the next day. This houndstoothian version was wool and silk. I wore it to death. Alas.

Rykken didn't seem too chafed by my dilatory-essence. He offered that the jacket spawned a few additional sales when others gandered it. And after W.Bill ran out of the wool bolt, Rykken simply offered a one-hundred percent cashmere version to his more moneyed masses. 

And there’s the story that I never did on my friend Nick Hilton I titled Nick of Time. And it was going to be a good one too. About his kindness and renaissance man-ifestations and how his wife is as lovely as she is nice, too. Nick made a couple of jackets for me a zillion eons ago and I have things to say about them but also about his dad, Norman. And the mantle Nick bears and the Ralph connection and all of the other stuff that’s been rehashed along these lines. But not by me.

How could I not ideate on a story about my good friend Hetom at Sky Shoes? The Sky’s The Limit is the working title of that one. Hetom is a trained shoemaker who, given the right circumstances, could turn out bespoke shoes right here in D.C. He won’t do that for you but he is the go to oasis of shodding knowledge inside the Beltway and I don’t know why others don’t seek his counsel as often as I do. Crocket and Jones and Alden and other unique tasty goods are there for the having.

So the blue suede C&J bluchers don’t come with suede tassels? Not a problem. When your shoe supplier is also a shoemaker, he emails C&J and requests enough blue suede to make tassels and add them to my shoddings. Aftermarket fuzzy dice on demand. Bam!

Sky's new line of almost Belgians are off the hook.

And they are almost not as expensive as the NYC originals that I’m such a sycophant about. Shut.

SteinMart and Daddy Flusser would be in the queue for round two of Alan Flusser and MyMama or vice damn versa. Why? Because the Flusser goods at SteinMart continue to be tasty, fun and just fuzzy enough to have me pounce on them.

The nylon quilted goods this season are strong and at south of forty bucks, I now own three of these quilted vests.

The FlussMart collection, for the money, is the tastiest thing in the store.

I’d also tell you about Alan ringing my phone one morning. “I’m in a car, headed to Florence to do an appearance at your hometown SteinMart. What’s the name of that barbecue place that you always talk about? And your mom…” Alan asked about going to visit my mom. I demurred, knowing full-well that my hospital bed in the middle of the den, mama would be too embarrassed to receive strangers without me there. But I’ll never forget the gesture.

My baby’s too old for me to revel you with twee little stories about our daddy-daughter vacations and silly antics. But she’s still my baby and I’m so proud of her I could just bust. Burst? Whatever.

And last night she and her dance company sisters did an open house, pre-recital “let’s give the parents an update” kind of revue thing. 

She no longer a little ballerina prancing about on stage. She’s a serious dancer and she has chops.

She was just transitioning out of believing in Santa when I first shared her with you. Thirty-six months from now and, if the Lord tarries, LFG will be off to college.

Onward. 80-G-2

Flusser’s In Town...D.C. That Is!

And alas, I won’t be. There’s nothing in the world better for a sartorial history—style devotee than to sit at the feet of the Fluss and allow the sensei’s erudition to emanate. And to add insult to injury, I’m not only gonna be out of town, I’m gonna be in the loathsome city of Las Vegas. My sentiments regarding Las Vegas are well documented here. But it’s my last paying gig of the year and for those of you who know me, you aren’t surprised to know that if they’ll pay my day rate, I’ll go emcee a hog wollerin’ contest in Gnaw Bone Indiana.

Just because I can’t hang with the Fluss and his acolytacious minions doesn’t mean you can’t. So call ‘em and book some time with the Rinpoche. I mean really, do you think I learned to contrive my tasty goods on my own? I love Alan’s writing and even his email..heads-up, fellas, we’re coming to see you communiques are jaunty. To that end, I’ll let him give you the skinny on his D.C. visit…

Photo courtesy of www.gentlemansgazette.com

“Dear Fellow Fellows and Election Survivors,

Doesn’t it seem like time to turn from all things Election to the election of all things Sartorial - it’s certainly a lot more fun than watching the two parties arm wrestle themselves into a partisan steam while the Republic prepares to take a flier off some pending financial cliff. If anyone is actually living on the moon and taking this all in, deeming it somewhat surreal would be the equivalent of a galactic understatement.

Returning to more mundane, if not better material, matters, we are heading down your way, setting up shop at the Sofitel Hotel from 2PM Monday, December 10th until 2PM Wednesday, December 12th.

You can expect to be regaled with our new batch of exclusive and specially designed suitings and jacketings whipped up by the famous Carlo Barbera mill in Biella, Italy. Not far behind will be our newest neckwear fancy, in particular, our Fall cashmere and silks along with a fresh trove of elegant silk wovens. New outerwear pieces will bring up the rear, not to be outflanked by troves (four new books) of the latest high-count dress shirt raiment.    

   

We will be contacting everyone to set up individual appointments while inquiring as to what kind of clothing you may have in mind (9 month sport jacketing, lightweight trousers, etc) so that we may be better prepared in fabric books to enhance the selection process.   

    

Needless to say, we are profoundly appreciative of anyone who takes the time and effort to initiate a new inductee into our Washington family. They, like you, represent the only true lifeblood of our business. As the Zagat testimonial states, we are amongst the last standing relative to be able to provide men with custom-made clothes of such exacting taste, quality and service.  

     

We hope you agree and take this opportunity to favor us so.  After all, the beltway is begging for new, if not, better-dressed ideas, maybe that can be extended to actual people. Anyway, the last time I looked, a well-turned out male is still one of the few things that remains politically correct….. okay, not too well dressed.  

      

But you could do worse, we could be asking which side of the aisle you dress and wouldn’t that be confusing!

With Warm Regards,

Alan and Company”

Sofitel

806 15th Street NW

202-730-8800

Washington, D.C.

P.S. Please check out our new website - www.alanflusser.com

My Sartorial Library: Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?

It’s 1983. I’m mostly clad in Corbin and Berle and maybe one Southwick suit and a smattering of half-price Polo stuff that I’d go over to Columbia, S.C. and pinch when Brittons would have a sale. Oh, and I had Hertling suits from when Julie Hertling made jackets and pants. I was low on dosh but just like today, real, real high on appetite and taste level. The proverbial beer budget—champagne taste thang. But here we are in '83 and I’ve got a real job and the fools are paying me nineteen thousand—six hundred dollars per year plus car and expense account. Pinch me.

WAH…seven years older and one of the most stalwart Trad guys ever, was in ’83 and is today, one of my best buddies in the world. He’d just exited a first marriage and so his apartment was our staging area for all kinds of guy antics and debauchery and … I think today they call it a hook-up. Shut up. That's WAH today, still about as Trad as they come.

So I walk in one day and there’s this paperback book on WAH’s coffee table and the cover is packed with tasty images of all kinda sartorial goodies. “Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?” I asked. Keep in mind; this was pre, the 1987 Wall Street/Michael Douglas Flusser launching pad. “He’s some designer/clothier guy who’s written a book” was the WAH response. Little did I know that my gander at the book and subsequent borrowing of it without explicit permission (I’ve yet to return it twenty-nine years later) would launch what would become a sartorial library that’s probably as robust as many and more so than most.

Also, obviously, I had at that moment, no idea that I’d end up making a little more dough through the years and piss scads of it away bespeaking some of the tastiest conceptions that the…to-this-day-second-to-none color, tone, texture master Sensei Flusser directed me to commission.

Even crazier, if someone had told me in 1983 that I’d actually be the owner of the very pair of Flusser’s alligator tassel loafers depicted on the cover of the book, I’d a checked you for a fever.

If someone had told me that I’d have a daughter one day who would, during one of her evening prayers, ask God to bless “President Obama and Alanflusser”, I’d have surely laughed you out of the room. LFG by the way, refers to Alan with a run-on one word moniker…Alanflusser.

So it’s only fitting that I kick off my sartorial library posts with my first ever book on such things. The Master Sensei Flusser’s first book is modest compared to what he would turn out later but it’s precious to me for many reasons.

Onward. Wearing my Bobby from Boston Advent Calendar Keepers Tweed…named such, courtesy of Flo.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: The Ivy Style Symposium

This will be a rather brief catch-up till I can catch my breath this coming weekend. I returned from Gotham Sunday night and left yesterday after LFG’s Parent-Teacher Conference for yet another full week on the road. But I’m eager to share my perspectives on the Ivy Style event when I get the time. But for now…

I rolled into Gotham on Wednesday afternoon and walked from Penn Station amidst the next round of Mother Damn Nature, to the Americano Hotel…accommodations courtesy of F.I.T. 

The walk over there was Nor’easterly bone chilling—it took me an hour to thaw out. My Flusser Mac was never put to better use.

And the Americano? Fun…minimalist…Chelsea modern. With a confusing bean bag chair.

I’ll write voluminously about the various topics and speakers and how great it all was. But for now, just let me tell you that my friend Reggie Darling almost caused me to miss the entire freakin’ blogger segment of the symposium. I’m dutiful about such honors and had been in fellowship with Patricia Mears, Bruce Boyer and others about the Exhibition and symposium for almost a year.

Eager to assist and honored to participate in the symposium, I was there on time…both days…actually early on Friday, but was whisked away to one of my favorite haunts for lunch on Friday…the proverbial 21. Reggie ridiculed me into martinis and I, stalwart in my resistance to such peer pressure and cognizant of my being on stage when we returned, gladly complied. We were late returning. The blogger segment had already begun. I, martini fueled...had to do the walk of shame and take my place on stage and apologize for being late. Imagine what an even greater hit I’d a been sans hooch. Hell, I probably did a better job with a little brine on board. Thanks Reggie!

I was able to escape and swing by the Flusser Atelier for a gander at a boondogglesque concoction consisting of the above shown parts. I’ll leave you hanging till later on its gestation.

Then over at Paul Stuart, Puerto Rykken and his minion, Paolo, who by the way at twenty years old, is worthy of an exclusive blog post himself, ganged up on me, using the textile tazers that you see above.

Stay tuned for Paolo…he’s the love child of Pablo Neruda and Jackie Gleason and he's not to be missed. Bam.

The balance of the weekend had me decamped to the Warwick where a good time was had by all. We scooted down to SoHo and dropped in on Jay Kos. I don’t get it.

War Horse on Saturday night and the Met on Sunday. Saw some old friends including William Orpen.

Then back to reality and a delightful re-entry for sure. I’m away till Thursday night on my next to last sortie for the year. I have a Las Vegas show that I’m doing after Thanksgiving and then I’ll wrap another blessed year professionally. 

But the highlight of the post Gotham weekend was my meeting with LFG’s teachers yesterday. After a tough start so far…she was sick for five days in September and she lost her grandmother…my former mother-in-law…six weeks ago and missed almost another week of school…my baby is currently in all-A student in one of the most academically rigorous school districts in Montgomery County Maryland.

Onward. Blessed. Pinch me. Just steer clear of my G-Spot and my royal blue blazer.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: J. Press-A Bowtie-And a Girl

By the summer of 1990 I’d started slipping…down that slippery slope of Flusser bespoke. But old habits die hard and even though I’d decamped the 3-button sack coat, hooked center Trad-Ivy mother church in favor of Savile Row fuzzy, I’d always slip back into the pew for an accessory or two.

But let’s talk girls first. I’d moved from Montclair, New Jersey to Old Town Alexandria but found myself back in N.J. and NYC a couple of times each month for a meeting or some other home office command performance. And 1990 also saw me in western New York state for three nights every other week. My company needed someone to manage our pharma business and our five salespeople up there and somehow, they decided that it would be a “developmental” task for an up and comer like me. That’s code for … “Hell, little ADG is single and he probably loves to travel and he’ll get a lot of travel points and…” so there you have it.

The Marriotts…Carrier Circle-Syracuse, Millersport Road-Buffalo, Wolf Road-Albany and the Thruway-Rochester (where I would once again stay, several years later when I was back in graduate school—this time at R.I.T.) became my homes away from home. No offense to those who call these towns home but I couldn’t wait to leave them and return to D.C. And then I met a girl. A breathtakingly beautiful one. In Syracuse. I then found myself staying in Syracuse for long weekends during that winter when anywhere else, temperature and sky color-wise would have been preferable. But this beautiful woman…just out of college…Kelly LeBrock identical twin—lookalike and for some odd reason, she liked me. The things we do amidst pheromonesque moments.

It was a tangle. And a joyous one at that. After the spring thaw and a flurry of Syracuse—Old Town weekend trips, we planned a long weekend with my best friend and his wife in Upper Montclair. We had dinner plans in Chelsea that Saturday night but the Syracuse Stunner and I headed to Gotham earlier for a stroll around. My mind’s eye still has a clear read on her cocktail dress. Manhattan’s mid-afternoon summer weekend emptiness amplified the incongruence of a cocktail dressed woman shopping with me at the old J. Press store. Hell, the fact that she was with me was incongruent…independent of season, time of day or geography.

I miss the old J. Press store in New York. But then again it’s no secret that I live most of my time yearning and wishing and recalling and remembering things that aren’t here anymore. I like patina. The J. Press and Chipp joints were tucked around the corner from the Brethren Brooks and as I ponder their proximity to the mother church, I kinda think of that other room in the back of the magazine shop in my hometown. Standard fare up front, more esoteric, edgy and erotic stuff around the corner on 44^th.

And there was a guy who worked there back in the mid-80’s when I started going there and he was still there on that stifling hot Saturday afternoon when I walked in with Ms. Cocktail dress. He was big. Unhealthily so and seemed to be larger very time I visited the store. He had a booming theatrical voice and round tortoise shell glasses—long before the rest of us started wearing them. He sold us a bowtie that afternoon.

My summer Saturday outfit furthered the incongruence. I felt dowdy in my navy blazer, rep tie and seersucker trousers compared to my chic date. “I want you to buy this bow tie and put it on now.” I kid you not; I’d a bought and donned a monkey-suit if she’d asked. And so I did—buy the bow tie. I never had to suit up in any costumes. But I woulda.

I still have the tie. Silk shantung might not a been my first choice but then again, I wasn’t driving the decision bus that afternoon. I was merely a passenger—mightily proud to be along for the ride. I donned the tie and we met up with my friends for dinner. The next day we spent it poolside back in Montclair and my Syracuse Stunner avec bikini was everything my best friend’s wife wasn’t—avec a celibacy inducing one-piece…replete with modesty skirt. The next evening as we packed for the airport, my friend’s wife, in her best Junior League single stranded pearl smile pulled me aside and whispered…“Don’t ever bring that woman back to my house again.”

I can’t quite remember the exact circumstances leading up to the demise of my Syracuse love fest. I no longer had to cover western New York and there was plenty to keep me smitten in D.C. Then one night a year or so later I’m reveling at the Casablanca Ball which was always a blast. I used to go with a gaggle of black tied, evening dressed friends and the marble columned National Building Museum venue made the fun soirée even—funner. “Hello Mr. G.” Yep. It was my Syracuse Stunner…stunning…in sequins. What are the chances? She’d moved to Annapolis a few weeks earlier. News to me.  An hour later we extricated ourselves from the Building Museum for less crowded digs.

The next year saw an on again off again flurry of our relationship tries. Then I was set to move to New Orleans for a two-year assignment. And she met a guy that she thought she should marry. I thought she shouldn’t and I wrote her a long letter, pleading with her not to. I received the letter back—unopened. She lives far away now…is on her second marriage and everyone knows the outcome of my nuptialessence. We exchange an email every now and then in sort of a Dan Fogelberg Same Old Lang Syne “woulda coulda shoulda…why didn’t you open the letter” kind of way.

Most of me likes to keep that memory right where I have it…In the old J. Press store on 44^th street on an oppressively hot Saturday afternoon. With this woman who desires me and desires me to be in a silk shantung bow tie. Another part of me wonders what woulda happened if she’d opened my letter.

Onward.

ADG II …with the source notes that motivated this story cited below…

> -----Original Message-----

From:  _____

Sent: Thursday, October 04, 2012 2:30 PM

To: D G

Subject: Twenty-one years ago this week...

“I relocated from Syracuse to Annapolis, MD. As fate would have it, I unexpectedly ran into you my first weekend living there; we had both attended the ball at the Building Museum in DC. Funny the things that stick in your memory...”

On Oct 4, 2012, at 3:39 PM, D G wrote:

“Ah...yes. And C___, the other thing that comes to mind is your lovely, sequined dress that hung in my closet for several weeks after bumping into you at the ball. I think I delivered you back to the Hyatt in Rosslyn with you avec an old pair of my Levis and a sweatshirt. I recall that you looked just as stunning in that outfit as you did when I talked you out of that sequined dress when we got back to my place.”