Mining the Vintage Vein: Part III

I love places like this. They are the rock candy for my inability to focus.


John figures brand is less a consideration than stripe, pattern and details.


Green dress shirts are despised by retailers which must be why I like them so much.


A rag for many but at the stage of patina perfection for me.

Almost voile in weight and looking very '70s whether it is or not.


John and I talked a lot about the origins of clothing. To know why US Army issue khakis were always 8.2 ounces is to understand that military specifications had to be consistent regardless of who made them. Not 7 ounces. Not 11.2 ounces. 8.2 ounces. Otherwise...chaos.



My Norwegian fisherman's sweater goes back to 1986 and it's damned near like the day I bought it. Over a white cotton turtleneck and under a bright red down vest, we ran over sand dunes in South Haven, Michigan and later found ourselves covered in sand and Ladybugs. We didn't realize it then but our good luck had already happened.



I know I look back a lot. I guess it's the age or maybe there's just a lot to look back on. I'm still pissed off I left my swim trunks with the YMCA Shark patch in the pool locker room at Ft Bliss.



I was only six but that long ago regret has never gone away -- A slow shaking of the head as you look down at your feet knowing it's all your fault and there's nothing you can do about it -- The shoes change but the rest feels the same.


I've saved 4o or 50 empty cigar boxes. Each one is a story.

The Four Seasons bar in Chicago. A bunch of us from work and I crack open a cedar box of double coronas. A waiter brings the huge bar humidor over to a table of fellas sitting next to us. "Looks like my box is bigger than your box" says one of the fellas. I sadly look at my little box. After making their selections the waiter takes the humidor away. I lean towards their table and smile, "Looks like you don't have a box."



The Zippo burned a leg more than once. Careless overfilling with lighter fluid resulted in a red chafe-like circle on the thigh from seepage thru the pocket. I still have my grandfather's Zippo, a gift from his son -- But I long for the son's Vietnam Ronson engraved, "Fuck Communism."


Echos of French Souleiado. Hand carved block designs going back over 200 years to the south of France and made famous by Pierre Deux in Greenwich Village.



All the more special since the recent bankruptcy of Pierre Duex and the suburban success of insipid Vera Bradley knock offs.



Quartermaster Laundry starched fatigues cardboard stiff. I remember field stripping a cigarette butt by rolling the hot ash off between thumb and index finger. Butts were deposited in trouser pockets only to be pressed like tiny lumps if you forgot to take them out.