The Trad

Palm Beach Life: A Box of Crackers

2012-01-31T21:28:00.000-05:00

Where do these things come from? Actually, this one came from the Strand Bookstore but they're everywhere. Used bookstores, thrift shops, hospital consignment stores, attics and basements. Some stink of mildew or cigarette smoke but I don't care -- I love them. That non-slick patina has a homemade quality that's simple and honest.

Unique among the Life, Look and Time magazines are regional publications like Palm Beach Life. Most advertising is local and looks it. Format is simple and photography mediocre, but those small budgets result in unique images that almost 50 years later have held up better than national magazines of the era.

And then there are those rich crackers. It's always fun to look at the box they came in.

When Route 66 Came Through Town

2012-01-30T11:16:00.003-05:00

It ain't St Augustine but it's close

Glenn Corbett's Pullover (as opposed to Popover) via Instagram

All photos from Ohio 66

Graphic designer and friend of 37 years, David Belmonte, remembers the filming of the '60s television show, "Route 66" in St Augustine, FL. The episode, "This is Going to Hurt Me More Than it Hurts You" starred Soupy Sales and featured a pie fight in my college dining room.

If, from the title of this post you thought that the famous U.S. highway went through my hometown, you’d be forgiven. No, the Mother Road unfolded west. Gloriously West. From Chicago to The Coast. But Route 66, the television show went everywhere, including south by southeast, for at least part of a broadcast season. And ultimately snaked its way over to my neck of the coastal woods, St. Augustine, Florida. It was the early 1960s. It was very cool. And I was there.

Sometime in the warm fall of 1963, and shortly after our family moved there, the show series made a filming stop. It happened at about the same time as the assassination of John F. Kennedy. With that exception, the early 1960s was a rather quiet time. And to be honest, I actually liked it that way.

It was to be my only peek, however brief, at our nation that, for the most part, was still unified. And that also meant everyone was unified around the television watching Route 66 on its appointed night. Tellingly, it was also as if our culture was on the eve of great fracture, while on the show, the central characters were trying to keep it all stitched together with an asphalt thread.

Never mind that we were too young to always get the plots. They were going places! The actors weren’t locked into some stage set, so the show had a much more realistic look and feel to it. We’d see establishing shots of them rolling into towns from then very empty highways.

When Tod (Martin Milner) and Linc (Glenn Corbett replacing George Maharis) drove into our own town onscreen, past the conquistador statues with their swords held high in welcome, we shouted with recognition. They were actually driving on the same concrete roads we drove on! How cool was that? And it only got better as scenes of a pre-boutique, pre-Disney era St. Augustine flickered by.

When the Route 66 film company came to town, we all wanted to get a glimpse of the two stars, somehow resembling better versions of our average selves in that peculiar way that only Hollywood can conjure up. It was announced that a public press conference/public greeting would be held at the hospital where they had been filming. We headed to the lot next to the side of the building where a sizable crowd had gathered.

There were lights on stands, lots and lots of cables and big moving vans of equipment, on the sides of each were emblazoned the show’s name. Standing in the middle of it all were Milner and McCord. They smiled and waved and answered a few questions. They were trim, pressed and polished.

Local society women wearing whipped-up do’s and their Sunday best pushed close and flirted and asked for autographs. Men in dark suits nervously shuffled, trying not to look embarrassed at being fans of the show. It was the first time ever that I saw news cameras and reporters.

But what everyone wanted to see was The Car. Especially with the two actors in it. A Corvette, any Corvette would have been so rare in a small town in those days that it might as well have been a UFO. The Car wasn’t at the press conference, and I was very bummed. My memory tells me that during filming we would catch glimpses of their ‘63 or new model ‘64 Sting Ray skimming around town, with or without film crew in pursuit.

I can’t square that in my mind because what I would have seen was a tan Corvette, not red, not blue. (A tan version was used later in the series because it reflected less contrast on black and white film.) I still want to remember seeing it somewhere, though. Maybe around the central square, cruising under the live oaks hung with Spanish moss, so bright and otherworldly it would have looked as if it was lit by its own sun. So did I ever see it? I don’t remember.

While they were filming at the hospital, a friend of the family was cast as an extra. Her part was to walk out of one room, head down the hall, and walk back into another room. For a while the whole town sort of felt like we were at the center of the TV universe. Then it was over and the film company was gone.

When the highly anticipated St. Augustine episode finally aired we were of course excited, but also a little puzzled that the writers decided to go campy with it. Something about idle yachting types and Soupy Sales and pie throwing. Why had they chosen such a silly plot? Surely there were other more interesting ideas to be explored.

It seemed out of character for both the show and our sublime city. But as the episode played out, it actually managed to work okay, with a sprinkling of hero shots of “the ancient city” throughout. We eventually spotted our friend in her scene, barely recognizable with her back to the camera, walking away. More shouting and pointing at the TV set. Everyone was happy, and it generated a lot of local buzz.

So what of Route 66’s influence, if any, on style? The show occupied its pop culture spot at the very zenith of trad. At the precipice of a giant cultural shift, clothing style may have gone arguably downhill from there. But if you view trad style through the prism of Mad Men, it’s no wonder each generation puts its stamp on couture, having followed for years the fashion dictates-—read conformity—of its parents. In the show the two actors often wore slim jeans-cut chinos. And white socks with black loafers. Or boots. And cropped canvas jackets. Did Tod and Linc wear sunglasses? Maybe. Hats, never.

This much I know: It was Tod and Linc whom Tintin had in mind twenty years after the show ended when he was allowed by the owner of a venerable St. Augustine men’s shop to explore the back stockroom for authentic trad wear. Tintin let me in on his find with a big treasure-finding grin. He’d discovered several shelves of original 1960s madras plaid shirts from exactly that Route 66 era. Tags, cardboard, tissue and cello wrap: all original.

Interestingly, the Route 66 theme music was not the “Get Your Kicks On Route 66” song written by Bobbie Troup that pops up every now and then in your head, but was in fact a lilting piano theme by Nelson Riddle. And that theme was very “of the era,” especially compared to TV themes that came later like Lalo Schifrin’s more urgent “Mission Impossible.” Distopian times called for strident themes, and we had not yet arrived.

For Tintin, with his depth of experience with clothing and style, this blog site is self-explanatory. We can explore and take subtle style cues from those earlier days. And chuckle to ourselves, smug in the knowledge that an unnerving number of men today dress like they’re about to mow the lawn. Or just did. Even at restaurants—a vulgar notion that never would have occurred to most men of Tod or Linc’s era, the early 1960s. The trad sixties.

Etched forever in my memory is an old yet modern TV show about two sharp young men and a cool car shimmering on a hot road and heading to our little corner in this vast and confident nation. David Belmonte

Route 66 Credits

Hip Hop for White Folks: Doo Wop (That Thing)

2012-01-27T18:07:00.006-05:00

An Actress & Bobby Bland by G. Bruce Boyer

2012-01-27T09:48:00.000-05:00

Smooth doesn't come close enough

L to R, Little Junior Parker, Elvis Presley and Bobby Bland

"I think the year was 1963, and my date was a young Broadway actress who became my first wife. I can't remember the name of the club in downtown Brooklyn for the life of me. Seeing Bobby Bland that night helped get me into the relationship, but the marriage didn't go so well and I had to get out of it myself." G. Bruce Boyer

Bobby “Blue” Bland was born Robert Calvin Bland in Rosemark, Tennessee in 1930. The “Blue” didn’t come into his name until his family had moved to Memphis and he started hanging around the blues joints along notorious Beale Street with cats like B. B. (Blues Boy) King and Johnny Ace.

"If Beale Street could talk, if Beale Street could talk,
So many married men would take their beds up and walk.
Except one or two who never drink booze,
And the blind man on the corner singin’ the Beale Street Blues."

By 1950 Bland started singing with – according to music historian Albin J. Zak – a “loose conglomeration of musicians known as The Beale Streeters. Besides Ace on piano, the group included B. B. King on guitar, Earl Forest on drums, Billy Duncan on saxophone”, with Bobby supplying the vocals, as well as working for other blues musicians doing any odd jobs.

For a while he was B. B. King’s driver after the guitar player and singer had several hit records. Bland himself cut his first record in 1952, about the time a young Elvis Presley probably would have first heard and seen him around that part of town.

He quickly became a part of what was in the air, the incendiary blending of gospel-blues-R&B music that was being developed by Sam Cooke, Ray Charles, Jackie Wilson, Chuck Berry, James Brown and other early 50s musicians into what became known as Rock ‘n Roll.

But it wasn’t until four years after he’d first stepped into the recording studio that Bland cut the song that made him: “Farther on Up the Road”. Thereafter he had hit after hit on the R&B charts – in 1961 he was named #1 Artist of the Year by Cashbox -- even though he never managed to cross over to white audiences then or later.

Bland had a unique voice and style, an unforgettable blend of sweetness and hoarseness, alternately smooth and rough like seersucker, that could whisper like velvet one minute and growl like a wounded tiger the next. The songs that he recorded in the late 50s and early 60s – “Farther on Up the Road”, “I Pity the Fool”, “Cry, Cry, Cry”, Turn on Your Love Light”, and “That’s the Way Love Is” remain exemplars of that incomparable style today.

That’s the short early history of Bland. What isn’t usually noted, perhaps not even remembered, is the power and charisma of the man on stage. I only heard him once in a club in Brooklyn, but it was enough to know he had an incredible stage presence. He wasn’t overtly or typically handsome, but he made up for it in pure scintillating style.

His dress was as cool as you could find: slicked back hair which fell to the side in waves, lustrous laser cut mohair suits of pristine Continental styling, blindingly white dress shirts, highly polished black Chelsea boots with Cuban heels, and that gigolo-thin mustache. And his demeanor charged with sensuality as he leaned into the driving melody.

The women in the audience went wild for Bobby Blue Bland, screaming rapturously with every little gesture or cooing sound he made. They would have torn him from the stage and been on him like a dog on a bone. Everything about him shimmered in the limelight.

Sam Cooke was more handsome, Ray Charles a more creative talent, B. B. King and Chuck Berry had longer and bigger careers, James Brown more influential, and Little Richard and Fats Domino appealed more to the teenagers.

But as the big band trumpets and saxes blared out their pulsating tempo, the T-Bone Walker-style guitar filling in the staccato blues notes, the drummer punching away, and Bobby repeating “I pity the fool, I pity the fool, I pity the fool” while cradling the mike in a provocative embrace and rhythmically swaying from side to side, he was one of the sexiest performer to ever come out of R&B. And the most undeservedly unknown to the general public.

So you take it where you find it,
or leave it like it is.
That's the way it's always been.
That's the way love is.

Discography

Bobby Blue Bland: The Anthology (Duke Peacock)

Bobby Blue Bland: Greatest Hits, Vol. 1 and 2 (MCA)

Two Steps from the Blues (MCA)

Midnight Run (Malaco)

Together for the First Time: B.B. King & Bobby Blue Bland (MCA)

That Did It (MCA)

Soul Legend (MCA)

Soulful Sound of Bobby Blue Bland (Half Moon U.K.)

Spam & Skeeters

2012-01-26T08:03:00.001-05:00

Spams Guys

Before Mosquitoes

After mosquitoes

I've always enjoyed descriptions of minutiae in damn near everything. From a history of manners in America in the early 17th century ( C. Dallett Hemphill's dense but amazing, Bowing to Necessities) to Thomas Wolfe's three page description of meeting Esther Jack on a NYC street in The Web and the Rock.

Consequently, I've tried to share details in stories that are interesting and, if possible, a little out of the box. Recently, I've been bombarded with spam like this:

Знакомства, общение, развлечения, секс, любовь, серьезные отношения и даже брак - все это вы найдете на нашем сайте интим знакомств. С помощью нашего сайта знакомств посетители могут создавать личные странички, которые позволяют максимально описать увлечения, привычки, характер и, конечно, внешность владельца, поскольку кроме текстового описания и фотографий пользователи могут добавлять аудио и даже видео материалы о себе и своих друзьях. Искать свою половинку с помощью шести видов поиска стало еще легче! У нас на сайте вы найдете: секс знакомства, свинг знакомства, свинг фото, свинг видео.

I once stood directly in front of two Russians in a custom's line as they conversed non-stop for almost two hours. It's not a romantic language and neither is that comment. This trickle of spam has turned into an onslaught not unlike the time I pulled my trousers down in a jungle.

On the advice of friend and quartermaster, Sgt. Macejko, I purchased, at my own expense, Cutter mosquito repellent. Macejko told me Army issue repellent - jungle juice as it was known - was useless in Panama, just pissed the mosquitoes off, and was only good for starting fires. But Cutter would do the job. Macejko advised frequent application of Cutter on exposed skin as well as clothing.

Today, the smell of Cutter flashes me back to a Panama of black palm, albino scorpions and mysterious trails of ants with pieces of leaves on their backs going God knows where. After a couple of days I was actually thinking there might not be any mosquitoes -- Until the night nature called and I went for a squat in the jungle. It's hard to describe the sensation of hundreds of mosquitoes attacking your butt - - except to say I didn't look for reading material.

I just wish there were a repellent like Cutter for spam. Until then, word verification is back on while I fight a new war with the Russians. Eezveeneete.

Hip Hop for White Folks: Jersey Yo!

2012-01-25T17:21:00.005-05:00

A Hot & Humid Night with Elmore Leonard

2012-01-25T09:16:00.007-05:00

This guy looked like I felt.

Wally's, Cold Shot to the Heart - Second shelf down on far left

Our row

"I allow three exclamation points every 100,000 words." E.L.

The Ten Rules

The night was unseasonably warm and humid for January in New York. Crime novelist Wallace Stroby, attired in black Schott motorcycle jacket, black t-shirt and Coleman mustard Timberlands, strolled into the art deco masterpiece on 47th Street that is the Center for Fiction. Suddenly, Stroby screamed loudly, "Shit, I never got my tickets!!!"

I think I broke six of Leonard's rules. Maybe seven. A lotta people crammed into the second floor of the Center for Fiction to hear Elmore Leonard talk about writing last night. Crappy Fish & Chips for a late lunch appeared in my gut half way through. My heart was not into picture taking but I caught enough of what Stroby called, "pure gold!!!"

"I wrote a scene about a detective who quits to become a photographer. He borrows a wheel chair from a friend who stole it at the airport and sits outside a terminal taking pictures of people arriving in Miami. Guy comes over and says, "Nice camera. Mind if I check it out?" Fella hands him the camera and the guy walks off with it. The fella gets outta the wheel chair, knocks the guy down and beats his head against the curb.

I thought it was okay, but the scene stews with me for a couple weeks and I changed it. Guy takes the camera, walks a few steps, turns back to the fella in the wheel chair and says, 'Can you walk?' Fella in the wheel chair nods. Guy walks back and gently puts the camera back on the fella's lap."

Thanks for the motivation, Wally. At least I have my opening:

"Bad idea getting involved with a broad who knows guns. I slept with a woman I went through the police academy with. Afterwards, she broke down and cleaned a .25 automatic in bed. I never went back. I'd have preferred it if she just had a cigarette."

Electric Lady Studio

2012-01-24T16:41:00.000-05:00

Studio A and the control room

My host, Tony Sylvester, before the protective glass

Studio A's sofa

If this is anything like LSD then I missed out.

Tony in reception

Reception

Reception's tunes...

Turntable...

and preamp.

I'm sure there was plenty of room

The Ladies...Carly Simon, Patti Smith, Bjork, Lily Allen, Ronnie Spector, Hole, Beyonce, Mary Blige, Gwen Stefani, Madonna, Lene Horne, Whitney Houston, Aretha Franklin, Erykah Badu, Sheryl Crow...

and the Gents: Chuck Berry, Curtis Mayfield, Peter Frampton, David Bowie, Stevie Wonder, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, John Lennon, The Clash, The Rolling Stones, Guns N’Roses, Lou Reed, Van Halen, Kiss, The Cars, Foreigner, Prince, Al Green...

Jimmy Hendrix bought and built Electric Lady Studio on 52 West 8th Street and less than a half block from Gray's Papaya in Greenwich Village. It's a flashback to the early '70s and everyone who was anyone recorded here. They still do.

If the National Park Service can claim an obscure Vice President's birthplace from the late 19th century as a national monument, then what the Hell would Electric Lady be? Amazing history here can only be trumped by Apple Studios -- Maybe.

37 years ago this month, in Studio A, John Lennon provided back up vocals and lead guitar on David Bowie's cover of Lennon's, Across the Universe in Studio A. A year earlier it was Patti Smith recording her first single, Hey Joe / The Piss Factory. Lately, it's Lily Allen, Radiohead and The Strokes.

No tours. No gift shop. But I'm guessing someday partitions will hold back oggling tourists and the murals will be stabilized behind think glass. I'll be with my grandnephew and park service senior citizen pass complaining about my knees, asking a ranger for the bathroom and remembering the rainy Monday night I was here all those years ago ... before everything got so fucked up.

Hip Hop for White Folks: Crazy

2012-01-23T20:00:00.003-05:00

Standing Up Michael J Fox & Woody Harrelson

2012-01-23T11:06:00.004-05:00

A Warning: I never met Michael J. Fox or Woody Harrelson. I don't want you to get to the end of this and feel cheated.

It may have been 1992. If it was, I was working for a political power house in the Hancock on North Michigan Avenue causing my wife to nickname me "Michigan Avenue Johnny." Or, it might have been 1990, in which case I was working in the poorly named Chicago suburb, Rolling Meadows, where my boss wore a gold nugget tie bar.

Where ever it was, I had business in Los Angeles. Not an entirely bad thing in January. I rented a Mercury Capri convertible and drove to my hotel in Marina Del Rey. Crawling along an LA freeway, a woman in a red Mercedes convertible smiled and asked me for the time. Checking my wrist on the door frame -- I gave it to her. She smiled, "Nice car." "Thanks," I said. "It's a rental." Her smile grew larger under her sunglasses and I felt my face redden as my lane pulled away from hers.

I was invited to the Magic Castle for a friend of a friend's 30th birthday party. I picked up John at his girlfriend's apartment. She was a publicist who was critical of my earlier attempt at providing PR for writers. My company name was Wild Bunch Public Relations. She asked me If I was Mr. Wild or Mr. Bunch.

She explained how she worked. Using a celebrity client to leverage coverage for an unknown client. That, and she didn't think anyone wanted to read about writers in People Magazine. She asked if we'd like to join Michael J Fox and Woody Harrelson for drinks after the birthday party. I thought that would be fun. I would tell Fox, a Canadian Army Brat, about my exploits with the Canadian Airborne ensuring we would be best of pals forever.

On the way to the Magic Castle, I told John about the woman in the Mercedes. He thought she was a hooker. John had lived in LA for years and he didn't think a non professional would pick up a guy in a Mercury Capri. I thought he was probably right while I thought to myself how negotiations for this sort of thing are handled on a highway.

We arrived at the Magic Castle and I was seated next to a woman who was at least six feet tall. Maybe taller. Her face was square with a strong jaw and she bore more than a passing resemblance to Elizabeth McGovern. I introduced myself. She didn't smile, mumbled her name and introduced me to her boyfriend and trainer, Thor. He was taller than she was and told me my Beefeater martini would kill me while vodka was the way to go.

She said nothing, besides a couple whispers to Thor during dinner. I watched her hands. Her fingers were long, her nails polished, her hands beautiful. My fetish was interrupted when someone across the table asked where I lived in Chicago. I told them Lincoln Park and she turned and stared at me. I saw anger in her eyes but all perceptions of crazy were dashed when she almost screamed, "I'm from Elmhurst!"

For the rest of the night we were glued to each others stories. During two hours of magic shows she told me her life as a failed actress who became a real estate agent. Too many relationships where she was 'left by the the curb.' People who cared more about what you drove than the house you lived in. Seven years without Chicago -- Without people who didn't care what you did, but only wanted to know if you were gonna buy the next Old Style. Seven years without the Cubs, the Lincoln Park Zoo or a gratefulness for Spring... a gratefulness for anything.

John walked over and said Michael and Woody were waiting for us at a bar in West Hollywood. She seemed to know I was going. I looked up at John, "Fuck those guys. I'm not going anywhere." He looked at her and smiled. "I understand." he said.

We stood outside and said goodbye while a valet pulled up in my rental. We hugged and I got in the car. She leaned over the passenger door and said, "You know, there's no place I'd rather be than in this car right now."

"Excuse me." John said. She moved aside and he got in the car. I looked at her in the rear view mirror as we drove away. John laughed, "I probably just saved your marriage." "She didn't want me," I said. "She just wants to go home."

Hip Hop for White Folks: Ms. Jackson

2012-01-20T13:44:00.004-05:00

Friday Belt: Teach Me

2012-01-20T08:19:00.005-05:00

There's been talk about Teacher's Highland Cream -- That it's losing its stuff. An economical blend, better than most Johnny Walking's, it's rich, creamy and very smooth. At $17 a bottle, you can mix anything with it and sip away without any guilt of screwing up good hooch -- although I'd stay away from milk.

What has lost its stuff is that belt. J. McLaughlin decided to discontinue their luxe needlepoint line. I assume it's because of the much cheaper (and crappier) competition. The McLaughlin needlepoint, I own three, was the best damned needlepoint around...unless it was made by a loved one.

Teacher's Highland Cream is what it was. Nowhere near top shelf but huge value. Quaffable with soda, water or (God forbid) ginger ale, it can also do double duty as a single malt impersonator with a piddle of water for bloom. The blend is 45% malt. Mostly Ardmore. Add water and an oil slick appears looking like a one over fifty thousand map with mountains and rivers churning into each other. It's a beautiful thing to see. Especially in front of a fire.

I love this belt. Understated? No. Bright green rarely is, but it reminds me of the Teacher's aftertaste. A black label picks up the horse tail and hooves while the white of the breeches and saddle belt kick up the contrast. Pink trousers would be an easy enough pairing -- like soda with Scotch, but red cords bring it individuality without riding too far off the reservation.

The bottle is not round like these Esquire ads from the early '60s. Instead, the glass is flattened, much like a pancake, which easily fits into a back pocket... should the spirit move you.

UNC, Chapel Hill, NC - 1965

Winter is the home of Scotch. Wood burns in a fireplace and you can taste it in a glass of Teachers. It's a crazy steal for what it is. And while bright green is not always associated with Winter, the J Mac belt speaks more to how it was. I found mine on sale for $35. I'm not saying you will -- I'm just trying to teach you something...stay away from milk and the Chocolate Choo-Choo.

Hip Hop for White Folks: Wish You Were Here

2012-01-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

Hip Hop for White Folk: Straight Up Menace

2012-01-19T13:22:00.000-05:00

Capsule: Orange Crush Exports

2012-01-19T12:07:00.002-05:00

Vintage dealer Jess Tart takes me back to 1970's Colorado Springs and a friend who was so laid back I don't think he had a pulse. His favorite expression, "Bummer, but it's cool" was American poetry to me. Jess has managed to create a Mischianza of vintage American poetry that suits my, "Fox Terrier on Jolt" attention span just fine.

Jess operates out of Tacoma and probably teethed on army surplus seeing his Dad is George Tart of Tart in Olympia. All the designers know Jess. You should too. I have never seen so many Filson Cruisers in one place, and from every decade back to the '40s, all in various stages of frayed and fried patina.

Give him a ring and he'll spell out the ground rules. There was something about a $1,500 minimum if you want to shop the warehouse. Bummer, but it's cool.

Orange Crush Exports, (253) 565-6887, orangecrushexports@mac.com

Hip-Hop for White Folks: Hey Ya!

2012-01-18T16:44:00.006-05:00

A musical series selected by best pal & crime novelist Wallace Stroby. For staying alive during the most depressing time of the year. I just love green and orange.

Capsule: Autumn Winter 2012

2012-01-18T06:31:00.004-05:00

In a sea of hi water-turned up denim, Red Wing work boots, black beards and more watch caps than there are in the U.S. Navy -- beneath all the pretentious bullshit -- there's... money to be made.

This is a trade show. No different than the Metal Fabricators in Chicago or General Aviation in Orlando. While a 200 page book lists exhibitors; it also tells another story. That of a small and hip sounding haberdasher with sales and PR contacts at Nike.

The ersatz hip are avoided easily enough. This year a number of vintage dealers, many known only to the design community (and the Japanese), threw open their doors to everyone. You didn't need admission to check out what Capsule called, "Added Awesomeness." Use of over enthusiastic PR talk aside, the "Donut Shop" concept worked nicely and details of the best vintage vendors will follow tomorrow.

Santa Maria increased the sophistication factor ten-fold. Not sure the throngs of Jethro Bodine impersonators understood what it was for.

Santa Maria burning papers emit a scent not unlike what you would have smelled in the 13th Century. Makes sense. They're made exactly as they were in the 13th Century.

Tretorn's line for Spring and Summer is filled with color. I couldn't help but notice a combination that'll be hard to secure in Gainesville.

Wood chips and the 2nd floor represented, "Above Tree Line - focused firmly on performance outdoor apparel."

I never did understand this.

But I understand this - Lots of business cards. Many from Ted (the fuck stick) Harrington at Terrapin. Ted and I both share this affectionate nickname from our fathers. I'm guessing if you're under 40 your father didn't call you fuck stick. Turning you into an entitled and spoiled shit... Ted's working on the cards.

Tom Beatty of Wm J. Mills & Co, purveyors of awe-canvas-someness, has lots of serious waxed cotton this year. Rugged looking but with an elegant aesthetic.

John Gluckow of Strongarm C&S, a vintage dealer in the Donut Shop section, had more vintage T&A than I've seen in a long time. More from John tomorrow.

Andy Freidman of Abington by Timberland, probably the kindest human being in NYC, brings back the waffle-stomper craze of the '70s that I lived through in Colorado Springs. It looks authentic but the boot is light and much more comfortable than my concrete Vasque boots of 36 yrs ago.

Arrived early in hopes of missing late riser designers. Still, Bloody Marys were offered up in a bar/lounge that looked more like a VIP club in 1970's Romania.

Paul Mole (Full Transparency- My barber) provided straight razor shaves but I guess I was too early or they were too hung over. Which worked for me. Not sure if a free straight razor shave from a hung over barber is worth it.

George Tart, another vintage dealer, cranks open a 1920's tractor umbrella. More on George and our conversation tomorrow.

And you never know where the Saigon Electric Works patch will show up.

Manhattan Morning Commute

2012-01-17T09:20:00.004-05:00

Ranger Boat to Statue of Liberty, NYC, Winter 1985

On A Road: Beatties Ford

2012-01-16T12:29:00.005-05:00

"Forget, Hell"

In 1968, we lived in a small southern town near a large lake north of a big city. The state looked like a fireman with Virginia as the helmet. Despite its appearance, I was sent to the principal when a classmate told my teacher I said hell at lunch. I had just seen John Wayne in 'Hellfighters' and knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. A rich fireman.

The south was a strange place in 1968. Very Christian but not very accepting. My classmates told me John Lennon would go to Hell for saying the Beatles were more popular than Christ. I couldn't say Hellfighters but there was nothing wrong with turning your nose up at a "Nigger Toe" nut or saying someone was 'going to Hell.' Especially John Lennon.

We watched news film of white lanky policemen with weak chins and angry German Shepherds attack protesters in the streets while Walter Cronkite seemed embarrassed to be in the same room with the footage. You didn't have to be Walter to know that something was crazy wrong. What no one knew was how much worse it was going to get.

Ignorance was carried like battlefield flags to the infield of NASCAR tracks. Restaurants proudly proclaimed, "We Reserve The Right To Refuse Service" while a Disney-like cartoon of a short fat Confederate general, grumbling, "Forget, Hell" spoke to something far darker.

There was a lot of ugliness despite plain front khaki trousers and button down oxfords. Made in the USA labels hid Mill Towns 10 miles from my home and and a hundred years from 1968. George Wallace bumper stickers were as thick as pine trees and friendships dissolved when I wore a HHH pin to school. "Forget, Hell" will always mean something different to me.

Public Relayo

2012-01-13T07:33:00.001-05:00

Garmento: Someone active in the New York garment district

Public Relayo: Someone active in fashion public relations. Especially in New York

You're gonna love this place. LOVE. IT. Sure, they stole the idea but fashion's about stealing. Don't let anyone tell you different. Most people do nothing with an idea. Yeah, they created it but did they sell it? No, they did not. Is that my problem? No, it is not. Am I Gandhi?
No, I'm PR.

Let's go in. Wow, check it out. Is this fantastic or what. Look, Japanese magazines. They rule. The magazines not the Japanese. You ever work with 'em? I have. They're morons. Who don't pay. Tried to stiff me. No one stiffs me. I wouldn't leave their office until they paid me. And I told 'em that. I didn't get it all but I got enough.

I don't work for free. I don't do anything for free. Some clown wants me to write a post for his blog? Fuck you. I don't do anything for nothing. See, that's your problem. You're like Michael Keaton driving around retards in a van. What was that movie? You don't know that movie? I thought you knew movies. Oh, wait...no one has ever seen the movies you like.

Is that a nice sweater or what. Feel the wool. Who cares it's $400 and they made it for $20. Who's gonna pay the rent? You? With what? But seriously...it's all bullshit. Just a sec...I gotta say hi to someone. Steve! Tasty goods. Dude, is that a Sub? Awesome. Vintage?! Get the fuck outta here! Things must be good. Later, man. Love the concept.

There's a story for you. No taste. Folding folding shirts at Abercrombie and Fitch less than two years ago. Now he's a designer. Totally ripped it off. That's how it works, dude. Play the game. Look, I gotta get some bubble wrap to send a client a case of Barritt's.

You mind if we go in here for a sec? Cool. Hey! Bubble wrap?! No? What the fuck good are you? Can you believe that? Fucking UPS store and they don't have bubble wrap. What's the point. If they were in the funeral business people wouldn't die anymore.

So, where was I. So, Steve is taking it up the ass at A&F. I mean, no one should ever have to work retail. One day he's downtown and there's this guy who has Steve's tasty plus a thousand degrees. Steve would have to stand on Mt Rainer to blow this guy. But who knows about it? I'll tell you who. No fucking one. So, the guy gets ripped off. Down to the floor boards and Steve's wearing a $15,000 Rolex. Why he got a GMT is beyond me. It clashes with his red beard. You got time for lunch? My treat 'cause I know you're fucking destitute.

This shit is all good. I love it here. Order anything. Anyway, I meant to tell you about that interview you did. Look, he's a decent guy but he's dead. No one talks to him anymore. No one gives a shit. And I know he has integrity and that shit you call soul. Whatever. But he's no longer in the game. Used to be. Not any more. You wasted your time. Then there's the other extreme. The woman who sent you that ridiculous tie -- from where? From Fargo or someplace? Dude, more wasted time. I mean if you're ever gonna buy me lunch you gotta knock this shit off.

Fuck, I ate too much. You walking north? Cool, I'll stroll with you as far as 12th. Like the shades? They sent 'em free. I hear working with the French is as bad as the Japanese but they pay more. Look! See that guy? There...in the waxed cotton coat. That guy is dressed like that 'cause of me. No one was wearing this shit until me. So what he looks 50 -- What's your point? Yeah, you may have bought a coat like that when I was 10 but when did you start wearing it again? When I said so. That's when. Jesus, you fuckin' old guys crack me up. Keep screwing with me and no one'll ever talk to you again.

A Club With Style

2012-01-12T06:14:00.001-05:00

The New York Athletic Club

I belonged to a club in Chicago which enjoyed reciprocity with the New York Athletic Club. The access to other clubs can easily be worth membership in a local club alone. Especially if you travel a lot. The NYAC offered clean rooms at a decent price and was loaded with character.

N.Y.A.C - Home of the lottery dinner

On the one hand, it could take hours to get through dinner. Forgetful waiters, lost entrees, missing drinks. On the other, you might never receive a bill for that dinner. You just never knew with the NYAC. One morning after a swim, I sat alone in their massive steam room. I was taking off my trunks when a woman walked in. She looked the other way as I tugged my trunks back up. You just never knew...

Jr Suite - far left two windows on top floor

There was a junior suite I always asked for on the top floor. The first night there, I came into my room from dinner but couldn't find the light switch. The door slowly closed but an open window offered light in the dark room. I slowly moved to the window and could see an apartment building across the street.

The building across the street

I watched as a man in an art filled living room sat on an ugly sectional watching his big screen television. I could just make out his bald head and saw he was smoking a cigar and watching David Letterman. Without turning on a light, I moved to my television and turned it on. I found the Letterman show, tuned the picture dark and left the sound on.

I took a beer from the mini-bar, turned the desk chair towards the window, sat down and watched Letterman from across the street. He wasn't always there and once I had to sit through Leno, but the NYAC always made feel like a real New Yorker.

Women With Style

2012-01-11T10:34:00.004-05:00

Looking Great, M Magazine, January 1985

I was showing a friend of mine from London the party pictures in Tattler magazine on a north bound Metra train from Chicago one afternoon. We were on the 5:07 express drinking Old Styles and I was pointing to a picture of BBC news presenter, Alice Beer, who was showing major cleavage while holding a drink and a cigarette.

Mutley looked at me and said, "You do know that none of those people would ever talk to you?" Same can be said for the people in M Magazine's Looking Great column. A cute red head at the Surf Club told me, "Sweetie, I did not move to Manhattan to meet a park ranger."

M Magazine was my fantasy back then. Better than Playboy or Penthouse because there was a chance, albeit small, that you might actually run into one of the women in Looking Great. That "chance" brought the fantasy a little bit closer. If only I could've afforded cashmere socks.

Clothes With Style

2012-01-10T15:03:00.001-05:00

"M" The Civilized Man - January, 1985 (click in image to enlarge)

Clothes With Style by Robert Bryan: "In this increasingly less-than-perfect world, the man who dresses with style - that is, appropriately to the occasion as well as to his own personality and station - almost always stands out."

"...real personal style is never too obvious, it is usually best expressed in dress through subtle touches...putting on pigskin gloves with a very dressy Chesterfield coat..." RB

"...there is a demonstration of particular personal style that does not overshadow the thing that should be noticed first: a man's face, disposition and personality." RB

"And there are some almost shabby things -- an old felt hat on a man who can wear one, or-

...your favorite well worn tweed sport jacket -- that convey much more personal style than anything brand new." RB

"What appears natural, and is natural when worn by one man, becomes an obvious affectation on another." RB

"...dressing with style is simply a matter of following one's informed common sense. It doesn't take a Douglas Fairbanks Jr. to know that a dark suit and white shirt are fitting for important or sober occasions-

...while a paisley sport shirt and a pair of well-worn khaki trousers are indigenous to a Saturday afternoon stroll." RB

The Devil's In the Can

2012-01-09T11:33:00.002-05:00

One of my earliest memories occurred in a small N.C. town in the early '60s. An older kid told me he knew where the devil was, and could release him upon the world at will, if he desired. He didn't use those exact words. This kid turned out to be a real moron but bear with me.

Laying on his kitchen linoleum floor, we faced a cabinet. He slowly pulled back the cedar door and there was a single can of Deviled Ham wrapped tight in white paper. A dancing red devil with a pitchfork on the label smiled back at me.

Even in his dark eerie kitchen, at only four or five, I suspected this kid was full of shit. Although, those were not the exact words I was thinking. He told me all he had to do was open the paper wrapper and Satan would be released. I often wonder what became of him. Did he become a politician with a bad haircut? Maybe a preacher or an insurance salesman with a bad haircut.

Eighteen years later a mentor told me, "Just 'cause he said it don't make it true." This was fairly radical for me seeing we were in the army and my mentor was referring to an officer. There's always been something about those words. What is it the meter? The honesty? The humility in how it was said? For me, it was poetry.

They're also a filter everything I hear is run through. Never understood why it's one of my earliest memories although I can only hope it's not prophetic. Of course, if I were you, I wouldn't listen to me.

The Friday Belt: Black Bottled Winter

2012-01-06T07:39:00.005-05:00

Let Us Unite

Cameron Hunting Tartan

Black Bottle Islay Blended Scotch

It's always nice to come back to the Friday Belt. Whenever I meet someone who's familiar with The Trad -- it's usually the first thing they comment on. I write it Thursday night while trying on content and trying to figure out a different way to photograph a belt and a bottle. It ain't easy, and it isn't always successful but that's what I like about it. Geez, I feel like Andy Rooney... Anyway, here's another tartan belt by Leather Man in Essex, CT

Cecil, the owner and a helluva nice guy, calls this a Cameron tartan (located here). For $30 bucks, that's a lotta belt. Most anything you get from Leather Man usually is. I did some digging around and this tartan appears to be the Cameron 'Hunting' tart designed in 1956. That doesn't do much for dusting off the history books, but I almost always prefer the darker Hunting tartans.

Pairs well with thick Winter cords and moleskins. I have a shirt of the same tartan. Love to pair it with this belt. Freaks people out, "Hey, is that the same...?" "What?" "Your belt. It's the same as your..." "What are you talking about?" I feel like Carson Kressley.

Dark Winter nights do not favor the sun kissed Gin & Tonic or Dark & Stormy. When it's cold and black out (or in), I need something that'll burn bright going down.

Black Bottle reminds me of a dangerous shore at night. A night we would describe as, "darker than the inside of a goat" at Ft Bragg. It's peaty - 7 different Islay single malts - and, I kid you not, you can smell and taste the sea. Maybe that's the Laphroaig coming through. Maybe not. No one knows what the single malts are but at $22 a bottle -- Who cares.

That's two Black Bottles for one green Laphroaig. I love Laphroaig, but $22 cuts a lot of Islay family ties, mate. You can slip this past your single malt drinkers friends -- they'll never know it's a blend. Serve two ounces neat with just a bloom of water and no one's the wiser... but ignore all questions pertaining to your belt and shirt.

The Pottsylvania Trench Coat

2012-01-05T09:29:00.000-05:00

Subject observed at intersection of 45th and Madison, NYC

DOB: 13 August 1967
POB: Pottsylvania
Education: University of Safecracking
Occupation: Villains, Thieves & Scoundrels Union, Local 12
Reports To: Fearless Leader
Enemies: Moose & Squirrel
Cover: Account Executive, Dancer, Prancer, Blitzen & Fink Advertising Agency
Favors black leather trench coats and always works with fellow agent, Natasha Fatale.

Seriously...

2012-01-04T16:23:00.003-05:00

Prince of Wales Check

I was just kidding back there. I mean really, who wants to wander around St Augustine in 110% humidity chasing a white ball with a little crocodile on their chest?

Actually, I'm Not Kidding

2012-01-04T15:32:00.005-05:00

World Golf Village, St Augustine, FL

This looks like fun.

Just Kidding...

2012-01-04T15:29:00.007-05:00

My new shave stand (click on image to enlarge)

You didn't believe me about that retirement thing -- Did you?

The Last Tie & Goodbye...

2012-01-04T12:02:00.002-05:00

General Knot & Co came to me and asked that I review their ties. I agreed on one condition. That I would not keep them. I've never been a fan of the too narrow or too wide tie. They play hell with jacket lapels and usually wind up in the back of the closet until the width makes a comeback. This is about the only way the fashion industry screws men...save for double monk shoes.

What's unique about General Knot is their use of vintage fabrics. If you see something you best pounce 'cause there ain't gonna be a lot. That can be used as a cynical marketing strategy -- Disney limited DVD releases with the threat of "going back to the vault." Or, a blogger who retires only to come back, retire again and come back, over and over and over.

But General Knot has only so much fabric. Ties are made in runs of 10, 13 or even less. I picked out two. A navy and gold silk 'cause I like navy and gold, and an Hermes lookalike 'cause I'm sick of Hermes ties but still love their soft colors.

I paired both with the Turnbull & Asser blazer and charcoal suit I mentioned yesterday. The darker fabrics help conceal the lapel width while the vintage fabric is rich enough to pair with grown up suiting. It's a contrast I really like.

What I don't like is --Sadly, this is my last post. It's been a great run and I just want to say my decision to retire The Trad comes with the knowledge that, what with the world ending again and everything, I'm going to go work on my golf game.

The Art of T&A...

2012-01-03T09:21:00.002-05:00

New digs in old Asprey digs...

Where buttons come from

Silk shirting from the archives

More silk shirting - via Instagram

WWII shirt from Jermyn Street

"Torches" from WWII

Brolly handles

Dressing room

Pocket frogging

and sleeves

Another world...

another Friday belt?

Silk dressing gown makes use of 12 screens

Sleeves

Moleskins

Limited edition shirts...

utilizing vintage T&A designed fabric

My "Magda" editor jacket

Traditional T&A stripes

Kingdom of Evening Wear

Smoking jacket

More sleeves

The Morning Coat

Custom shirts...

and even socks (by Corgi)

Photo by Cecil Beaton

The library

More Brolly handles

Preppy?

Turnbull & Asser recently moved a couple store fronts east from their old location to the long vacant Asprey Shop on 57th Street near Park Avenue. It's like walking into some very grand hotel... a hotel I could never afford unless I was on business. It's like meeting a beautiful woman in a bar, and I can't figure out why she's so interested in me, until I discover her business. In short, it's a place I don't belong.

But NYC is full of people who belong. Missing here is the, "We're not worthy" Midwestern attitude I came to love in Chicago... along with Old Style beer and the Chicago Cubs. T&A probably threw out the welcome mat after I wiped my feet upon entering but I never saw anyone do it. They're that discreet and even that friendly.

You enter the store through a small library. An archives of beautiful vintage shirts sit behind glass as if they're in a museum. And they are. T & A has taken great care of their history unlike many retailers I can name. But then we Americans love to throw old stuff away.

There's a hip new section of black, Gore Textual, Loro Piana (why are the Italians here?) that I found out of place. But I was reminded of how little I know when a celebrity, tall and good looking, made a significant purchase of a black, Gore Textual, cashmere lined something or other. Certainly he belonged.

Lighting grows with a beautiful sun like intensity while climbing the stairs from the ground floor library. Small boutiques are sartorially bordered by T&A kingdoms of evening wear, dressing gowns, shirts, ties, jackets and suits. Classics abound. A hacking pocket navy blazer might be considered a bit off the reservation but their solid charcoal suit has to be the best suit a man can buy.

But it is the dressing gowns I especially lust after...If I were a magazine editor -- the male version of Magda from Ab Fab -- I'd get a bevy of beautiful women and shoot them wearing nothing but T&A dressing gowns and smoking jackets. Of course, it's the celebrities who belong here. I'm just visiting.

Almond Cake

2012-01-02T17:09:00.004-05:00

Caswell Massey Almond Cold Cream Soap

In the Army, old one pound coffee cans were kept in showers for soap disposal. Those little bits and pieces added up to a decent size cake and were used by those who wound up broke, without soap, before pay day. It happened to me more than once. A soapy melange of Ivory, Irish Spring, Camay and whatever else was on sale at the Post Exchange.

Caswell Massey's Almond and Cold Cream soap is light years from that soap can. Ike (no stranger to the soap can himself) and Mamie Eisenhower had it for their White House. As the most popular of all Caswell Massey soaps, this almond scented cake lathers up thick and I'd even say creamy.

While CM's lime scent is my choice for Summer, almond is perfect for winter's hot and steamy showers or better, a long after-work soak with a cold martini (It happened to me more than once). A one year supply (12 cakes) is on sale for $65.66 and available here.

Speaking of cake...

A Light Breakfast...

2012-01-01T14:23:00.003-05:00

at the Jockey Club, NYC - M Magazine - 12 /1985

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T13:32:00.004-05:00

Piper Heidsieck Extra Dry Champage

Toby Cecchini wrote an interesting piece for the NY Times Style section last week on sabering a bottle of champagne with an eight inch kitchen knife. I'm not sure how that got through legal but I can just imagine the hipster element tonight...What a wonderful short film it would make. Keep in mind, if you lose your thumb it's very hard to open doors.

My drill would surely be considered boring but the 850 sq feet of my apartment pretty much demand it. I like Piper Heidsieck Extra Dry and have for almost 20 years. The champer's expert will tell you that Brut is the way to go with Extra Dry being too sweet -- Maybe.

But the PH Brut is too severe for me. Like one of those rail thin women lunching at Swifty's whose eyebrows are attached to the ceiling. Meanwhile the Extra Dry reminds me of Doris Day in 1975 telling Merv Griffin how much she likes sex. I'm not suggesting my deviant fantasy is any way to select champagne but it beats losing your thumb.

I chill it in a bucket with 70% ice and 30% water. If you're in a hurry, throw some salt on the ice. It's faster than a freezer and a lot less dangerous if you're forgetful. Which I am. I'm not sure why but I always think of Tony Curtis when I open champagne. The foil and cage are fairly straightforward but trivia buffs will be impressed when you tell them it always takes seven turns of the neck wire to free the cage. Always.

Now this important. Grab the cork with one hand and the bottom of the bottle with the other. Turn the bottom of the bottle but not the cork. While turning the bottom think of Doris Day in naughty underwear. Keep a firm grip on the cork pushing against the pressure. You don't want an explosion but rather something like a nun farting in a front pew. A short 'pffst' is just about perfect.

Pour into glasses...slowly. Replace bottle in bucket. Put on Que Sera, Sera and join in me a toast...

A 1976 Christmas - From Neiman Marcus

2011-12-30T13:41:00.004-05:00

(click on image to enlarge)

Last year, the 1972 NM Christmas catalog was featured here to a somewhat lukewarm reception. This year, the 1986 Apple catalog I posted was seen by half of the United States and all of Australia. I don't get it but I never do. Maybe it was the Belinda Carlise video? Anyway, I blew the dust off my corporate American Express card (they'll never know) and secured this 1976 cheese extravaganza off eBay.

Christmas of '76, I was waiting for the Special Forces 'Q' course to start at Ft Bragg. I didn't know Neiman Marcus from Shinola and the same could be said about Special Forces and what it took to make the grade. Of the 88 in my class -- three got their green beenies and they were all noncoms. My class was the last to allow lower ranking enlisted (E-1 to E-4) after which you had to be an E-5 or above due to the brutal wash out rate.

It's not what you dream -- It's what you fail at that gives character. And this catalog is full of character. That's why I love it so. However, I'm not adverse to an equally cheesy music video of the era saving my ass. Here's to the 85 who failed at USAIMA and to Phil. I remember this playing in the barracks like it was...a very long time ago.

What's Right At Night - And What Ain't

2011-12-29T14:08:00.005-05:00

M Magazine 12 / 87 (click on images to enlarge)

Watches with evening wear are okay in my book. So is this tie. The look is bound by white, black and stainless steel. Clean, understated and effortless. Not an ounce of foppery. Of course, it helps to look like this guy, but we're looking at what we can change.

I've mentioned my fondness of the double breasted dinner jacket before. I think they look swell on short men who like croissants with butter and gave up running 10 years ago. Most flattering... as long as we leave our clothes on. Consider replacing fabric covered buttons for something more Savile Row -- Black and shiny as opposed to matte.

A Ferrell Reed (whatever happened to them?) advert speaks to unmatching through sophisticated double links on pique shirt with elegant studs, a cotton pocket square and a most unusual but intelligent bow tie. The Glenurquhart plaid with forest green accent is perfect for the holidays.

I love a shawl lapel but this is a stark contrast to the bearded fella above. The matchy-match tie and cummerbund look to have been picked out by his wife. It speaks to the kind of California that considers itself ultra tasteful. You know...San Francisco. Instead, he looks like he trying to be the Red Baron or he's just a Georgia fan.

Notch lapel, matching black onyx with gold trim studs and cuff links. Pre-tied bow. I'm not saying you can't. I'm just saying -- with everything you've seen here -- you don't have to. It helps to have some fun with your evening. Who knows? This New Years, a woman may see something and in her mind wonder, "He's unusual. I wonder why?" Have a blast. I'm going to pizza party. But the pizza is amazing.

Christmas - 1971

2011-12-28T12:47:00.003-05:00

Hampton, Va, Christmas, 1971

5th Avenue Lunch

2011-12-27T12:41:00.001-05:00

Between 58th and 59th

Nice restrooms @ The Sherry Netherland just in case.

Brooks Brothers After Christmas Sale - 1982

2011-12-26T12:54:00.000-05:00

346 Madison Avenue, NYC

I first pushed my way through the 44th Street entrance in 1982 during the after Christmas Sale. I see it like a crane shot high above the main marbled floor. Associates balancing stacks of shirts piled high in their arms. 20 or more it seemed. Customers followed...winding through the maze of dark oak cabinets filled with oxford shirts and silk ties.

I purchased a Maker's pink button down oxford. It came in a navy box stamped with a sheep and closed tightly by a stretch of gold band sprung across the corners. A Shetland draped saleswoman with Peter Pan collar and short blonde hair, slipped my box into the bag. I couldn't help but notice how perfect her hands were with frosty pink nail polish. A good omen.

The shirt was on sale. I'm guessing, but I think it was under $25. It lasted almost 15 years. The left cuff frayed by a too big diver's watch and the collar finally blowing out after some three years of dedicated yard work. I threw it in the kitchen trash can and stared at it. Knowing the story it told but never knowing how.

The original cotton oxford button down is marked down 40% if you buy four. Today and today only will get you another 20% off. That's $38 a shirt. If my math is right. In store or on line.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-25T11:55:00.004-05:00

Hay Street, Fayetteville, NC

The bars were razed and the hookers who tagged along were dispersed. That was all the civilians wanted. To spread Hay Street across Fayetteville like margarine on Wonder bread.

Three generations of bloused boot paratroopers spent Christmas on Hay Street. Cheering beer and strippers in Suzy Wong, The Seven Dwarfs or Pop A Top Lounge.

30 years later I walk an unforgotten route and nothing's the same. Cocky paratroopers are replaced with the waddling middle class twirling pasta in ersatz Italian restaurants.

Santa poses for pictures and I follow him to my hotel bar. He joins a red head and she smiles offering him a saved bar stool. He lights a cigarette with a Bic and orders a drink.

I think of Christmas when I was 19. Offering a stripper a heart shaped Whitman Sampler in my Bullit black turtleneck. She smiles down at me from her stage. When I think of her... I smile at Santa and buy him a drink.

Friday Belt: T & A with Lord Chet

2011-12-23T17:47:00.001-05:00

173 Years of Tradition - $19 a case

I first sampled Lord Chesterfield Ale by Yuengling back in 1985. It was introduced to me by a fellow park ranger at Valley Forge and I became a fan before I knew what hops even were. It's hoppy but not like an IPA. Crisp. Drinkable as all get out. I'm having one with Herr's Old Bay Potato Chips right now. Masses of red Old Bay are seeping between the keys of my laptop. Who cares. 'Tis the season...

There was talk of Yuengling from the PA guys when I served time at Ft Bragg -- Home of the Airborne and the cultural arm pit of North Carolina. Beer in NC was about as Wonder Bread as it could get. Bud, Miller, Stroh's. I'm falling asleep just thinking about it. The PA guys had their own language. Most of 'em were from Southeastern PA. "Pottsville, you bet!" Maceko would yell. Mace went on to OCS and was commissioned in the Infantry. A solid guy, Mace.

Like most of the boys from PA, they were who they said they were. One guy came back from a friend's funeral in Lancaster with a '72 red Cadillac convertible that was left to to him by the deceased. He knew it was a piece of shit. Told me it was a piece of shit. But if you told him it was a piece of shit... he'd take your head off, then your arms and he wouldn't stop until he was chewing your heel.

Today, I'm happy to say many of my friends are from Pee A, and I'm even happier I can secure a case of Chet for $19. That's a steal. While the hip suck on PBR, compare their tatts and sigh with resignation that everyone is hopping on their wagon -- Try the hops from Cascade via the Lord -- I don't think the Hip'll make it here for another year or two.

Turnbull & Asser, 50 East 57th Street, NYC

The one place you will not find the Hip is Turnbull & Asser. While working in London 20 years ago, the 20-something fashion plates would turn up their nose at contrasting (white) collars and cuffs. "Old fogey, mate. What are you? 50?" Well, yes. 20 years later. This is home to serious sartorial savvy. No Red Wings here. This is serious ass dressing and unlike Lord Chet, it don't come cheap.

Vintage T&A from the 1940s

But you do get what you pay for. Impeccable tradition, value and quality. Are you paying $150 for an alpha (S,M,L,XL) shirt with unmatched stripes yoke to sleeve and made in some place you can't pronounce? Yes? Then you need to have your head examined. Turnbull & Asser offer custom belts...with one hole. I love that idea. One. Hole. Very understated.

The, "How Much Beer Are You Drinking Belt."

I fell for this belt during my last visit at the new store in New York. I wish this was around when I was 25 with a 30" waist. Not that I could afford it then...or now. I'll tell you this...if I keep drinking Lord Chesterfield I'm never wearing this belt.

Piss Off Early...

2011-12-23T14:33:00.001-05:00

...tomorrow is Christmas Eve

Hot, hot, hot, hot... Chocolate

2011-12-22T06:54:00.001-05:00

In a city where a Remy Side Car goes for $23 in the King Cole Bar, an $8 cup of hot chocolate isn't that crazy. Not for what it is: thick goopy elegance that coats your mouth in a smooth layer of cocoa-sin. It's really something of a bargain for anyone used to living in NYC. Or, maybe I've been here too long.

Maison Du Chocolate is in the T.A.O. (Tourist Area of Operations). 30 Rockefeller Center (at 49th) and most folk, fresh from shaking signs at the Today Show, are scared off by the prices. For me, it's a convenient location on a cold and rainy afternoon. The kind of afternoon made for a Nooner at the Algonquin. But if you can't do that -- drinking hot chocolate at Maison Du Chocolate is the next best thing. Maybe it's the fourth best thing. Certainly it's in the top ten.

A Shirt for Both of You: Mercer & Sons

2011-12-21T06:33:00.002-05:00

Flagler College, St Augustine, FL, 1983

That's M.E. up there in her dorm room 27 years ago. I'd like to make it clear this was a self portrait. If I were in the room that can would not be Diet Pepsi. M.E. wasn't shy about picking through my college closet and here she's modeling a hand made linen shirt issued to me by the National Park Service for living-history events at Castillo de San Marcos. I still have it, and after 27 years the linen feels like melted butter on Wonder Bread.

The Mercer Roll

Women have longed shopped the boy's department for shirts. Cheaper than a blouse, better made, more fabric, and half the cost at the dry cleaners. What's not to like? David Mercer and I were talking about how women are hosed when it comes to, 'tapered', 'no-iron', 'over-priced' shirt options. And I said, "I don't think anything looks sexier than a woman in a man's shirt."

'Your favorite shirt is on the bed...' Haircut 100

So when you order your husband's shirt -- remember, its yours as well. It's too late to order for Christmas, but in my family of slackers we always celebrated Three Kings. A perfect holiday for the forgetful, lazy and overwhelmed since it arrives on January 6th. It's sort of the last chance to get Christmas right. (Trad Three Kings Story)

Who knows...maybe the shirt you order will last 27 years.

The Sterile Cuckoo - "Sometimes you have to get away from the noise, you know?"

2011-12-20T06:09:00.005-05:00

Japanese One Sheet

I saw The Sterile Cuckoo in Lincolnton, NC with my mother and sisters when I was 12 years old. I don't think my mother knew what she was getting into, but it's a film I wouldn't hesitate to show any 12 year old -- Hell, a ten year old for that matter. Never released on DVD, it'll pop up on TCM every now and then, but a high quality, uncut version was recently added to You Tube in nine parts.

Producer - Director Alan J Pakula (Klute, Sophie's Choice, To Kill a Mocking Bird, Love With a Proper Stranger) captured the '60s I remember as a kid. Not just the look but the feeling. Those days of care free bliss interrupted by seconds of teeth gnashing anxiety. I suspect screenwriter Alvin Sargent had much to do with that.

You know you're in for something different when Liza Minnelli as Pookie Adams tells Jerry Payne (Wendell Burton), "Some people guzzle God like He was a keg of beer." Tim McIntire as Jerry's roomie, Charlie, nails overweight beer drinking and ersatz sexual success that, despite 10 minutes of total screen time, is one of the most amazing performances ever. Ever! Or, maybe I have too much in common with Charlie.

No one is attacked. No one means any harm. But hurt is everywhere. If Christmas movies and forced cheerfulness of a happy holiday get you down...check this film out. It's as truthful as you can get this time of year...when you need to get away from the noise.

A Gift for Brohammas

2011-12-19T13:57:00.000-05:00

~~Dylan~~ Dalyn has needed a proper pair of shoes since I met him. Those vulgar Pliner square-toed wheels of his will clash with an Ivy League degree. These are a little too Italian for me but they'll suit him just fine in the city of Brotherly Love and Boyds. Marked down from $478 to $79 and available in more sizes than I thought. From Ron Rider.

A Gift for DB

2011-12-19T13:35:00.001-05:00

My packaging guru since we were both 17. Obsessed more with the outside than the inside -- and that includes people. Nothing is cooler than the wrapper. Cream cries out for glass. Like Bond needs Walther. Johnny needs Bandit. Mina needs a Vespa. The bridge needs Lions. $14.95 and still in stock from Think Geek.

A Gift for Alice Olive

2011-12-19T13:16:00.005-05:00

Alice loves photography and her Joe. And while she's all Nikon, I don't suspect anyone will notice this is a Canon lens. $24 for the 24 -105mm. $30 for the 70 - 200mm. Order from Photojojo here.

A Gift for Oyster Guy

2011-12-19T13:06:00.000-05:00

Island Creek Oysters, Duxbury, MA

Thanks to Oyster Guy for a great year of comments. I have no idea who you are or where you're from but -- if you are who you say you are -- this is a no brainer. Wellfleet oysters can still be ordered in time (this is the last day) for Christmas. Throw them in the fridge under a wet towel and they'll keep for a week. Just imagine going to the fridge for a LaBatt Blue and an oyster. Life doesn't get any better. Unless you're Canadian. $150 for 100. Order from Gilt here.

Can I help you?

2011-12-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

The Living Room

I was 14, when a friend I was with got caught stealing a double Chicago album in the Willow Oaks Shopping Center just before Christmas. He was older and his father was a famous Air Force Ace as well as Thunderbird pilot. My friend was detained by the store and police were called.

That afternoon the Ace visited my home with his son. I was called downstairs by my father and we all sat in our living room with Danish furniture and a white Flokati rug. My fathers paintings were everywhere. Some were, I like to think, tasteful nudes. I don't think the Ace painted.

He told my father his son was arrested for shoplifting and that I was I with him. My father, who didn't have much use for me at this age, sat on the edge of the sofa and looked my way. "Is that true?" he asked. "Yes." I said, and said nothing more. There was silence and I looked at my friend who was staring at the Flokati rug.

The Ace suggested I was the lookout and that it was probably my idea to steal the Chicago album. My father turned to me and I told him I didn't even like Chicago, that my friend had been stealing anything that wasn't nailed down for as long as I knew him, and that he told me about stuff he stole before he ever met me.

My father, a major, turned to the Ace, a colonel, and said, "There you go." The Ace looked at his son and asked if it was true. The son nodded. The Ace suddenly looked small and dark in our bright living room. He left with his son taking the dark with him. Nothing else was said by my father.

40 years later I still obsess over shoplifting paranoia. If I don't buy something a feeling of dread comes over me. I'll be stopped. Questioned. Accused. By a famous Ace. And then I remember my father... and how bright it was in that living room.

The Hangover Cure

2011-12-16T13:51:00.004-05:00

M Magazine 12/1987

Trust me on this one -- Forget everything else. Goes well with grilled lamb and a Cote du Rhone. Key: Emmentaler Swiss. Tom Cat bread. The Del Fuegos, 'I Still Want You.' Destroy a gas station, 'It's a Mad, Mad Mad, Mad World.'

A heart is not enough...

2011-12-15T11:05:00.000-05:00

How Not to Drink too Much at a Party

2011-12-14T09:33:00.012-05:00

"The way I figure it, the law of averages is on our side..."
Playboy, 1965

Sometime between 8PM and that point when you hear a voice in your head tell you it's time to go... there is everything else. It can be a sober, hail fellow well met, gallant exit with thanks directed to the right people. Or, a slightly buzzed exit with gratitude displayed to the hosts and a little too much hand shaking and kissing on the way out. Not that that's a bad thing...

New Years eve night (1986) and I was on a California king size bed - in ~~Atlantic City~~ Long Branch - with three sorority sisters - watching TV. We were all leaning up against a massive butt ugly headboard when a sorority sister suggested we all have sex.

The night started with beers at the ~~Stoned~~ Stone Pony. Somewhere along the way it turned to gin martinis. Beaver Brown (WS: I don't think that was a Beaver Brown night though, you're conflating that with New Year's 1983) sang about bourbon and a retro order for Whiskey Sours was made (WS: The other option that night was to see Buddy Guy and Junior Wells at the Deckhouse in Asbury Park, which in retrospect we should have done instead). Wally mentioned his girlfriend was having a party for her sorority sisters at her parent's ~~Atlantic City~~ Long Branch condo.

We arrived at the girlfriend's-parent's-condo filled with sorority sisters. I had been ignoring the "GO HOME " voice in my head for at least an hour but this opportunity was too much to pass up. A thick scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray filled a room covered in white shag and pale blue everything else -- a perfect frame for 20 drunk sorority sisters.

Champagne was poured and I made my way to the sliding glass doors of a balcony overlooking the black ocean. I slid the door open and drank cold air like water. My nose hairs froze and sweat quickly iced. Revived, I walked back in and found the parent's bedroom. The TV was on and I sat at the foot of the bed.

Rule 1) Avoid mixing drinks you say? Wrong. Avoid moving around? Good for you. When you get to the party find a place to sit down and stay there. Don't go anywhere unless you need to refill or defill. Moving around, dancing, push up contests...these all get the alcohol soaring through the bloodstream. The less movement the better.

Rule 2) Avoid drinking anything fast. Beer. Soda and anything. Tonic and anything. Champagne. Wine. All bad. Drink hard liquor straight. Cognac, Single Malt Scotch, Bourbon... No ice. Trust me, it'll slow you down and all the wrong sort of women will be impressed.

Rule 3) Arrive late and leave early. This was Trad Dad's advice to me many years ago. Not that I ever took it, and I doubt you'll take mine, but there it is. The strategy is everyone will remember the party didn't get going until you arrived and it went to shit about the time you left.

Rule 4) Do not lie down. Not until you're ready to stay there.

Rule 5) Eat. A lot. Greasy food works well. Popcorn does not. Keep it dense. Beef, chicken wings, fried anything...Eat as much as you can. Someone passes a tray of food around...eat it.

The bed comforter was soft and a shade between Tiffany and Infantry blue. It was marshmallow-ey and calming. I leaned back and laughed at the TV. A girl joined me. Then another and another. A cute brunette with nice hands asked the question and I answered by throwing up on the Tiffany-Infantry marshmallows.

Looking back, I remember seeing them out of the corner of my eye scramble off the bed in film-like slow motion. I could see fear on their faces. I don't remember screaming but Wally told me there was a lot of it. We left quickly. No erudite goodbyes. No hail fellow well met. No exchanging of phone numbers. No that it mattered, but we did obey Rule 3. I never did like that rule.

Update: Corrections and comments noted in RED from Wallace Stroby.

Tomorrow: The Hangover & What Not To Do

Do the Windows

2011-12-13T15:57:00.001-05:00

Across from Chelsea Hotel on 23rd Street

Scully & Scully on Park Ave

Somewhere on Park Ave

Scully & Scully on Park Ave

J Press on Madison Ave

Somewhere on Lexington Ave

Somewhere off Park Ave near 59th St

Somewhere on Park Ave

Scully & Scully on Park Ave

J Press on Madison

P.J. Clarke's on 3rd at 55th

J Press on Madison Ave

On 5th...Whatever it is, it's not there anymore

Jay Kos on Park Ave (moved to Mott & Houston)

No idea

Somewhere on 5th Avenue near 54th St

6th Avenue near 45th St

Bergdorf Goodman

Somewhere in the Garment District

Four Seasons Restaurant on 52nd near Park Ave

Club Monaco on 57th St

Bauman Rare Books on Madison Ave near 54th St

H. Herzfeld on 57th St near Park Ave

Somewhere in the Garment District

Somewhere in the West Village

Brooks Brothers on 44th St near Madison

Le Veau d'Or on 59th near Lexington

Phillips Auctions on Park Ave at 57th St

Tad's Steaks on Broadway near 45th St

Kaufman's Army Navy on 42nd near 8th Ave

International Center of Photography, 6th Ave near 43rd St

St John on 5th Avenue at 53rd St

Aquarium Store way the hell over on the west side in the 30s

Petit Bateau on Madison at 82nd St

Myers of Keswick on Hudson near Jane St

Somewhere in the 90s a block west of Central Park

H. Herzfeld on 57th near Park Ave

Staten Island Ferry in Staten Island

Turnbull & Asser's Smoking Smoker

2011-12-12T10:57:00.003-05:00

Anachronistic? Without doubt. Expensive? You bet. Mind numbingly beautiful? Depends on who are you. If you're like me... a sucker for out of date, hand crafted attire that most likely will never see the light of day outside your own four walls...then you'll love the smoking jacket. I've written at length about them here.

It makes absolutely no sense in today's world. It's the buggy whip of formal attire but it's also an unmitigated work of art. Last December I took a poll of New York City haberdashers on smoking jacket sales. It's complicated depending on the retailer but know this -- They ain't flying off the shelves.

All the more reason to have one. Trust me...you're not gonna run into anyone wearing a smoking jacket at a black tie Christmas or New Years party. But you'll need some hefty stones to pull it off. I'd say no if you're under 25. Maybe even 35. Why? You'll look silly because you don't deserve it...yet.

I remember entertaining a lady friend in my college dorm room just before Christmas break. Astrud Gilberto was on the Akai reel to reel while she sat on the edge of my bed with her legs crossed watching me pour tonic and gin into a cocktail shaker.

She arched an eyebrow and seconds later I understood why...She wasn't as interested in me as much as she wondered if I'd really shake tonic. I did. She smiled and left. I was all sticky. Good thing I wasn't wearing a Smoking Jacket.

Robe & Pajama Outtakes

2011-12-09T11:11:00.000-05:00

Many years ago I was a police cadet directing traffic out of a city park after a July 4th fireworks demonstration. That night I dreamed I was sleeping in my bed on the side of the road by the park. Cars would come and I'd get out of bed, walk to the intersection in my pjs and direct traffic returning to bed only to be forced outta bed by another stream of cars.

This photo shoot was inspired by that dream. I wanted to include a small table with an vintage alarm clock but while the logistics proved daunting - Mark Rykken did not. It is no easy task to stand at 45th & Madison at 2PM dressed like you're going to bed. I owe Mark and Paul Stuart a huge thanks for their cooperation and their enthusiasm.

I am looking for a woman to model a smoking jacket. Long legs and assertiveness are required.

A Robe & Pajamas

2011-12-09T10:31:00.001-05:00

Off white wool serge evening robe with navy piping - $547 French blue stripe pajama - $247, Red & blue paisley ascot - $128.50 Navy tipped cotton pocket square - $39.50 All by Paul Stuart. Navy monogrammed slippers by Edward Green - Models own.

Head of Paul Stuart's Custom Shop, Mark Rykken models Paul Stuart sleepwear at 45th and Madison Avenue...because I said so. The robe is Italian wool but is made on Paul Stuart's premises. It is a steal for what it is and where it's made. French blue & white awning stripe pajamas are 100% broadcloth and made in Canada, eh. A cotton tipped pocket square and paisley ascot round out the look with unneeded but refined flourish.

I know what you're going to say. Add the slippers and this is a considerable investment. However, if you're tired of seeing your husband roam your home in worn boxers and old college tee shirts -- this might be the solution you've been looking for.

Mad Man

2011-12-08T08:56:00.001-05:00

Looking north on Madison Avenue, Summer - 2007

It is where you come to get things done. "Did you close?" It is asked like the sidewalk you stand on. Flat, bare and wide. The intonation lowered by an octave. "Did" You eye the candy of middle aged manhood. Prince of Wales check from Pink. Dominican Belicoso from Davidoff. A signed first edition of Look Homeward Angel from Bauman.

"You" A female sheep looks to be sheared or worse...mutton. Men wear serious here like a badge. Tightly laced Edward Greens look like the tip of a spear. Shoes don't make the man but the men here know shoes...and cloth. It won't close but it gets you through the thick glass door.

"Close" Money unseen is transacted. Can't touch it but you feel it. The relief. A mortgage payment. A bottle of Champagne. Self worth inflates the 44" chest. Taxi horns float upward -- Never sounding like they do in Chicago or London. Only New York. Asking..."Did You Close?"

Probable Maximum Loss: Cole Haan

2011-12-07T15:20:00.006-05:00

Esquire Gentleman Magazine, Spring / Summer 1993

Probable Maximum Loss or PML is an insurance term I always called the "Ka-Boom" factor. PML is a basic underwriting strategy where an insurance company figures it's total maximum loss in a building, location, region or... shoe maker.

Cole Haan started in Chicago in 1928 and were, by the time I knew them in the '80s, the classic shoe choice. Whether a simple calf tassel loafer (my first post college shoe) or their perfect correspondent in buck and tan calf -- Cole Haan was classic. You didn't wear tassel loafers -- you wore Cole Haan tassel loafers.

In 1993, Cole Haan introduced the venetian loafer you see in the advertisement above. It was a clean looking shoe made in their Maine factory. In 1988, Cole Haan was bought by Nike and shortly afterwards closed their Maine plant and moved all manufacture off shore. How odd that Cole Haan became, if not the first, one of the earliest shoe companies to embrace off shore while leaving pricing the same.

Today, pricing remains high for what you get but design has really suffered as seen here. The plastic injected shoe so commonly associated with Donald Pliner is seen across the Cole Haan line. This may have more to do with the small world of shoe design talent but I think it stems more from what Asian factories are comfortable making. Who knows. I don't pretend to know a lot about making shoes. I do understand Probable Maximum Loss. You know? Ka-Boom!

Sub Rosa Hip - Johnny Quest

2011-12-06T06:15:00.002-05:00

Jonny Quest Opening Titles from Roger D. Evans on Vimeo.

Back in the early '90s, I was often asked who Tintin was. " Europe's version of Johnny Quest..." was my cool and sweet reply. Anyone old enough to drive understood. It's different today. People who are cutting edges in 2011 were wearing Baby Gap and watching Rugrats in 1992. They know all about Tintin but haven't a clue about Johnny.

Quest was an animated Saturday TV cartoon with an opening that was slicker than owl shit. Save for the questionable relationship between Johnny's father, Dr Benton Quest and Roger 'Race' Bannon (pretty sure Mom wouldn't allow me to go anywhere with those two), it was the shit.

I've been reluctant to bring J.Q. up for fear every hip edge-cutter will glom onto Quest, suck him dry and toss his blond locks and Tim Matheson V.O. into the East River by next Tuesday before the Tintin premiere. Or...it just might be I'm that hipster. Please don't hate me.

Many thanks to commenter and friend, D.B. for the heads up on the Roger ('Race') Evans trailer above. See the original below.

You'll Know It When You See It...

2011-12-05T10:20:00.002-05:00

...that perfect gift. And you're not gonna find it at Kay Jewelers.

More gift ideas from last week's, Something Special, featuring an alternative to shopping at the mall or anywhere else for that matter. Check out The Showplace Antique Center (Website here).

The Trad Profile Report

2011-12-04T19:49:00.002-05:00

Click on image to see naked women

Many thanks (and 32 points) to Yankee Whiskey Papa at Boxing The Compass for this.

Something Special...

2011-12-02T11:57:00.008-05:00

Kate Spade Restroom - One of the Best

Showplace Antique Center @ 40 W 25th Street. Website Here

Last Summer I was visiting Jack Spade and before leaving stopped by the powder room. I've visited a number of New York's fashion elite restrooms. I think they tell a lot about the designer and the brand and you'll be able to see them all just as soon as I secure my book deal, "Fashion Takes A Dump." A sumptuous coffee table book filled with full color photographs of fashion's places to ponder. He may be Tom Ford but he has to pee just like any other man... he may pee sitting down but you get my point.

I'm heading east on 25th Street and am stopped in my tracks by a window display of enamel double links. Thinking it one store -- it turns to a gallery of stores. Over 200 on four floors packed to the gunwales with some of the most bizarre, interesting, cool, kitschy stuff you're likely to find... in one place.

There's a website so no excuses about living in Naperville and having to shop at the Woodfield Mall. You're gonna have to forgo a 70% discount as well but you know all this discount stuff is bullshit anyway. Americans would buy horseshit if it were discounted enough. Which is mostly what's in the malls of this country.

Some ideas for ladies today and I'll follow with guy stuff ~~tomorrow~~ Monday. Be warned. This is shopping that takes some thought but it's connecting with someone special through something special. You'll know it when you see it.

Everything Isn't Wonderful...

2011-12-01T09:25:00.005-05:00

What I don't believe about myself is what others have told me. Consequently, I don't believe in what I have in me. If I can overcome this -- I can move to a new place and start taking actions for my own benefit. It's a journey where we all try to find ourselves. If we don't... then how do we know what we're doing or why we're doing it? I just wish I could remember what to do.

127th Annual Upper Class Twit of the Year

2011-11-30T06:36:00.005-05:00

Many thanks to Main Line Sportsman and his keen memory for recalling this classic Monty Python skit. What was laughed at yesterday is tweedy fashion today. Check in next week when we'll explore Williamsburg heritage inspired by the sartorial aesthetic of Jethro Bodine.

Contestant No. 1 - Vivian Smith-Smythe-Smith, He's in the Grenadier Guards but can count up to four.

Contestant No. 2 - Simon-Zinc-Trumpet-Harris, He's an Old Etonian and married to a very attractive table lamp.

Contestant No. 3 - Nigel Incubator Jones, His best friend is a tree and in his spare time he's a stock broker.

Contestant No. 4 - Gervaise Brook-Hamster, He's in the wine trade and his father uses him as a waste paper basket.

Contestant No. 5 - Oliver St John-Mollusc, Another Old Etonian, his father was a cabinet minister and his mother won the Derby.

Jonathan Livingston Turkey

2011-11-29T08:39:00.000-05:00

Screw the other turkeys. I wanna fly.

Mail Order Monday: Burton By Post

2011-11-28T13:50:00.002-05:00

Mail order was my birthright as a kid. Sears and JC Penny? Mere amateurs. Sometime in the late '60s, just after the Whole Earth Catalog made its splash, an understated book came out called, The International Catalog of Catalogs. It was nothing more than the world's best catalogs in one book.

Segmented by product type, like cooking or camping or apparel, it might have included the UK's version of Sears, Burton By Post as seen above. The magic of international mail order was not so much in the ordering but in the dreaming. That, and it was an insight into a country. The difference in clothes, cameras, slippers and underwear. It was an amazing trip to take.

I miss that. I know I have the world at my finger tips via the Web but it isn't the same. In a catalog, there was a story. I don't care if it was intended or not. It was there and I was a part of it. I was shopping in Manchester or Rome or Mexico City.

It was a pain. International money orders at Deak-Perera, shipping charges, stamps...But something beyond magical happened when the package arrived. Foreign stamps everywhere, with sevens crossed and custom forms stuck to brown paper. I saved it all. I still save it all.

Holiday Hooch: The Redline

2011-11-26T11:18:00.011-05:00

One quart of strawberries...

Roasted on smoking hot cast iron.

Remember to turn off the fire alarm.

Puree in blender

Slowly pour over - I'm not a dollop kinda guy.

Lack of agave syrup & substitution of Prosecco - Not a good idea.

Works wonders with beer

Clean and crisp for the

-- perfect nightcap.

"Innovation that happens from the bottom up tends to be chaotic
but smart. Innovation that happens from the top down
tends to be orderly but dumb."
Curtis Carlson, CEO SRI International

The Redline cocktail was swiped from the Williams-Sonoma blog. Corporate to be sure, the blog features professional and amateur writers contributing useful content that's far from self serving and "free shipping."

The Redline itself seemed a good idea and I gave it a shot Thanksgiving night. A roasted strawberry puree added to a Spanish Cava with a suggestion of agave syrup. I didn't have any agave syrup. Instead, I substituted Prosecco thinking an Italian sparkler would make up for the sweetness I was losing from the missing agave.

Not so much. A tad bitter and boring. What the roasted puree did work well with was beer. Use something simple and clean like Budweiser or Becks. I poured the beer slowly over three fingers of puree in a pilsner glass. It works. A perfect end to Thanksgiving -- Especially since it was 60 degrees outside.

Giving Thanks In The Park

2011-11-24T12:18:00.002-05:00

Tourists shun the park when it rains. All but the most hard core runners and cyclists too. No place else am I more thankful for living in this city than here. On a rainy Autumn afternoon.

The Hog Killin'

2011-11-23T06:37:00.000-05:00

When I was 12, I lived in a rural area of North Carolina where people had dirt for floors and oil paper for windows. School friends thought my family rich because we had wall to wall carpeting. In late Fall, my friends told me about hog killings and how they usually came with a celebration. I saw only one and missed most of it, but I was in awe of how the hog was taken apart.

Stewart Voegltin of the blog, Blood & Grits, has seen a number of hog killings. We were talking about how they worked in Georgia vs NC, and I asked Stewart if he'd write a story. It runs in three consecutive parts this week. I offer this short story as something to savor when you have time this Thanksgiving. There's a unique sense of place and time that you can see and smell and hear.

'Hog Killin' Time', Monticello, GA Photographer & Date Unknown

Nothing to be Gained Here
by
Stewart Voegtlin

Maddox McKibbern stopped at the hilltop and stood hunched and trembling. His breath labored. He looked on the hollow below. Winter’d come to Polk County. Big Frog Mountain loomed north. Rolling broken white rock rose out of bare scarlet and white oak held briefly aflame only fortnight ago. Thin trees scattered up the mountain’s face.

Hawk lit from its perch and dropped quickly and then climbed into cold wind. Maddox watched the hawk. He listened to his breathing and his heart thudded heavy in his ears. Dirt covered Royal Crown Cola bottle jutted from his overall bib pocket and a dead garden spider spread in flattened black wheel upon its neck.

Ahead crows stood atop oaks softened by fog. Their gnarled and ancient boughs wandered in the gray and were spectral and boundless in the dawn. Caws came jagged and taunting and carried through the hollow. In the clearing smoke rolled heavy from the clapboard’s chimney blackened thickly with creosote, its bricks piled broken and crumbling from base to its mouth loosely agape.

Horace Ayle burst from the house in overalls stiff with dirt and blood. The door cracked closed behind him. Crows lit startled from trees. Sharp black wings sailed them headlong into morning breaking sunless and white and then they were gone.

Past them and through Cohutta mountains ran rivers Hiwassee, Conasauga, Ocoee. Mountain folk tricked trout from river riffle and traded their silvery sundried bodies for salt and shot shells in town. They walked mountain wood and took rutting buck and varmint from its recesses. They trickled back to homes hidden amongst trees. Farther out was electricity and invention. Men tied tracks to earth and steam locomotives no Ayle’d neither seen nor imagined thundered across an America unknown but somewhere strangely thereupon them.

Maddox knew churches half the size of the Ayle hollow. He knew creaks of their pine pews. He’d felt the sting in ways and means of salvation. The godly fire and profound chimera of their pastors. He’d known death too—least of which through host of Ayle hog killings.Maddox struggled mightily with his memory but he recalled the killings a might bit more celebratory than they’d come over time with family thinning to disease and misfortune.

He’d known Osal and Dathan’s dulcimers and Enoch’s fiddle. Leah, Rebekah, and Edna tending to brood ever-expanding, their names stolen from Sabbath sermon and never once seen in ink. Michah and Helda, Rachel and Ruth and Ram, and Zechariah and Zion and Zebedee, and Adina and Eunice and Bethany. Their laughter high and bright as Betelgeuse, hosts of cold bare feet bouncing hog’s bladder become ball by magic and breath. Those days gone—kinder times now only tales told from a patriarch unable to give them life with words that deftly escaped him.

—Here ah church an here ah steeple, Horace Ayle said. He smiled at Maddox as he wound his mottled hands together and brought them to his face and laughed. The steeple held short and crooked in awkward lambda, Horace’s forefinger taken at the knuckle a from snapping turtle summer past on Pope Hankinson’s pond.

His feet cracked from their broken leather boots and his back pumped in rhythm spun metronomic and incessant. Maddox pulled the soda pop from his bib and Horace took it and popped the top with the butt of his knife. He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank and it ran over his jaw in sibilant and muddy foam. Horace ran to the hog pen and poured some in the trough and then brought the bottle to his lips. Maddox heard Horace’s father Owen jabbering as he led a massive hog from the pen. Owen saw Maddox and nodded.

—Mornin, Owen said and kept his eyes hidden with his hat brim and whispered nonsense to the hog as he led him. His shotgun sat clasped in the crook of an arm. Horace doted over the hog and poured soda pop over his snout and cooed at him in a tone reserved for children fresh to the world and without notion of the life they’d been brought into. Horace turned and smiled at Maddox. His grin shattered with teeth misshapen and broken.

Owen let the leash fall and shouldered the gun. It boomed and the shot slammed over the hollow. The hog collapsed into spasms and squeals and struck furiously at the frozen ground. Heavy hooves hooked the earth and broke through to the mud below and they made sucking sounds as they pounded.

The hog held sharply to the world as it deliquesced within and without him, its awareness pulled shrieking into a darkness unquantifiable and ineffable. Steam rose from its haunches and back in a vapor that wound into ghostly helix and then was gone.

Maddox lit his pipe and drew from the stem and stared at the hog’s head and at the shot pattern—a black and smoking diadem between thin marbled eyes. Owen shucked the shell from the gun and the hull hit the ground without sound.

Maddox smoked and looked beyond the pen to the wood and the piles of river rock squaring off plot and the scores of wooden cruciform fastened with deer sinew and embellished with flowers dead and dried. Sons and daughters and their own. Owen handed Maddox a heavy brown glass bottle and Maddox drank from it and it tasted wet and sweet and of crabapples and then took his breath with power.

—Flurs pop up yonder after first killin, Owen said. Ol Pope Hankinson tell us theys crocus. Purty goshdern flurs. Theys come up right outta ground where we kill em. Like theys grown out the blood an flesh itself. Bettern any flurs I ever seen.

Owen pulled a braid of tobacco from his pocket and ripped it apart and chewed furiously. Maddox handed the bottle back to Owen and he bubbled it and spat. Owen did not talk for a while. He looked at Maddox and then looked at the bottle and then drank again from it.

—Whyn’t you elsewhere?

—Cause I’m here, Maddox said. Aint want to be nowhere else.

—Whyever not?

—Aint got no expectations. Aint nothin to expect. Reckon I’m familiar with it. Put me at ease. You put me at ease.

—Aint never understood that. I’d be elsewhere if I could. I reckon most of us would. Always struck me as queer. This wantin to be somewhere other than where we is.

Two shacks pulled together from a patchwork of scrap tin and clapboard leant amongst wire fencing set down for hens. A clothesline sagged diagonally. Drawers and britches and shirts wet and stained stiffened in the cold. Chickens hunted, pecked. Pine logs cracked and roared with flame underneath a steel tub. Water rolled in a boil and sloshed and sizzled over the sides of the tub.

Maubry Ayle stood to the porch. His head held cocked, his right eye tossed asunder from skittish hinny, its empty socket flat and gray with lid that lay upon it as a centipede static and arrow straight. His mouth split wide over five teeth crooked and brown. He yelled and motioned and then laughed as a conversation unfolded between the ears of his massive head without ever hitting the air. He stood restless and rocking and spoke to no one present but himself.

Kinard and Eugene Ayle helped Owen work. They ran rope around the hog’s hooves and hoisted the beast betwixt tripod brought together from broken hoes. Dark red blood dribbled from the thick pink head as it dangled above the dirt.

—Maubry, whynt you come on done ere? Kinard said. —Diddy gone need all are help now.

Maubry turned his back and laughed and cocked his head.

Kinard and Eugene wrapped their hands in rags and pulled the tub from the fire and scalded the hog with the boiling water. Its skin flushed and Owen worked a worn knife over the hog, shaving hairs from its heavy jowls and snout. Eugene and Kinard worked from the tail up, scraping knives over the hide.

Eugene patted the hog’s white gut and smiled. His teeth were terrific and drawn out of gums dark and brown like a dog’s. He stabbed the hog deep and quick and blood rushed fast and red from the wound. Owen moved under the hog with the pail and the blood struck the bottom of the pail and rang as it hit sounding bright and clean and then dull and full as it weighed down heavy with the warm blood. Owen turned and spat a thick wad of tobacco juice into the dirt.

Eugene collared the hog with his knife and Kinard parted the flesh at its neck and chopped at the vertebrae with an axe. Owen helped Eugene pull the head slowly from the body. They each grabbed under a jowl and laid a hand over top. They pulled and their boots backed up in the dirt and the carcass lifted slightly and gave, falling, wobbly, back into line.

Crows screamed from trees. Their cackling sounded as the cold itself, indifferent and irritable in its metastasis. Owen wiped the sweat from his forehead with a blood blackened bandana and he spanked the hog’s head. Its eyes bone white, dead.

End of Part I

Interview with author-

Stewart Vogeltin of Blood & Grits

More than anything else...What do you like to drink?
Most days I’m a beer drinker. (Nothing posh. I’m a 30-pack buyer.) But when it comes down to it—there’s nothing better than two fingers of Bourbon, neat. The cheap stuff: Rebel Yell, Old Grand Dad. Won't turn down Tennessee sour mash either. I love Jack Daniel's and George Dickel.

To eat?
If we're going to do that "last meal" thing, I'd have to say venison tartare with a few shakes of Tabasco and an ice-cold Budweiser out of the can.

To wear?
Army surplus fatigues or Levis, LL Bean chamois shirts, old sneakers. That's my uniform. If I'm in the field, it's Filson double tin pants, Pendelton wool shirt, Welch suspenders, GA boots, and my old Carharrt coat. If I've got to "look nice" it's my dad's hand-me-downs: Brooks Bros. oxfords, chinos, and Bean camp mocs. I've got all my dad's ties from the 70s and 80s, too. Really gorgeous obese ones with ludicrous hunting scenes on them—my version of the GTH thing.

To read?
I go through a lot of phases, and I'm a fickle reader, but I always return to Agee, Faulkner, Melville, Homer, Aeschylus, and The Bible. This is the stuff that gets the blood going and makes me want to simultaneously write and give up writing.

Used to read a lot of contemporary fiction and avant-garde stuff. French stuff. Really fussy writing. Now I can’t stand it. Same goes for contemporary fiction, but Larry Brown is a good one though. He passed away not too long ago unfortunately. His novel, Joe, is the finest Southern fiction written since Faulkner's Light In August. Incredibly moving and realistic.

What did you like that you don't anymore?
Politics. I was this huge political junkie throughout high school and college and even up through GW Bush's first term. I read three or four different papers a day. Blogs. Watched all the bullshit pundit shows. Argued with people about it. Now I have to agree with William Gass' assessment, and I'm paraphrasing here, "Politics: for those not in love."

Part II of Nothing To Be Gained Here and author interview continues tomorrow

Hog Killin' - Part II

2011-11-22T06:56:00.004-05:00

Emanuel County, Georgia, 1940s, Photographer Unknown, Georgia Archives

Nothing to be Gained Here
by
Stewart Voegtlin
Part II

—Come git the head boy, Owen said. He paused and searched for his breath and rubbed slowly at his chest as if to free it. Horace cradled the hog’s head in his hands and he laughed and rocked on his feet.

—You gone take that to maw, Owen said, breathing heavily. He pushed Horace on and pointed to the house. Elsie Ayle stood at the door, hawking snuff upon the dirt. Her gray hair stood in a frightwig wiry and filthy and her breasts hung as heavy stones in a sling. She scratched at her sex and smelled her hand and wiped snuff and spittle from her lip. Behind her snakes sat piled two deep, their wire cages covered in stained quilts. Elsie could smell them and the strange musk of their skins.

—Come on boy, Elsie said, waving Horace up on the porch. She spat and took the hog’s head from him and disappeared into the dark house. A crazed lot of cats slipped from the door and stopped and marveled at Eugene and Kinard as they pulled organs from the hog.

Horace pointed and laughed and drew circles in air. He watched as a hawk floated above. Its wings teetered as it moved through ourobouros in a repetition at once banal and divine. Vultures joined the hawk and traced slow circle and dropped slowly closer to the earth and Horace pointed and laughed.

Eugene’s knife worked through connective tissue and the lungs fell and he ran the blade across the heart’s valves and plucked it from the carcass, the organ bright with blood. Kinard pulled the diaphragm with two hands and it came quick—a gore soaked cloth torn from its table. Eugene cut and pulled and spleen and liver were put into the steel tub, their shape not unlike a tortoise’s shell. The intestines rolled out and Eugene and Kinard cussed and fought with one another trying to keep them from the dirt. Owen laughed while Maddox stood and smoked his pipe, giddy and nearly drunk in the early November morning.

—Somethin, aint it, Maddox.

—What that, Owen.

—Them hogs we feed em and take after em an theys with us for years an then theys not.

—Way things work.

—Reckon so. Still aint sit right with me. How them go from bein to not bein like so.

—Aint gone there myself.

—Spose it get me right hard, Maddox. Spose it cut close on me. Soon ah gone be led out my pen and taken from bein to not.

—We all is, Owen.
—Reckon ah might could have some of what theys have. That not knowin. Somethin said for that. They aint known it comin. And then it do. When it come it jus come. It jus happen.

—Try an tell me you aint in a better place for it.

—Aint feel like it. Aint feel at all like it. Wager there aint nothin gained here.
—Here ah church an here ah steeple an open they door an seen all they peoples, Horace said, his fingers folded over and writhing in a mess of clotted blood.

Maddox bubbled the bottle.

End of Part II

Author interview continued-

Stewart Voegtlin hunting, 2008

More than anywhere else...Where do you like to be?
If it's not in a hunting blind or standing in a river fly-fishing, it's at home with my wife and 20-month-old son. He's changed my life in so many ways and made me want to be things I never thought I could be.

Where do you want to go?
To Oxford, MS to Faulkner's home, Rowan Oak. My church I've yet to attend.

Where did you come from?
The dirty south. Atlanta, Georgia. It gets a bad rap, and rightfully so. But you can drive for an hour and see nothing but mountains and water and converse with people who don't know what an i-Phone app or Kindle is. That's my idea of heaven.

Where do you wish you came from?
I used to be infatuated with New York City. But now it makes me nervous and depressed. I'm older and need quiet to think. I don't know how you stand it sometimes.

Where are you?
I'm in my den typing on a borrowed laptop while my son tears the house apart. It's time for us to go on our morning run and he's getting antsy.

Part III of 'Nothing To Be Gained Here' and author interview concludes tomorrow.

Hog Killin' Part III

2011-11-21T06:07:00.000-05:00

Photo from, Hands on History, Great Smokey Mountains N. P.

Nothing to be Gained Here
by
Stewart Voegtlin
Part III

Jacob’s ladder fell from the sky in columns lit white and wide and vultures held high above in perpetual circle now descended wholly and their shadows danced upon the frozen ground below.

—You gone have to put them sumbitches down diddy, Kinard said. —We still aint done butcherin the hog out.

Kinard and Eugene slid their knives down the hog’s back and pulled up hunks of thick white fat. Owen placed the water tub back on the fire and the steel belly dimpled and popped in the heat. Kinard and Eugene tossed fat into the tub and it screamed and sizzled. The shadows grew in the dirt. Horace clapped and rocked. He laughed as the vultures pulled closer to the earth and the sound of the wings beat in his ears.

Horace tugged at Maddox’ overalls and held his hand out. Maddox extended his hand and Horace set a tiny tortoise in his palm and it rose from its carapace and crept and then fell to its side and flipped, its plastron bone white and forked as a wishbone broken two.

Owen limped inside and returned with a handful of shot shells. He fed two into the action of his gun. He chambered a shell. He squinted in the sunlight and his cheek bunched against the wood of the stock. The shotgun boomed and shot sprayed into a vulture’s breast and ripped through its wings and it fell to the ground.

It shrieked and mewed and its talons contracted as it died. Black feathers shook in the air and wafted slowly to the earth. The other birds beat higher into the sky and chattered and wheeled slower circles over the house. The fat bubbled in the tub as the lard rendered and it smelled salty and rich.

—Aint ah bad shot, said Maddox.

—Could put ah goshdernd blowhole in you quicker than hell, said Owen.

Maddox laughed and looked at Owen and the shotgun he cradled. His forearm was heavy and scarred—an ampersand heralding message in blue ink. & THEYE SHALLE TAKE UP SERPENTS, it said running from wrist to elbow, stilted font jagged as mountains.

Clouds became one and the white rolled into gray and snowflakes fell and dropped to the ground without sound. Owen set his gun over his shoulder and looked at Maddox and spat a run of juice to the ground and rubbed it wide with his boot.

—This’n just like any other day, Owen said. Aint no different. Even if you says you known what to expect. Aint no nothin different. Aint a thing. Just any other day.

Maddox smiled and drank deeply from the bottle and handed it back to Owen.

—You make it good then, Maddox said.

—Show me how to bygod, Owen said and turned and walked towards the house as snow fell heavy from the sky.

-30-

Author interview continued:

Can you tell me where the story came from? That and the when and the where of it?

I tend to write a lot about people killing and dressing animals and I don't think I'll ever stop writing about it. There's a sort of quasi-religious aspect to these sorts of things that gets glossed over. Like when the kid pops his first deer and gets the blood on his face and then you grill up the heart and eat it, or when the first hog of the season is butchered out and the bladder is inflated so the kids can kick it around like a soccer ball while the adults make blood sausage or cracklins.

They're rituals, and they're difficult to sit through, but they are illuminating, and unbelievably satisfying. You kill something. You honor it. It lives on through cooking, preservation, whatever. It's simple and beautiful.

'Nothing to be Gained Here' is an excerpt from a larger work (i.e. novel) called "Shaking Through." It appears here in much different form. Characters are renamed, the setting's different, the ending's different, etc.

Long story short, in the novel, the family lives in a milltown, tenant style. The mill owner sells the property right out from under the workers to the railroad so a line can be run through town. Mill shuts down. No work, little food. The family butchers out the last of its hogs and wonders where to go from there. Actually not very different from the Ayle Family in "Nothing to Be Gained Here."

Think about all the things you get out of the hog: lard, blood, meat. Even the parts you never see at the grocery store get turned into incredible food. The head and tongue turned into headcheese. Ears boiled down and fried up crispy. Brains scrambled into eggs for breakfast. Trotters are either boiled down and pickled are stuffed with potatoes and more pork and fried up. Same for the tail.

There's the liver, heart, spleen, lights. All good. We haven't even gotten to the belly or hams or ribs... These are the things we miss out on today. I hope we somehow find a way to put down the fucking smartphone and get back to where we were a 100 years ago. But I doubt it.

The Trad's S/S Collection For Women

2011-11-20T15:40:00.007-05:00

Back to 1983 and, 'Sign of the Times' by The Belle Stars

I'm always amazed by what works around here (including me - Arh,arh,arh). Thursday's post featuring 1986 Apple Computer apparel tripled visitation while almost 800 hits occurred in a single hour; 12-1 pm. That tells me these were new visitors since my regulars are MIA during lunch but peak when people should be working.

Concurrently, I've been asked to write about women's style and my vision of the cutting edge of Trad haute couture. To that end, it is with great joy, and expectations of a reserved seat next to Anna at the next Chanel show, that I present The Trad's, S/S Collection for Women. I call it, 'Sign of the Times - 1983.' (It'll feel just like a fashion show if you listen to the video while scrolling down.)

'Sign Of The Times - 1983' The Trad's S/S Collection For Women

Jean or Gene? Clare will tell you it's not gonna matter -- They're both gonna love you in this pre-washed Chambray. Who knew a gal could get a center vent?!

These Green Bay Tackers are at home in chic Kenosha or a Supper Club in Door County. So light they won't hear you coming. At least not until after the fish boil.

Sarah-Jane always gets a little ego boost whenever she wears this polypropylene jacket to the Four Season's Grill Room. It never fails to get frolicking owner Mr Niccolini running to her aid.

Cardigan and Chino. Who says boys have all the fun. Judy likes to show a little of that GS-15 'tude when she's blowing off steam from her gig at the GAO and getting crabs at The Quarter Deck.

"Heritage isn't just for fruit," says Joyce who likes practical polyester in her skirt as much as she likes synth in her bands. Follow her to The Zebra Lounge in these tasty Heritage shoes. They're hipper than Red Wings and'll make you taller too.

Stella can tell you a thing or two about her college library and how easy it is to undress the shirtdress. Her carrel will never be the same despite her choice of university stripe.

It's hard to find nice trim nowadays but Eugenie knows where to find it. Hermes and Chanel bags have nothing on heavy white duck -- that you can't monogram, Hermes or Chanel.

A penny for your loafer. He doesn't work, can't pay the rent...whoops! Wrong loafer, but your girl friends will be Chino Tan with envy when you cross your legs at the King Cole Bar in these awesome Kicks.

Miranda loves to drink Lapsang Souchong in her Oolong walking shorts. A nice selection of cake as well is always appreciated at high tea in the Drake Hotel but best avoid the Coq d'Or. Too much wood in there.

You don't have to save the Kiltie for the golf course. And you don't have to know if this is leather or something else. A little mystery never hurt anyone.

Dance Like The Go-Go's

2011-11-18T08:51:00.003-05:00

Many thanks to Oyster Guy for mentioning this video in yesterday's comment section. Most people don't look at comments and that's a shame. If the post is the cake, then surely the comment section is the baking soda. I try and publish all comments. Even those accusing me of being gay. Which is impossible. At my age, every time I bend over the blood rushes to my head and I get so dizzy I almost fall over.

Head Over Heels For The 1986 Collection

2011-11-17T08:02:00.003-05:00

Am I the only one who thinks the '80s are making a comeback? No. Svpply thinks so too, but I may be the only one who thinks Belinda Carlisle looked better chubby. Can't stop myself.

Enduring Style's Enduring Lines

2011-11-16T09:25:00.000-05:00

Jammed, crammed and loads of fun.