Bert Pulitzer's Survivalon Jacket

See the orange jacket on the roof?

 How about the yellow sweat shirt? 

It amazes me how orange and yellow stand out on city roofs.  And while I lean towards understatement in most everything -- there's a peculiar Southern fetish I picked up for loud colors. I've always loved 'em with the understanding they have their place. 

 Andover Shop

Bert Pulitzer sent me a Survivalon jacket; what we called wet weather gear when I lived on a boat. At $495, this isn't for off shore racing but it's nautical origins make it perfect for a rainy Fall day. I wore it during a visit to the Andover Shop in Cambridge.  On my way out to lunch, Larry took it off my back and threw it on a rig. I understand he had five offers in an hour.

"Don't pick a fight, but if you find yourself in one I suggest you make damn sure you win."  John Wayne

Pulitzer created the jacket back in the '70s and used a tightly woven cotton developed by the RAF in WWII. And, while that's cool enough for me, John Wayne bought one, which might be cool enough for you. The Duke liked it so much he ordered five more for his yacht, the Wild Goose.  And I think I know why.

Back in the '70s and '80s, before Gore Tex really caught on, a lot of sailing jackets and parkas were made out of  a PVC like fabric that was hard as a brick.  I had one from Lands' End, circa 1984. It didn't breathe, had two lousy outside pockets and in the rain it felt like wet particle board.

Logo inspired by Belgian Parachutist Wings? 

Contrary to it's look, the Survivalon has a supple feel to it.  It's amazingly comfortable, keeps you dry and it breathes.  I've worn this jacket a lot in the last month and even the hood, unrolled and pulled from the collar, works well.  It's wide enough to give decent  peripheral vision and it stays on your head without having to pull it tight resulting in your looking like a seven year old in a slicker at the bus stop.

In a bind, this coat and a Shetland sweater (think, royal blue, bright red, kelly green) will see you through temps as low as the mid-30s.  I should know.  I wore it last night in NY's first snow storm.  In the low visibility, it probably kept me from being run over by a city bus. Granted, it won't protect me in a knife fight like my old Lands' End jacket but I haven't had one of those, knock wood, since a pissed off girlfriend came at me with my own Randall.

The interior of the jacket is cotton with three inside waterproof pockets and one big enough for an iPad. But remember, this isn't a waterproof jacket...it's water repellent. Having said that, I've been in rain and snow with this thing and have managed to stay bone dry.  If you want to wear a suit with this jacket, and I have no idea why you would - other than I'm old and out of it, go up a size.  With just a shirt or sweater...it runs pretty true to size.

Bert tells me this cloth will eventually take on patina.  I can't wait.  That doesn't mean I'm gonna take sand paper to it or distress it in my backyard with a chain and a snowblower...It means it'll come by its patina in an honest way.  And if the weather continues like this -- it should be nicely broken in by next month.

Comes in black, orange, yellow, fawn, navy and blue. Order from Survivalon Web Site Here

A Man's Movie: The Last Detail

"You know what I like most about this uniform? The way it makes your dick look."


" I knew a whore once in Wilmington. She had a glass eye... used to take it out and wink people off for a dollar. "



Be sure to check out Randy Quaid @ 4:24

The Last Detail (1973) was as important a film to me as The Wild Bunch (1969) and Electra Glide in Blue (1974). "Bunch" and "Blue" are the book ends of off beat films whose sole contrarian purpose in Hollywood seemed to be, "Fuck the money - Lets make the picture we wanna make." Stephen Spielberg would end that in 1975 with the new concept of "Blockbuster" via Jaws.

I was a 15 year old high school student who was geek enough to join Naval Junior ROTC. And like so many things in life -- I did it for the cool clothes: Naval Academy uniforms consisting of khakis, which required military press -- dress blues -- An anchor cap with khaki and white covers and my favorite, an almost black, navy CPO shirt with matching tie. Worn with the ultra-cool 'tie tuck.'

My best friend's father worked with Dad at Continental Army Command at Ft Monroe. Ed and I traveled the old post slapping 'Sailors Have More Fun' bumper stickers on anything they'd stick to. Prior to the Army - Navy game, a foiled attempt was made to spray paint, "Go Navy" on the Ft. Monroe water tower. Never wear all black against a grey background.

I saw The Last Detail at the post movie theater. It would be my first 'R' rated movie and it would contribute a cornucopia of vulgar expressions to my already impressive 'Army Brat' archive. Robert Towne wrote the screenplay from a novel by Darryl Ponicsan. Hal Ashby directed, even though he was busted for marijuana possession in Canada while scouting locations and Jack Nicholson considered it his best role. Of course...no one has ever seen it.

Hal Ashby (1929-1988), Otis Young (1932-2001) and Jack Nicholson

I watch it today and can easily see what attracted me. Two petty officers are assigned Shore Patrol detail to escort an 18 yr old seaman to prison in Portsmouth. What begins as a scheme to collect per diem, turns into a road trip of Schlitz, whores, a Penn Station bathroom fight with Marines and a picnic in the middle of a New Hampshire Winter.


"You forgot the mustard?"

Sewn into the humor is bleak darkness we don't see in film anymore. Hell, even Towne and Ashby changed the ending from the book where 'Last Detail' predicts the outcome for the take-no-shit Buddusky played by Nicholson. Ultimately, life is a shit sandwich and few of us get any bread. How you live it and what you make out of it will not only define you...but you'll have to wear it as well.

Mulhal: You ever been married? Buddusky: Not so you'd notice.

It's half-time...

I liked the game but I liked this even more.

Douglas Fairbanks, Jr - A Life

Photos for The Trad by Alice Olive

It's an odd thing...digging through a dead man's belongings. Low estimates on Lobb, Huntsman and Lock had me salivating like a hyena until I was struck by a thunder bolt of guilt. A conscious revelation of picking over the wool, leather and felt of a man I only knew through books and film -- It suddenly seemed wrong.

Standing at Fairbank's desk, I looked down on the snap shots, post cards and newspaper cartoons he felt fit to place under glass. I picked up his Dunhill brief case, placed it on the desk and opened the leather flap looking for something...maybe loose change. I don't really know.

The Rolodex was magical. Not because of the famous names, but because of the local grocers, a car rental car company behind Kate Hepburn and the florist who delivered long stems roses in NYC for $50 with two hours notice. Still, it was refreshing to see Princess Grace's signature in a guest book -- Her letters fat, cursive and squat -- just like a 16 year old high school girl.

Then it hits you. A life represented by lots in a room-- together -- like a museum exhibit. Perhaps more so -- just not for very long. Soon it all disappears among the bidders -- never to be seen in one place again. That's the magic. Whether you bid or not, stop by to see a life, and make of it what you will. I discovered a man whose sartorial interests paled compared to his storied life. And that discovery didn't cost a thing.

Douglas Fairbanks, Jr Auction, September 13, 2011, Doyle New York, 175 East 87th, NYC (212) 427 2730 On line catalog here.

Frameless Duck Head

We believe what we're told and rarely trust our own instincts. A museum is as good a place to start as any. Priceless art hangs on a wall and for years people line up to look and admire. Not so much because they know anything about art, but because they've been told the painting is art and, this is always important, it's worth a shit load of money.

One day the curator learns the painting is a fake and -- what elicited so much respect -- is no longer worth looking at. So what happened? One day it's art. The next it's not. The painting didn't change but perceptions did when the authenticity was taken away.

Museums offer a frame to art. Not the one you see with the painting but the one that gives you a perception. "Well, it's a museum so this must be art." Same with a popular restaurant, "It's impossible to get a reservation so the food must be good." With wine, "Robert Parker and The Wine Spectator gave it a 90. It must be good." Art, food and wine are given a 'frame' to help our increasingly lost and vacuous culture find their way, without much effort, to the "good stuff."

And since all this is about making a buck - too many times the black velvet Elvis painting gets the nice frame while real art sits frameless and ignored in a dusty corner. When Goody's, the southern discount store, was going out of business I was traveling around a big chunk of the Southeast on business.

Goody's carried Duck Heads and I was positive their demise would spell the same for Duck Head. I stopped in every Goody's I could find and bought up every pair of plain front pants for insane discounts.

It's been a few years but Duck Heads are finally back. The classic trousers that are the sartorial symbol of the khak-i-fied south are the same shade of boiled peanuts and just as salty. Duck Head never had much of a frame. They don't need one. I know my memories connect me to these trousers in ways I can't even begin to describe.

You don't need to frame your memories -- 'cause they're something you understand and know. More Duck Head to come. In the mean time visit their web site and Face Book page.

Duck Head is offering a coupon code DHW186520 for 20% off and Free Shipping on orders over $100.

Wide Boys

A Wide Tie: Purple Label Shirt/ Tie & Turnbull Asser Blazer


A Wide Boy: Hardy Rodenstock aka Meinhard Gorke

They say they're coming back -- As if they ever left. In London, 'Wide Boy' is a derogatory term for a working class schemer. A phony always on the make. Someone who deals in goods of questionable authenticity. Hardy Rodenstock (not his real name) allegedly created bottles of rare wine (not his real job) and sold them to the world's biggest suckers. Rich people. I suppose it's hard to be poor and a sucker -- At least not for very long.

But Rich people can be suckers and live long lives -- As long as the money holds out. Kip Forbes paid $156,000 for a suspect bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. I doubt it has kept him up nights. You can read about Hardy/Meinhard and Kip and Robert Parker and Michael Broadbent and lots of other "experts" in the true mystery, "The Billionaires Vinegar" by Benjamin Wallace. You'll never look at the wine world or experts in the same way.

Someone told me they were an 'expert' since they had read a 'book' on a hot new collectable. Of course, this party also sells these hot new collectables so I'm sure they know what they're doing. The point is, you should know what you're doing -- But that's not always possible. Like the $300 I threw away on a fake box of Cuban Cohiba cigars in 1994. Or, back in '76 when I gave $25 to a hooker -- who told me to drive around the corner where she'd meet me -- only to find a Fayetteville cop who asked me what the fuck I was doing and convinced me to leave before I got into, 'real trouble.'

There's a lotta Wide Boys in the world but there's not a lotta Wide Ties. Least not in the High Street shops. That's an old Purple Label up there from six or seven years ago. Word is they're coming back. Which means some of you are gonna have to have one or two. And that means you'll have to buy shirts with a spread collar. And suits with wider lapels. And a watch with a larger dial. And... You see where this going? No? Then I have a box of amazing Cuban cigars and if you'll give me $300 -- I'll meet you around the corner.

J. D. LaRue - My Kinda Hero

Real Characters

"...a fake Rolex, cheap Italian shoes and a Member's Only jacket"

Kiel Martin - July 26, 1944 - December 28, 1990


The Hand Joke

It takes courage for an actor to portray a fuck up week in and week out. Kiel Martin's J. D. LaRue was that fuck up writ large. Martin would have been 67 today had he not died of lung cancer in 1990. Chain smoking, heavy drinking and twice divorced, it was said he didn't so much act as he played himself.

Stephen Bocho's brilliant Hill Street Blues took the cop show and put it on its Sam Browne belt. Basket weaved into the boiler plate police procedural were long looks into character's personal lives. Many times these diversions were bizarre but almost always honest. The good guys could be bad and the bad guys could be good.

Shortly after graduating from the police academy, I was assigned to the midnight to eight shift with a sergeant who would park our patrol car outside his girlfriend's double wide trailer, instruct me to listen to the radio and if we were called, honk the horn.

Hill Street Blues captured truth and humor in police work rather than the fictional hand jobs given in films like Dirty Harry or Bullitt. It looked into the darkness of people's lives which is where the gold is. And nobody on the show had more gold than J.D. LaRue. Although it was surely plated.

A swaggering detective with a fake Rolex, cheap Italian shoes and a Member's Only jacket, LaRue could have easily been that sergeant I worked for. A huge ego hid a mountain of insecurity, infidelity and drink. Easily hated the first season, his character, like the others, became more complex, sympathetic and real.

So here's to John LaRue and to Kiel Martin. Cooler than fifty Steve McQueens and a hundred James Deans put together. Happy Birthday.

"God Tells Me What To Do But The Devil's My Secretary"

Subway Inn 143 E. 60th St at Lexington Avenue

The first of a series celebrating NYC dive bars. And while the honesty can be too much -- a good dive bar is a refreshing contrast to the vacuous sports bar where Bud Lite consumption is subsidized by insurance company expense accounts belonging to pasty white men in golf shirts, Dockers and Cole Haan Kilties.

The Subway Inn's neon is like a roaring Christmas Eve fire to the eyes of the afflicted. Tourists hurry their children by and must wonder how something so low brow can be so close to Bloomingdales and the Container Store. It's almost impossible to see into the bar through the window but once inside any sense of real danger is left to unknowing imaginations.

I was weaned as a 19 year old on the strip bars along Hay Street in Fayetteville, NC so my bench marking may be out of whack. The inside is not dangerous at all. In fact, the place could use a rougher crowd. Certainly a poorer one. Shots are $5 and bottled beer is less. Hipsters take over on weekends and regulars have it on week nights but to see the hard core pop in around noon. A beer at lunch ain't gonna kill you, but the guy at the end of the bar might.

Rating: The Classic 8/10

On a Road: Onwentsia - 1988

July 2, 1988 @ 3:56 PM Lake Forest, IL

It was a place I didn't know. The Midwest. Chicago. The North Shore. Lake Forest. Onwentsia Road. I ran in the morning before my wedding. Red and black running shorts the color of a WW I Fokker. Cut off arms of a size too large white Lacoste. I ran toward the lake. Already warm but without humidity. Crisp, clean and bright.

Lake Forest was stuffed with giant houses and English gardens, but Buicks were parked in the driveways. A simple Midwest that loved to laugh but could barely stand to part with $5 for a pair of socks. The Mercedes and Ferrari dealership never saw the life-long residents I knew. Even Don's Foods was the playground of the new rich while common sense and coupons dictated Sunset Foods to my new in-laws.

The Northwestern Metra filled in for the second car to a city 45 minutes away. A 1BR condo at 910 North Michigan was $30,000 whike the exodus to the suburbs was in high swing. The bars near Wrigley were simple and cheap. No one cared what you did or who you were. They only cared if you were gonna buy 'em an Old Style. This picture, taken at 3:56 PM on July 2nd in 1988, was the start of it.

Off My Back: The Airmail Shirt

Lighter than airmail


Should always be rolled up


A love of buttons


Who doesn't like rabbits?

Back in the late '80s and early '90s my A.O. (Area of Operations for the civilians) in Manhattan was bordered by the Algonquin Hotel to the west and Brooks Brothers to the east. All I needed fell into that two block perimeter. Chipp. J Press. Brooks. JR Cigar. Mr Hoy at the Algonquin Bar. It was a target rich environment for a salesman from Chicago and easy on the shoe leather.

Today, as a resident of Manhattan, my favored A.O. is a perimeter down Lexington Avenue bordered by my barber, Paul Mole at 74th Street (ask for Gary the Russian) to the north and Garnet Wines at 68th Street to the south (where there's a stunning blonde who really knows her Bordeaux and Burgundy). Peter (hold 'em up) Elliot. R.O.P. infested Swifty's. J. McLaughlin. Neils Coffee Shop. Lexington Bar and Book. And a favorite, Roberta Roller Rabbit.

I picked up this RRR shirt last year thinking it screamed Independence. Hand blocked and dried in the sun, it's lighter than the airmail envelopes I remember from the '60s. Same color theme too. Break out the white shorts and boat shoes-- Hard to go wrong. $85 and unique to boot. There's not a lot for men but what there is should meet your sartorial mission for Summer. Avoidance of VV. Their web site is here.

The Friday Belt - Bloody Bloody

A good Bloody is hard to find. There are those who will tell you that using a mix is all wrong. They're wrong. And they sure as hell haven't been drinking as long as I have. A good Bloody is a very personal thing. There are those who like an insipid, characterless, watered down version and the idea is, if they've made it sans mix it's better than a mix. There are also those who turn right when everybody else is turning left.

McClure's is out of Brooklyn. The Bloody mix ($10) and pickles ($9) are not cheap and not for everyone. They have a freshness and soul about them fitting for lazy Sunday brunches of challah French banana toast, lots of bacon, poached eggs with white truffle oil and the Beatles, Rubber Soul, playing in the background (I read Xaviera Hollander's, Happy Hooker when I was 16 while listening to Rubber Soul over and over. Norwegian Wood never fails to put me in a certain mood).


The guy wearing this belt says, 'Bloody' a lot. 'Bloody hell, he's a bloody wanker. Why is he taking a bloody picture of my bloody belt?' My English friends don't understand my blog and that's okay ('...why would he bloody do that?'). I asked Joe for a photo of his belt and he happily obliged. Horse hair from somewhere in South America. I've been looking for one without any luck. If anyone has any leads please email me.

So it's not my belt and it's not my Bloody Mary but they both have real soul. The unusual is always packed with character and courage in that the belt and mix are not made for masses, but for a small and appreciative audience. That's what brave people and companies do. You don't always have to be a prostitute.



Update: It's called a Polo Belt and the source is here. At 30 pounds, it seems a steal and the company, Estribos, is located in Surrey and sells over the internet. Many thanks to the anonymous reader who sent the link. The belt above (Royal Dragoon Guards - 32 Pounds) is a Gaucho belt and available here. Not many sources but, happily, all are skull and crossbone free.

Le Veau d'Or Wins James Beard Award

"You go from one place to the other and you bullshit." Robert Treboux


"It's not classic old - it's classic ancient at this point." Cathy Treboux




It's far from hip. Michael Williams of 'A Continuous Lean' thinks it's an 'old folk's home.' Maybe, but it has more heart than any restaurant in this city. I've taken a lot of people here and insisted a lot of people take me here. There's no place I feel more at home and I'm not from anywhere.

The first time I stepped down into the dark and, at the time, smoke filled room was in 1988 and it immediately spoke to the part of me that is always looking for... I don't know - It's hard to describe. It's: Wrigley not Comiskey - J. Press not J. Crew - Jumbo lump not Krab. It's not 'distressed.' Instead there's an honesty that's perfectly happy with itself. Know what I mean?

I've met authors here and magazine publishers, photographers, film makers, fashion designers, teachers, wine merchants and insurance salesmen. So far I haven't met anyone from the NFL or a reality show. They're all down the street eating in a place they read was cool. No, Veau d'Or is not cool and I suspect it never will be. For that alone Robert and Cathy Trebeaux deserve congratulations.

The Real Playboy: Victor Lownes

NBC announced yesterday a Mad Men like series this coming Fall called, The Playboy Club. Maybe it'll work. In the interview below actor Eddie Cibrian (Nick Dalton) tells us the series is about the Chicago Playboy Club, "...where life is magic. Where anyone can be anything they want to be."



Hugh Hefner was a great magazine editor but not so great in business. Little known, but far more interesting than Hef is a business man and the real Playboy behind Playboy, Victor Lownes. A marketing genius, Lownes loved telling friends the Playboy Club was for loser salesmen from Ohio.




Russell Miller's 1984, Bunny - 'The Real Story of Playboy' is the only book I've found which exposes Lownes and his critical involvement in the company. In short, Lownes is the erudite sophisticate while Hefner is the Midwest rube swilling Pepsi and eating fried chicken and ham sandwiches prepared by gourmet chefs. While reading the book I couldn't help but picture Hefner as Jethro Bodine working on a math problem.


Marilyn Cole 1972

Lownes was with Playboy 26 years before he was fired by Hefner (rare Lownes interview here). Most agree he was canned because centerfold Marilyn Cole preferred his company over Hef's. They married and are still together today. Once Lownes was out; Playboy took a dive. Lownes knew the casinos and clubs were subsiding the magazine. It's not clear whether Hefner knew or, I'm guessing, he would never have let Lownes go.


Victor Lownes 2010 (from Spitalfields Life)

Before being fired Lownes was called to Chicago from London to fix dropping club visitation. Standing in his office overlooking the Drake Hotel, Lownes looked down to the street and saw a commotion of reporters and TV news cameras covering the arrival of a VIP at the hotel. Lownes ran through the Playboy offices collecting women, put them in Bunny costumes and made protest signs, "HEF UNFAIR!" "BUNNYS DATE CUSTOMERS!" "WE WANT TO DATE!"

The Bunnys "picketed" in front of the Playboy building and without much persuasion the press at the Drake turned around and saw their news story. Playboy Bunnys protesting the unfair, "No dating customers" policy of the Playboy clubs. The demonstration hits the six o'clock news and Hefner makes a statement that night allowing Bunnys to date customers. Just in time for the 11 o'clock news. Club visitation soars. Sounds like something Don Draper would do.

And now for something painfully honest...