Princeton - 1966

(click on image to enlarge)

"If your picture is fuzzy and your name is spelled backwards, we apologize, but we did our best."

So said the editor of the Princeton yearbook in 1966. The 'Bric-A-Brac' had some great years in the '60s and a couple not so great. '66 was exceptional and like any good year book it captured a time not just for the students but, it turns out, for those of us who didn't have the SAT or the net worth.

Who knew we'd be admiring the insouciant ease of high water khakis and white socks 45years later. What really strikes me is the reality of it all. This is not a carefully staged Polo ad shot by Bruce Weber but simply the day to day of a school year shot by a freshman.

It would have made more sense to post images from the '64 -'65 yearbook - the year Take Ivy was shot on campus - but the '66 yearbook is so good I couldn't wait. I promise to post '65 tomorrow. Until then, enjoy a look at Princeton and 1966 from the student perspective. Different from Take Ivy but no less artful.

Not Every Plaid Is Madras - Not Every Madras Is Plaid

Brooks Brothers Catalog - Spring 1984

Brooks Brothers Catalog - Spring 1987

Off My Back: Covert Madras

Keeping Cool Covertly

No Bleeding. No Patches. No Bandwagon.

It's been hot in NYC. I'm not saying it's Georgia hot - which is the most miserable kind of heat known to man. Thick, sticking and humid. But it's hot here. Like standing in front of a pizza oven hot. It takes a real man to put on a tie and suit in this weather. And it takes a smart man.

While everybody and his brother (not so smart) are all "kicking it" in patch madras blazers, shirts, pants and shorts, the covert cool are hiding out in solid madras. This stuff is whisper thin. Like wearing a leaf. It breathes and looks grown up with a poplin or tan mohair suit. Best of all - - No one will know you're wearing madras. Give those mean old men at J. Press a call. They'll kit you up and keep you cool.

BeSpeak, BeSpoke, BeStylish - A Night With Flusser

I tried to edit these down. I really did. But Alan Flusser's digs are too amazing. The understated and rich luxe of 3 East 48th is unlike any haberdasher you've ever seen. Last night folks gathered for a demonstration of BeSpeak, an iPhone application to assist in getting dressed. I haven't tried it yet but will.

Chris Hogan of Off The Cuff worked with Flusser in getting this whole BeSpeak train outta the station. To sum up, it's like having Flusser and his associate, Mark Rykken giving you advice while your looking at clothes. Better these two than the wife or girlfriend, "Hey, honey. This tie really pops with your shirt."

There is no 'poppin' at Alan Flusser. Only understated and restrained goods presented logo free. There's a lot to see in NYC. Flusser is something you can sneak off to while the family waves signs outside The Today Show. Just be careful and save enough for the trip home.

Remembering GMS

It was a small serif monogram centered on the top of the pocket. The shirt was always a white oxford button down. The monogram was always blue. I never heard an employee call him, 'the boss.' He was, 'GMS.' "GMS is pissed off about this." "You gotta stay at the hotel GMS owns." "GMS won't let me go." And the infamous, "GMS wants cinnamon toast."

For almost four years I handled an account called the NY Yankees. There are a lot of stories that came from it. But for now there is only the monogram. GMS. By the time I came along GMS was wearing white turtlenecks. But employees wore his 'hand me down' white oxfords with his blue monogram. From the man who cut grass to the man who bought the insurance. Those monogrammed shirts were everywhere.

Dark and Stormies with ACL

(photos by Michael Williams - Nikon D300s)

Michael Williams from the cash inhaling blog (I mean that in a good way), A Continuous Lean, joined the Foxtrot and I for dinner and a viewing of, Jazz On A Summer's Day. Cocktail hour screamed for Dark and Stormies, which I assume - one - is the caloric equivalent of a Whopper with cheese. Which explains why I look like Jabba the Hut (or is it Pizza the Hut?). He authored a very flattering post about the evening's menu and our friendship here.

Press Only: Esquire's Big Black Book

Karen Skinner of County Dry Cleaners (Photo by Simon Apps)

Click on image to enlarge

A Man's Movie: Barry Lyndon (1975)

It was in the reign of George III that the aforesaid personages lived and quarelled; Good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor they are all equal now.

The 18th century according to Stanley Kubrick (and William Thackeray). If you've never seen this - you're a twat. Just kidding. Sort of. Don't rent this. Buy it. And wear it out. It's perfection in every way.

In a world of 'awesome' big budget, Adam Sandler stupidity - your viewing this will graduate you from a black, notch lapel, "tux" from The Men's Wearhouse to a midnight blue, Mohair dinner jacket with peak lapel. You will see art move on screen. You will be moved. And not just into a bigger house.

If you don't know Lyndon - - I envy you the experience of seeing it for the first time. Not a word is said in this clip. Res ipsa loquitur, baby.

The Older Woman

(images from Models 1)

I hadn't been in New York City long. Long enough that the $40 seersucker trousers I was wearing were well past their expiration date. It was early October and I was with college friends at the Surf Club on the upper east side. I was introduced to a red head and was told she worked at Shearson Lehman. She asked if I would buy her a drink. I went to the bar and bought her a gin and tonic and ordered tonic for myself. Not because I didn't want a G&T. But because I couldn't afford it.

Three more gins and tonic for her. Three more tonics for me. We slow danced to Susie Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kiss Them For Me, and since our legs seemed to be getting along so well - - I kissed her. She broke off the kiss and just as I was going to apologise she asked where I lived. "18th between 8th and 9th." I said. "I'm closer." she said. Pulling me by the hand off the dance floor she suddenly stopped and said, "I don't even know what you do." "I'm a park ranger." adding proudly, "At the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island." less she think I worked for the city or state.

She looked at me and touched my cheek. "Oh, sweetie. I didn't move to Manhattan to meet a park ranger." "So, we're not going to your place?" I asked. "No." she said. "I'm taking a taxi home." She did ask that I call her if that afternoon's job interview at 20th Century Fox worked out.

A week later I sat at the bar in the Plaza Hotel waiting for a college friend to come down from his room. He had a real job with Epcot and was going to abuse his expense account and buy me dinner. A woman came in and sat at the bar a couple stools down from me. I didn't notice her at first but when the bartender asked what she wanted I heard her say, "Whatever he's having looks pretty good." I turned to her and smiled, "It's a Beefeater martini." She smiled back and said, "Perfect." turned to the bartender and said, "I'll have one of those."

A couple of nights later she took me to dinner. She was in her late 50s, divorced, her only daughter in college. She owned a dress shop on the west side and her apartment had a terrace that overlooked Central Park. She had more style than any woman - or man - I have ever known. There was a natural grace about her. Not just in the way she walked but in how she opened a door. Put her keys in her purse. Picked up a phone. Opened a window.

She had a favorite Italian restaurant where the owner knew her. The tables were close and it was hard to move through the room without bumping a table. A woman, who looked the same age as the red head from Shearson, shot me a look from her table as we walked by. A look that said, "She's old enough to be..." And I thought, "Hey, I tried it with your age group."

I'm an older man today. And I still love older women. Although, the older woman has become just a woman. In some wonderful way our aging paths have crossed.