Barolo Restaurant: The Garden

Late lunch. Food was good. Wine was a '93. Not too crowded. No one seemed in a hurry.

Ft Bragg's Fashion Elite

Velvet slippers for the quiet professional...


"You know what Delta's gonna do when they see these pictures?"


"We gettin' hazardous pay for this?"



About to deliver some humanitarian assistance...



"All we need are some 8x10 head shots and we move to NYC..."



"Hey, at least you didn't have to empty the shitter like the guy in the yellow coat."



"That's odd. I only get the funny feeling when I climb rope."



"Could you get me a Latte?"

GQ Style Spring Summer 2012 (click image to enlarge)

Designer Adam Kimmel styled a photo shoot with the 3rd Special Forces Group at Ft Bragg. Usually a reader will alert me to a story like this and save me from open-mouthed shock at a public magazine stand. GQ Style-U.K. calls the piece, "The Quiet Professionals." There's some irony for you. I don't think anyone at Ft Bragg will be calling 3rd Group quiet anymore.

Kimmel had 'Marlboro Man' photographer Jim Krantz shoot the spread for the magazine whose, "... challenge was to take fashion clothes and put them in the context of the Green Berets without making it look outlandish." You can see more of the Green Beret photo shoot here at Jim's web site. Jim must love shooting things that'll kill ya.

I don't think it looks outlandish. Silly, yes. I doubt Kimmel knows much about the Green Berets and probably less about the sacrifice a Staff Sergeant makes for $36,000 a year. But in fairness to a clueless hipster fashion designer and British fashion magazine -- the U.S. Army said yes. Which makes me wonder about future military collaborations with magazines.

Playboy's, "Threesome in an Abrams." Field & Stream's, "Fishing with Grenades." And Out Magazine's Norfolk Seamen, "We Don't Drink and We Don't Cuss - Nor-Fuck! Nor-Fuck!" Tax dollars subsidizing fashion photo shoots for British fashion mags. We called that FUBAR when I was in the Army - Great name for a magazine.

"...a pretty exciting place"

"Sa-a-ay! This looks like a pretty exciting place!"

From, 'The Booze Book' edited by Ralph Schoenstein, 1974

'His Mother' & 'Contemporary Gothic' at the Mint

"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time..."

American Giant has offered up three black T shirts for field review. Two large and one extra large. If you'll comment on how you propose to do your field test and agree to report the results in two weeks -- I'll send you one.

American Giant Black T-Shirt $25

A lot of people in the apparel business will tell you it's impossible to manufacture in the U.S. anymore. Actually, what they're really saying is it's impossible to make a 600% to 1,000% markup manufacturing in the U.S. anymore. Man, that's criminal.

A year and half ago, Avery Lucas designed a canvas trouser for The Trad and I featured it here. Button fly with side tabs, Avery contrasted dressier details with humble canvas fabric. We found a U.S. manufacturer who'd make it for $60. We'd sell it direct for $120. A trouser twice the quality at half the cost. What happened? That's a very long story.

I sat down with American Giant CEO, Bayard Winthrop and in less than five minutes our heads were both going north and south over the issue of insane mark ups. Winthrop's idea is simple. Basic tops made in the U.S. and sold direct. He explained that men are a lot more comfortable ordering apparel on line. Especially if it's well made and well priced. I don't think he's onto something -- I know he is.

Sweatshirts ($60) and t-shirts ($25) are thick-solid and well made. I've seen old, made in USA, Russel sweatshirts going for $100+ in Manhattan's "Vintage" boutiques. Clearly, that's drunken sailor money and some will argue $25 for a t-shirt is too. I'll only say this. I have an affection for black t-shirts.


Dad wore 'em,



I wore 'em,



Sgt Nick Penis wore 'em,



Mayne wore 'em,





and Baretta wore 'em.


I could wear 'em all year long -- But I'll need to know, "where can I go where the cold winds don't blow."

"Bob Hope's an Asshole"

Death and taxes. I was reminded of the phrase last night when I remembered I hadn't done my father's taxes. Dead for two months, the ephemera of his life -- 80 pounds worth, has been distilled to ten pounds - give or take.

In a folder was a story he wrote for me. These were war stories of celebrities and journalists he met in Vietnam in 1966 and 1967. He barely mentioned them to me and never told any to my friends despite my urging. Here, he finally does:

ENTERTAINERS:
Bob Hope's popularity was, and still is a myth! Most of us detested him, his silly-assed humor and the female teasers who accompanied him and couldn't be approached. The only way to fill the arena for his (filmed and money-making -- for him when televised) self serving shows was to give the troops the day off. Knowing that fully half the troops would stop at the first bar or whorehouse and go no further. Obviously, I have no regard for Hope and his ilk (Earlier B Hope story posted here).

Anne Margaret visited everywhere and only with one companion. Usually small units. She was charming and a good hugger who willingly posed for photos. Had a cute trick of not wearing panties and when sitting next to a grunt for a photo would raise one leg. These photos must be still be treasured souvenirs.

Most of the entertainers were selfless folks who really cared: Out of sheer boredom, I once went to a USO show in Pleiku. Roy Rogers, Dale Evans and the Sons of the Pioneers. Not at all my kind of entertainment, and I almost didn't go in. But, I was surprised! They were genuinely friendly and informal -- like visiting friends or family. Nothing phony.

Raymond Burr visited the most remote units and just sat around shooting the breeze. He wrote down proper name and family contact of virtually every grunt he ever talked to and called their families (at his expense) when he returned to the U.S.

Billy Casper flew in with his clubs and a giant bag of balls. He'd give lessons and drive balls out into the undergrowth. We wondered if the bad guys thought they were a new kind of cluster bomb.

Martha Raye really was a nurse and when she visited hospitals, she really did jump in and do the dirty bed-pan work. After work, her informal act (while downing a tall glass of straight booze) with groups of SF guys were/still are legendary humor.

Some of the best entertainment was small USO groups of relatively unknown characters. Seldom more than four to six people. Typically a couple of movie/stage hopeful girl singer/dancers taking a gov't-paid break from cattle call auditions and two old vaudeville guys playing instruments and doing their shtick. Ultra-informal and fun.

All of the above (except Hope and similar assholes) usually traveled with no entourage. Many would jump on a helicopter alone or with only one travel companion and just poop around at random.

MEDIA FOLKS:
Ranged from total assholes (e.g., Morley Safer) to sincere people who often became close friends (as with reporter Jim Galloway and the famed Gen Hal Moore). Lou Cioffi (ABC) was our favorite TV guy. Best press photographer was Sam Castan, (Look Magazine- Castan Post here) killed in action at my place. No government stooges monitored us back then. The myth was that all reporters were "Clark Kents and Lois Lanes" -- the typical U.S. citizen know-nothing view, or enemy stooges -- the U.S. authorities view.

I once spent a pleasant afternoon at my Vinh Thanh SF camp with Bill Demarest, then Senior Foreign Editor of Time. I told him just how it was (you can't do that anymore). He was most grateful and asked what favor he could do for me. I casually mentioned my copy of Time always arrived raggedy after everybody along the way read it. Thought no more about it. Surprised me a few weeks later to start receiving Time in a plain brown envelope. This continued for well over a year after my subscription expired and I was back home.

Got a call one day from 1st Air Cav Info Officer wanting to drop two female reporters from Aussie newspaper "Overseas Weekly" (aka Oversexed Weekly) on us. Paper was critical of and in great disfavor with U.S. Gov't though very popular with U. S. troops. 1st Cav Commanding General didn't want them in his camp. My Team got spruced up a bit for female visitors but were dismayed when two middle-aged dumpy gals got off the chopper.

After a couple rounds of beer, dismay turned to hilarity as "girls" told raunchy tales of the REMFs (Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers) -- both military and press corps -- and did really funny imitations of Westmoreland lying to the press. (I think this was the first time I heard the "light at the end of the tunnel" defined as the "light of the oncoming train.")

It was quite funny done in Aussie accent and done profanely -- and it was so true. High point of their visit (for them) was when they went out to use our screened in latrine and VN from all the over the camp came to see what round-eye females look like up close and personal.

Some of the very best reporters were from small town U.S. Their original intent was family features on home town GIs. When the supposedly innocent GIs told them what things were really like, some of the reporters wrote touching stories much like those of Ernie Pyle in WWII. Too bad so few people ever got to see them.

And that's the way it was....

"If you know her name..."

"...postmodern, punk-inflected, Bach-Stravinsky-Coltrane-influenced string band." The New Yorker

Driving the Jersey Turnpike to NYC yesterday. A station wagon loaded with cheap chicken, cheap steaks, a 30 pack of Natty Lite with enough ass wipe and paper towels to last an eternity but will be history in a couple weeks.

Within range of WHYY, a Prairie Home Companion is live from Manhattan's Town Hall. I pray Mr Keillor does not sing. God ignores me but offers up Punch Brothers doing 'New York City' as recompense.

I'm doing 80 but the band is going faster. Crest the hill and look out at a billboard free stretch of trees turning the same mint green as some asshole's polo shirt in Swifty's. "New York City - Will you give her to me - I'll be yours forever."

Haspel Fall Winter: Bespoke at Cost

My relationship with Haspel goes back 32 years. Not that we were close, but it was the poplin and seersucker suiting of choice save a short stint at Brooks Brothers and employee discount addiction.

Haspel carved out a narrow but deep niche in cotton suiting for the South. It was cheap, washable and most important, it was comfortable. Southerners attending Princeton brought Haspel to the southern most second most southern Ivy college and it caught on. In a big way.



What didn't catch on was Haspel in Fall & Winter. The romantic association with Summer's cotton, half linings and character filled wrinkles may have helped traditional offerings but a "Stick to your knitting" attitude by customers may have doomed Fall & Winter from the start.



I walked into the 25th floor loft of the Bryant Park Hotel earlier this week and could not believe it was Haspel Fall - Winter. The silhouette is London. You see that first. And it's a London of the '30s. This is Flusser's turf but at a fraction of the price.

Single breasted peak lapels, double breasted chalk stripes, brown window pane, ticket pockets, double vents...They are the details that drive men to bespoke tailors because they're impossible to find off the rack.





Silhouette and details are carried over to tweed and herringbone jackets. What you see in the windows on Savile Row or in Holland & Holland. Haspel avoided the Hipster runoff so popular with Heritage brands. Every day PR firms send out videos of a watch cap wearing guy in a three piece suit chopping logs with a $500 Challis National Axe to a steel guitar soundtrack.



Haspel seems intent on pursuing grown ups. Guys who work in banks, insurance companies and those other holdouts of employment where coat and tie are still expected. Men who are married with kids and don't have $5,000 for a suit or $500 for an axe.


Contrasting fabrics of cotton, corduroy and suede are hidden under sport jacket collars. If you ask me, they should stay hidden but you do what you have to.



Fabrics are thick with character, texture and color. This is warm stuff. I'm not sure how much use it will see in Haspel's hometown of New Orleans.









Now comes the bad news. Made in Indonesia. I'm not sure outta what. Maybe wax paper and toad shit for all I know. But, good news for pricing. Suiting is $595 and $695 ($100 & $125 for vest) while sport coats are $395 and $495 Like I said, you work someplace where a suit is required and your 401K and college funds are hoovering most of your take home pay... This is great value.



If, on the other hand, you chop wood in a three piece cashmere suit with a $500 axe, and have no kids...Well, there are plenty of people here in NYC who will be more than happy to assist you. For Haspel retailers go here.

Haspel Sees The Light

Some amazing things going on in the land of poplin & seersucker. Details tomorrow.

"Join the fun as the gang tears loose..."

On TCM 4/16/2012

Alive with Pleasure: Spring Break 1982

In 1982, GM was a word. "Geeyem." Like someone from Georgia says, "Jim." This one was a Buick deuce and a quarter. A white hunk of fat Detroit steel that made a trip one Spring Break from St Augustine to Daytona Beach with four friends.

Troyer drove the chariot. Golden haired and Aryan, none of us in the car that night knew he was gay. Some of us still don't. A cold case of canned Schaffer shared the back seat with Fusco and Beaudoin. None of us knew Fusco would wind up a screenwriter and producer -- although none of us would've bet against him. Movie star looks but amazingly cheap...he was pre-ordained for Hollywood success.

Beaudoin sat next to Fusco chasing raisins from a generic one pound box with beer. Brillo headed and bearded, the war in El Salvador was excuse for six hours of his indignant Boston accented argument that the Monroe Doctrine was the ultimate evil.

I'm riding shotgun and have to take a leak. Troyer offers to pull over on a stretch of darker-than-the-inside-of-a-goat, I-95. "No need." I say. Wise old man of the car, I explain how I pissed in cans during Army convoys while, "you fuckers were starting ninth grade." I open a beer can with a P38 on my key chain and pull down the fly on 30/30 khakis. I stick my dick in the can careful to avoid the sharp edges.

Success as I fill the can but seconds later feel warm pee covering my khakis. "No problem unless you piss more than 12 ounces," I say and fling the can out the window not knowing the back window is down. Not remembering all the windows are down in the white Detroit slab-o-steel Troyer's mom should be driving.

"Fuck, Tinseth!" Fusco screams as my nephron unit (thanks, Dr. Lardner) formation strikes him head and chest. Beaudoin, slow to catch on, thinks its raining for at least five seconds before a handful of piss-misted raisins are digested. Troyer, of course, laughs.

I spend the rest of the trip holding khakis out the car window at 70mph in an attempt to dry the large stain on my crotch. My friends. And they have remained friends... are tolerant. Like friends who get pissed on always are.

Holy Week: The Paper

54 East 64th Street, photo courtesy of John Wu Public Relations

INT: The 6:31PM north bound Chicago Metra train. On the upper deck a man hangs a salmon colored newspaper on the rail in front of him. A passenger points at the paper.

"Can I check out your FT?"
"It's not FT. It's the New York Observer."
"The what?"
"The New York Observer. It's a weekly."
"Why do you read that? We're in Chicago."
"It makes me laugh."
"Do you read any Chicago papers?"
"No."
"So you don't really know what's going on in Chicago?"
"I read the Sun Times when I get a shoe shine. It makes me laugh but not in the same way."

I like to think I was the first subscriber to NYO in Lake Bluff. I probably was the only subscriber in Lake Bluff. I loved the NYO. Wicked smart and with a point of view while the Chicago Tribune was only good for tire ads in the sports section. When I read the NYO I felt like I was in NYC with some very smart people who were not afraid to call the bullshitters out for what they were. A favorite was a send up of Saul Steinberg's vulgar 50th birthday bash by Michael Thomas, "...tomorrow I will be sober but you'll still be Saul Steinberg."

The newspaper was run out of a townhouse at 54 E. 64th until 2004. I swung by trying to pick up something by osmosis or, maybe I thought I could hear the walls talk. No such luck. Better to read the paper's best compiled in a book, The Kingdom of New York, by long time editor, Peter Kaplan. Some interviews with war stories are included as well. Look, if you live in NYC you must own this book...'cause I couldn't find it at the library.

Holy Week: "NYP" Plates

New York Press Plate

It is...

the cat's ass of my NYC want.

Saul P. Steinberg bought a TV station to get his. They are the equivalent of the rarely seen HALO badge of the U.S. Army. A Democratic access to free parking. It's what we Democrats love. Do I want one? Yes, I do. Can you help? Probably not. That's the attraction.

Holy Week: Fag...

Holy Week: Press Sweat

Heavy Tweed Jacket is doing some amazing stuff over here. His '97 J. Press catalog brought back plenty of memories with this sweat shirt banging 12 on the nostalgia meter. I had just started with Johnson & Higgins in Chicago and was in NYC to steal a client from my prior employer despite a non-compete -- The employer's in jail now so I guess we can talk.

I ran a booze, cigar and apparel gauntlet from my hotel, The Algonquin, straight east to the crusty & narrow JR Cigar for a thick cedar box of double-maduro robustos. Moving on through Brooks Brothers, where Marks and Sparks were doing their Anglican best to drive a stake through all that was golden-fleeced holy, the shoe department was always target rich for Alden cordovan on sale. A quick stop in Orvis where there was something fun (always) and (usually) a steal. Lastly, a final swing through the old J. Press before heading back to the hotel for a martini and a Marlboro with Mr Hoy.

I paid $45 for this sweat shirt and caught huge grief from the 'Echo Xray' who said it looked "cheesy." I suppose it does -- Which is why I wore it every chance I got. No longer available, one can only hope J. Press can get out of its own way and bring the sweat shirt back. Nobody knows what it is which is half the fun of wearing it. Someone in Chicago asked me if I graduated from Press. I did a spit take then -- but today, I like to think I did.