Sgt Nick Penis & the Brassball Battalion

Memory is a funny thing. I was positive Sgt. Nick was shaving in the latrine...



But 34 years is a long time. A 1978 National Lampoon spoof of Sgt. Rock, 'Sgt. Nick Penis', was a gargantuan hit in my unit at Ft. Bragg. It would be quoted frequently until my ETS in 1980.


There was an artist in the barracks and he tried to do a poster of the panel above. It came off badly.


I was positive this reference to size was done in the first panel...which I thought was in the latrine, where Nick is shaving with a bayonet... still attached to his M-1.



Memory is a funny thing, but it's hard to forget, "They're good boys, but they still measure in inches."

The hard hitting ,"Hard-Ons for Hitler" concludes tomorrow.

Pee Wee, Cowboy Curtis & Oeufs en Cocotte

Jambi: One pair of cowboy boots coming up! What size?

Cowboy Curtis: Uh, size 12, double E.

Pee-wee: Boy, big feet.

Cowboy Curtis: Well, ya know what they say.

Pee-wee: No. What?

Cowboy Curtis: For big feet, big boots!

I imagine most of you entitled snots were sitting on the floor in diapers with a piece of Zwieback sticking out of your drooling little mouth when this episode of Pee Wee's Playhouse aired back in November of 1986. I was in bed with a hangover and a woman old enough to be your mother. Not my mother. Your mother.

That's what some of your parents were doing in 1986. Laying in bed nursing hangovers and watching Pee Wee and Cowboy Curtis talk about wieners and big feet. I wonder how many obnoxious style bloggers were conceived during this episode? My spark was squeezed out while Jonathan Winters did 'Boys of Spring' on Jack Paar.



It's Saturday or Sunday morning. Hell, it can be Monday morning if you're highly evolved. You wake up with a throbbing head next to last night's first date. And lets say you wanna stay. It happens. You not only wanna stay...you want to make an impression. Especially if you didn't do so well last night. It happens...to you. Not to me.

Oeufs en Cocotte, my friend. It sounds (ee-noof en coe-kot) a helluva lot better than pancakes and bacon and it's a whole lot easier to make. Ask your host if they have any ramekins. Most women and all gay men have at least two. Four is better. Then tell them to go back to sleep.



If you find Stouffer's creamed spinach in the freezer then you're cooking with gas. That's an old expression, cooking with gas. You may be cooking with electric or, if you're Foster Huntington, with Sterno. Whatever, it's best to microwave the creamed spinach (4-5 minutes) then pour the whole bag into two (or four) ramekins. This is a real 'wing it' kind of recipe. No hard and fast rules. You can butter the ramekin or not. You can use herbs, onions, cheese, bacon, white truffle oil, tuna...anything you want although it helps if you use breakfasty stuff.


Crack one egg over whatever you placed in the bottom of the ramekin and place the ramekins in a sauce pan of boiling water. Mark Bittman leaves the boiling water out. Why? Because his cook books suck, that's why. You gotta have the boiling water step or, if you just stick the ramekins in an oven, you're gonna get oeufs en cocotte hard as a hockey puck. It happens...especially to Mark Bittman


Transfer the ramekins in boiling water to a 400 degree oven and set your timer for 8-10 minutes. The real luxury here is the softness of the eggs. Sexy is a good word. I recommend taking a tray of ramekins back to bed and presenting them to your new best friend, perhaps with a warm blowy whisper in their ear, "ee-noof en ko-kot." You can explain what cocotte means afterwards.

London's Contradian: A Colonist's Visit

Lloyd's of London Paper Weight

My wife at the time scolded me for pronouncing schedule - shed-yool, and for saying lift and fortnight. She didn't think the term "Brit" was appropriate and associated "across the pond" with the sort of American who used 'needless markup' for Neiman Marcus. I was allowed use of, 'POET'S Day' for Friday. 'Piss Off Early Tomorrow's Saturday.' Virtually unknown in the US twenty years ago as well as today.

Lloyd's of London Waiter by Susan Warburton

A friend from the States showed up at Lloyd's wearing a khaki poplin suit. He was prohibited entry and told to go home and change, "You are not on safari, sir."


A.A. Gill Restaurant Review

I discovered restaurant and TV critic A.A. Gill in 1990 through a classic Christmas review of TGI Fridays. I photo copied it and faxed it to everyone I knew. In this undated clipping from The Sunday Times Style section, Gill bemoans suits with hacking pockets as well as a suit sold with a, 'fashion twist.'

Cat Gut braces with Harvie Hudson shirt & tie

Lloyd's was my tutor for dress. I didn't need to look beyond the main underwriting floor to learn cloth. Many of the brokers and underwriters were clothes mad in the way men who lust for the knowledge of food, wine, cars, travel, music, books, and art often are. The pleasing line of a suit is carried over to a sports car or a photograph or a pair of chocolate suede tassel loafers.



Gangster stripe double breasted suits, double cuff shirts with double links (never swivel). Monk shoes, tassel loafers and socks from Mark & Spencer. I still have navy and black over calf hose from M&S that I bought 15 years ago and there's no evidence of wear. God knows what they're made of.

Double link cuff links circa 1910

I bought what I thought I needed. Over the years much of it has taken on a patina of wear and history. It's not just a tie or a suit or even a tee-shirt. It's an afternoon on Jermyn Street. "How is sir today? Is sir looking for anything particular? Is sir aware of our 3 for 99 pound sale? Sir would like matching boxers with his shirts? Where in America is sir from?"


"That's a lovely tie. Does sir play cricket?"

I saw some men wear the same tie everyday. Public school (why don't they pronounce it, Schoo-well?), university and regiment ties are proudly worn while a man's shirting takes care of any color diversity. Meanwhile, Americans wearing insipid Nicole Miller ties (today's Vineyard Vines) were criticized in much the same way American colonists were when they got off the boat in London 200 years ago.


As charming as these people can be, there is always a subtle superiority shown towards Americans. More so by the English upper class where aspiration is frowned on. These folks do not climb ladders. They're content with the rung they're on. If you're ever curious as to what it's like to be a minority in America -- Visit London and hang out with the upper crust.


Lloyd's of London Council

I was surprised many of the public school types have a fondness for jellied eel, spotted dick and meat pies. I was told it's their soul food from school years. They're very fond of taking Yanks to dinner in the East End, where, thanks to the Cockney Rhyming slang, we're known as Septics- "Septic Tank" - "Yank" When it's your time to buy, they'll usually suggest Claridge's.



I was constantly watching them and, as much as I love London -- London will never love me. That's okay. I'm an American Army Brat and all that entails. Missing home, I had dinner alone one night at the Texas Lone Star, a Tex-Mex train wreck of a restaurant in South Kensington. They piped in an Austin, Texas radio station via reel to reel tapes that were Fed X'ed from the US. At the table behind me a chap was having trouble with the menu. The man finally ordered a Chimichang-er and a glass of Cabernet. Anyway, have a great weekend. I have some reading to catch up on.

Contradian London: Shoe Porn & Touching Myself

Ten years ago, John Carnera of George Cleverley gave me a tour and an hour of his shop's time knowing full well I couldn't afford his shoes. It was obvious John was proud of his shop, it's history and that they were still making a shoe in London and not India like so many in Northampt... Never mind. Lets keep it positive today.

I have a pair of Cleverely designed side gusseted shoes from Poulsen and Skone. Hands down the most comfortable and attractive shoes I've ever owned save those Monk Chukkas by French Shriner in 9th grade. For me, the Cleverley last is far more attractive than the stubby John Lobb and lighter as well.

John shows me a book of GC archival images. I suggest they publish something for poor guys. Like me, in love with the company but too poor to foot the tab. I call it shoe porn. John, having never heard the expression before, laughs and shakes his head. He hands me this catalog (click images to enlarge), "Well, here's some shoe porn for you." I thank John and ask if he has a loo. He tells me it's not for the public. I tell John what I have to do isn't public either.

I love myself
I want you to love me
When I'm feelin' down
I want you above me
I search myself
I want you to find me
I forget myself
I want you to remind me

I don't want anybody else
When I think about you
I touch myself
I don't want anybody else
Oh no, oh no, oh no

You're the one who makes me come running
You're the sun who makes me shine
When you're around I'm always laughing
I want to make you mine
I close my eyes
And see you before me
Think I would die
If you were to ignore me
A fool could see
Just how much I adore you
I get down on my knees
I'd do anything for you

I don't want anybody else
When I think about you
I touch myself
I don't want anybody else
Oh no, oh no, oh no

I love myself
I want you to love me
When I'm feelin' down
I want you above me
I search myself
I want you to find me
I forget myself
I want you to remind me

I don't want anybody else
When I think about you
I touch myself
I don't want anybody else
Oh no, oh no, oh no

I want you
I don't want anybody else
And when I think about you
I touch myself
Ooh, oooh, oo-oooh, aaaaaah

I don't want anybody else
When I think about you
I touch myself
I don't want anybody else
When I think about you I touch myself
I touch myself, I touch myself, I touch myself,
I touch myself, I touch myself, I touch myself,
I touch myself, I honestly do, I touch myself...
Christina Amphlett & Divinyls (1991)

Can I get myself in trouble if I touch myself without protection?

Contradian London: The Client & The Guinea

The Guinea Grill, 30 Bruton Place, Mayfair


"You're my beast of burden, Tinseth." He said Tinseth with a 'z' instead of an 's' and it always annoyed me. "I'm what?" I asked. "My donkey. You do my heavy lifting, mate." And I did. I was also well compensated for it. He was my biggest client and he was and is a friend. I'm proud to say he invited me to his wedding... both of them.


The Lamb Tavern, 10-12 Leadenhall Market


Holding pints, we stood outside the Lamb Pub in Leadenhall Market. He asked about another client of mine and a competitor of his. I lit a Silk Cut and spit a stream of disgusted smoke at his chalk striped shoulder. "How would you feel if they asked me the same question about you?" He laughed,"I suspect they already have," and took a sip of beer. We pause to watch a beautiful broker in high heels and a mini skirt walk drunkenly past us, her nail head heels slipping dangerously between the cobble stones.


The Tintin Shop, 35 Floral St, Covent Garden


I turned to him and, as he watched the broker stumble away from us, he said, "You're not being very forthcoming, Tinzzzzeth." The mother fucker had stones. And luck. He also suffered through a political incorrectness that took no prisoners at Lloyd's. His mother was English and his father Malaysian. We all had nick names. I picked up Tintin never realizing how lucky I was. His was the Slant Eyed Rice Monger.

The client didn't give a shit. He made millions and made others millions. A couple years ago we sat on the beach together a day after his second wedding. He asked why I was wasting my time writing and suggested I get back to a career I hated. He would help me and there were a lot of things he could do. I tell him I've dreamed of writing, 'tick, follow tock' for 30 years... and that I pass. I add we're probably still friends because he's no longer the client.



The Lloyd's of London Shop, 1 Lime Street


22 years ago, we had our first dinner in London at the Guinea. A pub/steak house that was smaller than a match box and was banging 12 on the virile meter with men tucked into Savile Row suits, Hermes swathed collars and tiny dining rooms. A loud American, with two quiet Brits, sat next to us. The American spoke from his diaphragm, like a drill sergeant or a trader at the Chicago Merc. Thunderous and more so when he asked the client, "WOULD YOU MIND NOT SMOKING WHILE I'M EATING."


Politically Incorrect Silk Cut Ad from the '70s


With elbows on the table, the client held the cigarette in one hand loosely folded over the other, and slowly turned to the American, "Yes, actually. I do mind if I don't smoke while you're eating." The client turns to me and says, "He isn't in America anymore," adding, "How is it, Tinzzzeth, that you Americans can eat mean little salads with iced tea in no smoking sections?" I laugh as quietly as I can and hear the American asking his waiter for a table in the no smoking section. "I'm sorry," says the waiter. "We don't have a no smoking section."

Contradian London: Fried Up

I've flown first, business and coach and always arrive in London feeling the same way. Like nails on a chalk board.



At 32, I was picked by the company president to handle the servicing and sales of London business. In large part, I believe, because of my off-the-menu dessert request for vanilla ice milk and Twinkees at Aunt Fanny's Cabin outside Atlanta during a business dinner with 20 insurance buying Catholic priests. The lead underwriter from Lloyd's termed their liability policy, "The Buggering Bishop's Program" just before adding an intentional acts exclusion.



The president was loaded with tips what with 30 years of international travel under his surcingle. He advised me to resist all temptation to sleep when arriving, as early in the morning as possible, and to stay up as late as possible, at least until 9 or 10 PM. Exhausted, you sleep through the first night without interruption and are thrown into a sleep pattern consistent with the GMT time zone for the rest of your stay. It really works. It's also really hard to do.

I spent countless nights wide awake in bed. Frustrated, I walked the streets around St James Place at 3 AM peering into windows of John Lobb, Harvie & Hudson, New & Lingwood, Davidoff... I walked by stone walls 300 years old, ran my hand along the shell and lime only to be distracted by drunks leaving a private club and piling into black cabs with their engine valve echos ticking away down the empty street.


It took a while before I had the discipline to avoid bed at 9 AM and walk the streets in the light of day. An incentive was the perfect fry up, Full Monty or the Full English breakfast as it's known. Fried eggs, back bacon, blood sausages, a grilled tomato, fried mushrooms and, "...you want the beans, yeah?" "No, I'll skip the beans." I say as I pull a purple Silk Cut from a freshly opened packet of 15. "You don't want the beans?" the waiter says adding, "Have you tried them?"

I light my first cigarette in four months and notice my hand shaking. "Uh, yeah...I'll pass." I take a drag along with some sulfur from a Swan and inhale deep. The chalk board scratching intensifies as my head seems to roll off my shoulders. I flick an ash into the orange plastic ashtray and wonder why I'm smoking. All those smoke free days in the states down the toilet -- which is what they call it here instead of a bathroom. "Is there a bath in the room, mate?" "No, I guess not." "Well then don't call it a bathroom. It's a bloody toilet."

In London less than two hours and I'm lighting up, greasing up and frying up. These early morning Saturday patrols for a Caff are usually hit and miss. I've had some amazing fry ups but my favorite will include white toast fried in back bacon grease. A good Caff is tiny joint with a handful of tables and while a very good fry up at Blake's Hotel will set you back twenty pounds or more - - A Caff or the Fox and Anchor will get the job done under ten quid.


Still, the memories I recall with the crystal vividness of a Mezcal buzz are those wandering the streets at oh-dark-thirty. Alone and wide awake to the noises and smells as shoe heels tap out my steps against cobble stones. One night, I actually wished I could die and be buried in London... just so I could be a permanent resident -- Thanks, in part, to all those fry ups.

A Contradian London Walk

Medal awarded to survivors of The Chew House defense, Germantown

WWI recruiting poster, 1915

Christmas Cards, 1885


Hindustani Musket Cavalry

Guardsman Higgins, 1830

Madras Army, 1835

Recruiting poster for Sussex Light Dragoons, 1780

Coffee Cup, 2012

15th Light Dragoons, 1780

Soldier of the Queen, 1960


Museum Tie from early '90s - No longer available

I've had a love affair with London since my job sent me there 23 years ago. Over time, I learned to beat jet lag, find dress socks that'll last 15 years and follow Benedict Arnold's funeral procession to a Pet Shop Boy's song. You might be thinking one of three ain't bad. I also discovered out of the way restaurants, hotels, museums and created my own walking tours while accumulating some of the best god damned memories ever.

London can be a stay at the Westin, a visit to the Tower and a bite at McDonald's but who would want to. How the hell do you connect with any city by staying in a Westin? I guess I'm a contrarian and love going down empty roads. Partly because, "Hell is other people" and mostly because I love to explore.

The National Army Museum is located in Chelsea and while the V&A draws the crowds, the Army Museum will assure you of loads of room, free admission and unique displays. My personal favorites are Sir Henry Clinton's red coat and the skeleton of Napoleon's horse, Marengo. There's an amazing collection of military art and most of it is tastefully reproduced for the museum's gift shop.



A four minute walk west of the museum is the restaurant, Foxtrot Oscar. I discovered FO before it was purchased by Gordon Ramsey and long before some of the food preparation was done off site. Still, it's a great bargain for a lunch of crab cakes and a Bloody not to mention a connection of sorts to the meaning of Foxtrot Oscar in the military.

Someone who had a 'Foxtrot Oscar' personality was Benedict Arnold and unknown to many is his final resting place at St Mary's church on the south bank of the Thames -- a short walk from Foxtrot Oscar. Walk west on Royal Hospital Road. Follow it until it turns into Chelsea Embankment and Cheyne Walk. Turn left on Battersea Bridge and it's here I que the Pet Shop Boys, Survivors...



Cross the windy bridge and turn right on Battersea Church Road. Follow it along the Thames for about a quarter mile until you see St Mary's Church on your right. Arnold's wife, Peggy Shippen buried Arnold here in 1801. Years later, many of the bodies in the cemetery were exhumed, Arnold among them, and were 'consolidated' without markers. However, there is a crypt in the basement of St Mary's and the church claims it holds the remains of Arnold, Peggy and their daughter.

I don't really care so much where Arnold is buried. What amazes me is the black hearse and horses I see crossing Battersea Bridge in 1801 and bringing Arnold to this place. A long way from where he was from and even further from what he was. Like I said, you're not gonna run into a lot of people out here.