"If It's Not Harris Tweed It's CRAP!"

We all hope it's not disappearing


Post Macallan tasting


Lots of music and


hip folks.


Winner of the Shel Silverstein look alike contest


Not the film we saw on Harris Tweed but a nice one is here


More music

I'll say this for the Scots -- They throw one helluva party. Two open bars, sliders, a Macallan tasting and ... I'm not sure why we were there? That's right. Tweed. And not just any tweed...Harris Tweed. 'If it's not HARRIS tweed it's CRAP!' pretty much sums up the night.

Over the years I've learned three things about drinking with the Scots. 1- Never try to out drink them. 2- Never bet them money they can't do something in a bar. 3- Never try to understand what they're saying. Best just to smile and nod and let them buy the next round. In short, they're my kinda people.

Harris Tweed Hebrides did insist we sit through a short film on the history and traditions of tweed. And while tweed hasn't exactly been on my mind these last few days of 100 plus degree weather - - I can't help but wonder how a country has managed to maintain a home weaving culture in 2011. It hasn't been easy.

The story goes that in 1840, when famine hit the sparsely populated Outer Hebrides of western Scotland, Lady Dunmore bundled up the locals hand made cloth and took it to the mainland to sell. Today, Harris Tweed must be made of pure Scottish wool, dyed, spun, handwoven and finished in the Outer Hebrides or it cannot be stamped with the mark of the orb, the fabric trademark since 1909.

Demand for Harris Tweed has dropped from the good ol' days of the mid '60s. But efforts to climb back are being made. Not only through hip brands, whose representatives were in full force last night, but also through bold colors like bright pink and lavender as well as a softer hand. Not exactly daddy's plank of black and white tweed from 1965 or my plank of J. Press Harris Tweed from 1995.

Times change. Men seem happy to wear strands of dental floss on their wrist, studs in their nose and nativity scenes tattooed on their leg. But every man needs at least one Harris Tweed jacket. Here are a few to give you an idea of how they can be worn and what men used to look like. Professors (click on image to enlarge) courtesy of 'M' The Civilized Man.

My sartorial mentor, A.O.J. Cockshut, Hertford College, Oxford

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.

Extinct Etamine Etymolgy

The Holy Grail

Etamine pullover


Etamine in yellow, white, blue, pink and melon


Etamine defined


I was talking to Tom Davis (MTM Shirts) at Brooks Brothers last week. We covered a lot of ground but everything stopped when he brought up etamine. An ultra light voile-like fabric used by Brooks Brothers for shirting years ago. I did some digging around and didn't find much. I'm still digging.

A weekend wander through textile and fashion books reveal the letter 'E' has the fewest entries and etamine ain't one of 'em. The internet will tell you it's a light porous cotton in an open mesh, susceptible to snagging, with a slight gloss finish. Dig a little deeper into the etymology and, by 1936, etamine is pretty much extinct.

Hardly a surprise Brooks Brothers catalogs from the late '70s and early '80s show the shirt Tom remembered. Short sleeve pullover in basic blue, yellow and white with pink and melon added in 1981. Great colors, popular pullover style and a fabric that appears to breathe better than linen. Cheaper too according to a web site that sells etamine for three bucks a meter (beware minimum order).

Who knows if etamine today is the same as it was in 1981? That's a question not a statement. If you know, please let me know, since the hunt is on. Summers don't look like they're gonna get any cooler.

More Hot! Hot! Hot! Hot! Hot!

The New Yorker - July 25th, 2011

"What do you trad gentlemen wear when it's this f-ing hot? I assume you ain't sitting on lawn chairs in flip-flops, basketball shorts and t-shirts with the sleeves cut off like us clowns in the midwest.

That said, after the first drink or two, everyone's drinking warm beer when it's this hot." Comment from JW @2:53 PM today.

Hot! Hot! Hot! Hot! Hot!

Ranger Log - Castillo de San Marcos, St Augustine, FL - 4 August 1984

Night 1964 by John Koch

My Fridge - 22 July 2011

It seems extreme heat has been a companion most of my life. Born in a record breaking August, the early wonder years were spent in the Southwest and Southeast. Basic, Infantry and Jump School were poorly timed and placed over a single cruel Summer at Ft Jackson and Ft Benning.

I saw heat index temps north of 107 as a Summer seasonal park ranger in Florida. Thermal inversions were commonplace with days of 100% humidity and no breeze. Adding to the misery was a paper mill north of town that cranked out a smell so ripe you could walk on it.

Still, truth be told, I'd rather deal with Summer than Winter. It's hard to lose an ear or finger because of the heat. Yesterday, I saw a young couple in their late teens French kissing on the sidewalk at the corner of 56th St and 8th Avenue. I was thinking it's too damned hot until I saw they were wearing jeans and black tee shirts -- Then they were just too damned stupid.

I'm old enough to remember sleeping without A/C and I can feel that John Koch painting like a trickle of sweat sliding down the crack of my ass. Rumors of a black out in NYC this weekend give me serious pause as I wonder if I have enough ice and talc. I'm pretty sure I have enough beer. I hope it ain't warm beer.

Rome in Manhattan

Dinner at Bocca on a humid Rome-like night. This was parked outside...


If only this were going on inside.

Double Breasted Rules

He's not nine but you get the idea... (from The Trad Library)


DB with unbuttoned button down


The highly evolved Mr Boyer

"It's over yonder -- by that Fry-toe Lay truck. " I looked 'over yonder' to see a Frito Lay truck in a shopping center parking lot somewhere in North Carolina. 'Frytoe Lay.' 'Over yonder.' Language I'm still unsure of but understand.

Beth Hyer gave me a small bag of Frito Lay chips in 4th grade at St Thomas More in Chapel Hill. She was stunning in her plaid jumper and crisply starched white shirt with Peter Pan collar. I wore a blue blazer, dark grey trousers, a white shirt and a navy clip on tie. There was one kid in my class who wore a double breasted blazer. I didn't like him. Not even a little.

It's hard to write about a double breasted blazer. Not because it's too damned hot to even think about it but, like a middle aged purchase of a Porsche Boxster, it comes with a whole lotta baggage. The rules are simple: Navy only. Peak lapel. Side vent. Six button. Never with a button down collar shirt. Good rules. Nothing is more vacuous than a notch lapel DB blazer -- unless it has a center vent and comes in maroon. One shudders at the thought.

A small detail overlooked by ready made retailers is the required button hole on each peak lapel. For some unknown reason, I'm guessing cost, ready made double breasted usually has only one button hole. This is as criminal as a notch lapel to the cognoscenti.

A simple fix is to have the retailer add a button hole to the other lapel. It's not easy and they'll try to talk to you out of it, but stand your ground or go someplace else. Chicago's Michigan Avenue Brooks Brothers did it for me and they did a good job. The head tailor also told me what a pain in the ass it was but he assured me he understood my desire for balance.

A friend lives in Los Angeles and he's mastered the not so balanced West Coast casual look. Sockless & Gucci-ed, open collared & waistcoated, he runs every day and looks 10 years younger than his age. He also has custom shirts made with double cuffs, button down collar and a monogram on the pocket. And while he likes to wear this shirt with a DB blazer, I blame this lapse in judgement on L.A. and not him.

There is an old rule about never wearing a button down collar with double breasted anything. Once aware of the rule, it's easy to see the clash between soaring peak lapels and a constricted collar anchored with buttons. It's just wrong. Spread collar is preferred even if it's open which the English like to do. But what about a unbuttoned-button down collar?

The highly evolved know they're breaking a rule so they leave the collar unbuttoned. This is language to those in the know that you know, you know, what's going on. The DB is complicated language.

Yanks prefer the blazer buttoned up to the Brits who prefer to wear it unbuttoned. Wearing it unbuttoned in the States or buttoned up in London leads to more language problems. It's another language I understand but am never sure of. This much I do know -- Never give a double breasted blazer to a nine year old.

Hipster Puppies

Genius available here


here’s what i think of you, and here’s what i think of jonathan fucking franzen

no, gary, i will not give you a ride to the fucking farmer’s market

there was an npr story about that, let me find it


when suggesting lunch options downtown, mike always pronounces phở extra correctly


gunther saved the pbr, and therefore saved the fucking day


the last time rufus rode his tall bike, he spent a month in a neck cone


enzo would usually throw a fit about the service but the bartender is hot

J. McCoollaughlin GTH

J. McCoollaughlin. Sounds like a single malt. Something Islay and rare. Not to everyone's liking where, consequently, it falls into a narrow but deep niche. That sums up J. McLaughlin for me. Not for everybody. A little hard to find. Loaded with character and very cool.

J Mac reminds me of the old Talbot's catalogs I grew up with in the '70s. Mostly classic women's clothing but a few pages in the back for men. And the stuff for men was huge Trad in an era of tie dyed bell bottoms, Nik Nik shirts and where cotton was as rare as short sideburns.

Men's polo shirts could be ordered with an embroidered tennis racket AND a monogram. Over the top then, but hardly makes a peep today as retailers ponder, "How much shit can we slap on this shirt?" Even J. Press is on that wagon with this nasty stuff. Whether the French held a gun to their head or they happily climbed on is being hotly debated -- Between myself and one other person.

But J Mac holds up well. Sure, they've gone off shore and that's too bad, but the quality ain't. In fact, I could of sworn this 'GTH' twill beach pant at $125 came out of the Hertling factory in Brooklyn. It's stout, almost canvas-like material, with button snap closure, zip, two front pockets and a buttoned back pocket. All you need for stumbling around on the beach.

Roll 'em up the ankles or cuff 'em. You can easily get away with a button down or linen shirt and a navy blazer but sockless is a requirement. Boat shoes, simple Venetians or Weejuns would be perfect for dinner at Sant Ambroeus in South Hampton, drinks on the terrace at the Hamilton Princess in Bermuda or iced tea and a fish sandwich at The Conch House in St Augustine -- Which is to say, they're flexible as all get out.

J Mac loaned me a size small even I was able to get into thanks to an elastic waist and a smidgen of spandex (4%). I'm not saying it was pretty but you get the idea. It's a generous cut and that's a good thing when it comes to over indulging in food and drink at Sant Ambroeus. I'm not sure they'd cotton to the idea of one unbuckling their trousers after dinner.

Best F*cking Story Ever

Thanks to Wallace Stroby for the heads up.

W Essex posted this question: For the benefit of us dummies (I'm 36) could you kindly provide some commentary? I know who Walter Mattheau & Tony Curtis are, but who is Yvonee De Carlo?

This is Yvonne De Carlo:

Fast forward to :55 seconds in and you'll understand the Tony Curtis story.

One Night Stands & Zippos

This picture of Central Park should put you in a reflective mood. If you're reading this, bouncing your knee and biting your finger nails -- consider coming back later this evening. Maybe with an adult beverage. Put on some music and slow down. Just a little. I have something to tell you.

I was talking to Stew, a blogger (Blood & Grits) I have a great deal of respect for. Not only as a writer I admire and envy, but as a man who can simplify complicated things. Be they, cooking pig trotters or giving insight into life or finding really cheap hooch. In short, I think Stew is a poet. A couple days ago Stew asked,

"Why the fuck is every blogger compelled to take photos of his submariner and post them right along with the pictures of "the serene bedroom" with bedside tables littered with stained espresso cups or teacups with PG Tips bags hanging like limp dicks from their lips?"

I told you he was a poet. I tell Stew about a blogger who showed me a Vietnam era Zippo he bought off eBay. I noticed the unit insignia on the lighter was from a division that had been disbanded in the 1950's. Stew said,

"Shit happens if you have no knowledge of the artifact you pursue. Knowing the artifact and simply acquiring it are mutually fucking exclusive. But today, to have is to know. A simple blog post stakes authenticity or at least makes a claim of being "in the know." Most of the time, as you say here, it shows one actually knows little of what one claims. Fucking Internet."

That's it. You can stop reading now because all I'm going to do is repeat what Stew said, but I'll use a lot more words and be far more confusing. It's so good I stole it. I would add that curiosity is key to a well lived life. Buying a picture for the sake of hanging it on a wall is like having a one night stand with a stranger. Sure, it's pleasurable, but not for very long.

I was interested in European advertising posters about 12 years ago. I was living in Chicago and there was a dealer across the street from the Art Institute. I looked at posters but bought four books on poster history. The dealer rang the books up and said, "It's nice to see someone who's really interested and willing to research before buying." I though he was busting my ass for not buying a poster, but he added, "Most folks just want something to hang over the sofa. They could care less about where it came from, who designed it, the significance of it..."

A funny thing happens when you accumulate a lotta shit you don't know anything about or have any connection to. It quickly moves from "The Get" to "The Get Rid Of." For bloggers it becomes a prop for electronic Show & Tell. Sadly, while authenticity is touted it's usually sacrificed. If you don't know what it means or stands for -- how the hell can you appreciate it?

I would add that the experience of the purchase -- that is, "I stayed up 'til two in the morning bidding on eBay for this" is not the experience I'm talking about. However, learning what it is, researching the background and history, wondering who owned it before you, or even better, knowing who owned it...These simple things make the connection.

I'm trying hard not to get too curmudgeonly about this, but I guess the question is this. Are you curious? In the end, curiosity didn't kill the cat but kept me alive while being in a world I didn't think much of. No matter how bad things got, I always wondered, "What's gonna happen next?"

Berlin Hipsters

From Menswear Magazine - June 2011

"Berlin hipsters reveal city's best kept secrets." That's not all they reveal.

"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