Boxing The Compass

Pomped, Polished, and Perplexed

2012-02-10T10:56:00.001-05:00

We visited the regions around the coast for a bit in the occasional free time. I drove a few hours up that great river as well. Louisiana is pleasant in February, and there is a toughness and an honesty that is elemental. The oil-fields and coastal fisheries create a rugged aesthetic. Signs advertise "underwater welders wanted" and "fresh seafood daily". The insanely tough men and women who tend to all aspects of commercial fishing and oil-based commerce are rugged and charming. A man taller and twice my weight stood in line next to me at the local fish-shack for lunch, still smelling of torch-joined steel in his fire-retardant cover-alls. Like nearly everyone in this region, his tough exterior melted away when he starting chatting me up in his pleasing-to-the-ear Cajun patois, recommending various items on the menu, substantiating his evaluations with actual local trivia.

"Onna Tuesday, yor gonna want the shrimp, 'cause Eljay does the buyin' that mawnin' an he's picky. If ya come tomarrah, ya gonna wanta git the fish, 'cause it's only been on ice faw 'bout three awahs when they open."

He was a man who obviously had no fear of butter, heavy cream, sugar, or deep-fried anything.

The region is packed with beautiful bones of houses, still viable with a lot of elbow grease. If any elbow grease is left over, the folks here would surely fry something in it.

I was given a tour of the parade costume warehouse to the north. Almost three decades of costumes filled the hangar, many of which were fantastic.

From the hard-boiled pipe-welders, steel cutters, fishermen, engine mechanics, and oil workers, to the delicate and elaborate pomp and flashy ostentation of the parade participants, I had come full circle. Louisiana is always thought of in terms of either the Bayou or Bourbon St. While the live music, parades, and generous open-container laws are very nice, I have developed a love for the industrial side of the state, and I am happy to remain among the petroleum pipes and ships, eating the oyster stew and the grilled fish for days on end. I stick out like the sorest of thumbs, but the hospitality is unparalleled. The giant fella in the welding cover-alls said that if I was around this Friday, he would like me to attend his cookout. All around, people seemed more concerned that a stiff in a suit felt out of place, and invitations to a church fish fry were inescapable.

---

Back home and at the office, my shoe-polisher had arrived, and while I was eager to spin a shine onto my oxbloods, I couldn't help but notice the picture on the box.

What exactly do they think I am going to go with it? I had intended on everyone polishing their shoes, but this horrible picture makes me feel naive now.

Maybe it will spin me back to the mid-80's when Paul Hogan was still trying to charm us with his Humor Australis or when Andrew McCarthy was trying to date one of the figures from the top of this post.

PRESS BUTTON FOR SHINE.

Packing Tips for Men

2012-02-08T13:01:00.000-05:00

Folded shirts (especially those from the cleaner) are the easiest for packing. The plastic sleeve and cardboard backing provide ease of packing and protection in the suitcase. If you are fortunate enough to be able to launder and iron your own shirts, I still recommend cardboard backing and a plastic sleeve for flat packing. Ironing at home always gives the shirts a better natural drape than starched professionally cleaned shirts. I'll return to it someday.

Stick your tie (chosen for the shirt) in the sleeve.

Keep your links on a pin, and they won't disappear. It also works for metal links, if they have enough gap at the hinge.

Sling the pocket square through.

Inside the plastic, they hold fast and unpack very easily... organized for your stay.

The ties and shirts pack flat with no wrinkling. The links and pocket squares sit safely tucked, and occupy very little space. The technique makes traveling for business or pleasure far easier. At your destination, leave each plastic-sleeved packet together until you wear them. For packing a suit, see this past post.

Feasting on seafood in Louisiana again. A King's cake (I think it was called) and chicory-scented coffee was served after lunch. Fat Tuesday preparations are in full swing, they tell me, and hospitality comes easy and naturally... even the roadside swamp-dives serve incredible food.

Updating A Tweed Jacket

2012-02-06T10:19:00.000-05:00

An old tweed jacket of mine resurfaced recently. It still fit, but a month or two of swinging an axe might tighten the shoulders a bit too much. I picked it up at a church rummage sale some time ago, and it is likely from the early 1980's with an extremely low cut on the front-buttons.

It wasn't bad, but I realized why I rarely wore it. The buttons are too close together for my taste and both are too far down... nearly open to the belt line. I took it to the seamstress, and she was happy to add another buttonhole above the top. I hadn't purchased any matching buttons, so she leap-frogged the bottom button to the new top buttonhole.

The photos are reversed (I took them in the mirror), so don't be alarmed if the overlap looks wrong. I still will add a bottom button, but it looks better to my eye already. The bill was $12, which is twice what was paid for the jacket, as I remember. Warm and heavy, I'll happily be able to wear it a bit more now that it was tuned up.

A delightful turn of events for The Cableknit Charlestonian, and his fun post can be found here. Also following his quote apropos of this post:

"Uh-oh, I've lost a buttonhole." -Steven Wright

L.L. Bean Signature Photoshoot

2012-02-02T21:25:00.001-05:00

LL Bean sent me another invitation to purchase from their catalog. When I first opened this up, I was happy to see that LL Bean Signature was veering towards a more permanent and classic style. Subtle tartan flat-front wool pants? Polished leather shoes? Count me in... I'll take it.

A nice classic sweater of wardrobe-staple caliber? Yes. Wearable and versatile shirt, too? Now we're talking. Untucked I wouldn't do, but who cares. It looks good. Well, Bean Signature, you may be winning me back.

Wait... what the-? Are the Bruins playing tonight? Why is this guy drinking at 9AM on a Tuesday? He can certainly flick a cigarette further than most, but I don't like the way he is eyeing that plate-glass window.

Tired of people asking you where you bought your belt?

LL Bean Signature's design team has scoured thousands of old publications and images for their inspiration, and apparently high school yearbooks from 1991 were fair game. After college, it took this small-town varsity quarterback three tries to get his real estate license.

This guy wasn't even born when Hee-Haw was still on prime time. The hunting motif serves as a painful reminder of activities in which he'll never participate... unless he hits a doe with his Passat.

Are you a private detective who also runs an auxiliary snow-plow route? Luck was a lady tonight because your up-state upholstery connection has finally paid off. [Read actual reviews here.]

He proudly tells you that the small cut on his hand is "from a chainsaw accident". What he doesn't tell you is that it was from dropping the Husqvarna floor model at the local hardware store.

This smarmy guy has been prowling around the train station in Budapest asking women to have lunch with him and bumming smokes from the older travelers. He hasn't showered in days and has an unrecognizable accent, and now your passport and iPod are gone.

---

I hope that they will do more of this...

...and less of this:

There is a reason re-invention often goes poorly. There is little lasting wisdom from focus groups, but three or four generations of society tend to shake out the forms that deserve to last. The first round of Signature snark is here.

Lad's Choices

2012-02-01T10:26:00.001-05:00

As mentioned in a previous post, I took a trip (under advisement) to Keezer's in Central Sq. to buy a new black satin cummerbund. Mentioning the sub-$20 price tag sparked several emails requesting that I pick up a few more when next I went. Thankfully, I had some free time and took the subway back across the river (all of 2 stops) for a second visit. My young lad accompanied me because he likes "choosing ties" and also likes the spicy dosa lunches at Dosa Factory.

Inside Keezer's, he asked if he could choose a few ties for me. The catch: by himself.

"Fine with me."

"I want to choose some beautiful ones for you" he continued.

"Go ahead. I'll wait here."

At $5-15, they wouldn't break the bank, so I stood with the cummerbunds by the register and waited for him.

"Here's the first one!" he said, and then sprinted back into the store's wilderness.

Not bad. It will be a great summer tie with a white shirt and a blue blazer. I liked it.

[sound of rummaging]

"Here's an argyle one!" he said, running up to me.

Oh, Dear God.

"It's ... wonderful" I said as convincingly as possible. "Yes, it does look like argyle. A little."

"Do you like it?" he said adorably with genuine pride and excitement for his find.

"Of course, son... I love it. Thank you."

Off he ran again.

The thing is massive and unwearable. For scale, I compared it to a tie of sensible proportions from my closet (below), and the new one is certainly within costume range:

My red tie looked like a sprout compared to the ugly "Argyle" monster.

---

"One more?" he asked.

"One more" I said, and he ran back through the crowded racks of clothes.

[sound of rummaging]

"This one is a handsome green!" he said, returning with a skip in his step.

Also not bad. I like knit ties in moderation, and this Lilly Pulitzer number will go into the rotation with the other. Two out of three. At least he has an eye for it and the prices were so cheap (under $20 for all three) that I could indulge him in something that clearly made him happy.

"I also found a nice suit for you, too! Want to see?" he asked.

"I think we should probably go."

Burns Night Preamble

2012-01-30T10:23:00.001-05:00

Last Wednesday was Robbie Burns Night, and while I threw on the kilt and glengarry, it was not exactly suitable for the office. I kept that assembly a little easy during the day.

A Black Watch jacket I've had for some time usually comes out for winter parties and for Robbie Burns Night... or when tartan is needed... which is rare.

It's soft and very comfortable, and I like it with a bow tie which, it was pointed out, was upside down. "It was right-side-up when I got here" was my slurred response as I raised another glass of of Scotch later that evening. Same shirt, tie, and shoes as I shifted into the evening wear. Joined by friends Giuseppe and James Fox, all interpretations of the style were excellent. AAW has a nice post on the rest of the evening.

Next year, maybe Toad and his balmoral will join us for three holes of indoor urban golfing and plates of seasoned ground innards.

Not quite cold enough in Boston for curling (not that I'm a curler), but here are some great North American Scots enjoying their fascinatingly cool style:

Pressure

2012-01-26T14:45:00.001-05:00

In Atlanta visiting friends and one of my (formerly hot-tempered) cousins. A house full of sons somehow cooled him into a stoic oak(?). On one of the nights we went out for drinks, I kept looking for symptoms or signals of that slowly simmering pressure-pot to show up in somewhere, either in his speech, manner, or interactions with others. It didn't. Is he now a mellow father with a very long fuse? I wasn't buying it.

An architecturally dizzying hotel interior.

It took me a moment to realize what "tnurnb" was.

This company writes their instructions the way I write this blog.

As youngsters, he would be the first one into a scrap-up, and the last one out of it. Fast, wiry, and wild, he was a deadly athlete and lived everyday like it was a hopeless stand-off in a canyon ambush. He is a few years older than I am, and as kids, he provided me with diplomatic immunity from the ill-intentioned older children, who all feared his hot-blooded willingness to engage in a hay-maker tornado with absolutely anybody. I looked up to him, and loved spending summers with him. We are both at the younger end of that line of cousins, but he has taken control of the family affairs for most of us, cataloging and preserving thousands of photos, interviewing family members to preserve the taken-for-granted knowledge they never seem to write down, including the bizarre stories.

Ever defensively on guard for his family and relatives, his fraternity party fist-fights have now been replaced with his squad of lawyers; his once-hay-makers are now legal letters to the aggressor. Mother has trouble with a house-painting contractor? He calls the contractor. Not resolved by the next day? He gets on a plane.

Everyone thought he'd be the eternally unbridled one, maybe moving far away and working on a remote fishing vessel or pipeline in some desolate wilderness. Instead, he started a company, built a house, had a family, and found a way to direct his volatile gasoline tendencies into efficient, loyal, successful, and honest day-to-day life.

-A reminder-jab aimed at Ralph Lauren?-

He was in high school and then college during the 80's, and wore cardigans, Sebagos, and went skiing in turtlenecks with Vuarnets. By that point, he could keep the buttons attached to his blazers, and I saw him less frequently in the summers. He always had three or four jobs at once when he was young... two during the day, one at night, and another on the weekend. I always thought it was because he needed the grind to diffuse his energy, but I now realize that it was because he never liked to ask for anything.

Brooks Brothers thought "Knitted in England"

sounded better than "Made in UK". I agree.

---

I wear cardigans today with my jackets and suits because I always saw him wearing them. As a boy, he gave me many of the shirts he outgrew. In those days (the 80's), they were called "Izod" or "alligator shirts" and not Lacoste. His siblings were (and still are) all good looking as well, pictures of their three golden catalog smiles were on every table of my aunt's house, and because they were older cousins, I learned important lessons by example: men look good in pink shirts, how to sleep during church service, Grandmother sees everything, and always stand up for others.

Grosgrain ribbon on the inside of the cardigan is harder to find these days.

It's an older sweater.

He's now a dedicated father who is never to late to anything or too busy for his family, cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. He never hesitates to help anyone at any hour anyplace.

By evening's end on my last night, I was certain that his outward cool-headedness was here to stay, but I also found it comforting once I had decoded the nearly undetectable manifestations of his inner powder keg. They were still there, but the fuse no longer hissed, and we both accepted the way time turns leaves over, like it or not.

Reader Question: "Hoodies"

2012-01-23T12:53:00.001-05:00

Dear YWP,

In general, my beau has an excellent sense of style. While I wouldn’t put him in the cuff-links-and-velvet-blazer category, he owns and wears several very nice shirts, and has good taste in Japanese denim. I am, however, increasingly concerned about his addition to hoodies. Nice shirts can feature spiffy interesting, elegant patterns and lovely collars, but if they’re buried beneath a gray hooded sweatshirt with a silver metal zipper, they will remain significantly underappreciated.

Can you recommend an alternative to the hoodie, something comfortable that can be worn informally when one is out and about? Or should I just accept the superior wearability and perpetual teenaged nature of the hoodie?

Sincerely yours,
New Haven Co-ed

--

Dear New Haven Co-ed,
Nice to hear from you again. My advice is to not push for a cold-turkey termination to his "hoodie". I would consider replacement therapy and systematic desensitization. Fewer things are as unflattering and, at times, as demeaning as the zip-front hooded sweatshirt. What better way to insult your date, host, and self all at the same time? There ARE times when it is appropriate and harmless, but when is ruins the mood, evening, or outing, it may be time to consider upgrading. When I played sports in high school and college, hooded sweatshirts were perfect, just as they were when the electrician and I crawled through the filthy underside of the house to examine the joists for drilling.

Almost anything looks better than a hooded sweatshirt on an adult. Since your beau wears a zip-front garment, I will not stray into any over-the-head types of clothing. I tried to think of clothes that would allow easy-on/easy-off wearing, opening fronts, versatility, comfort, and warmth.

A friend of mine wears a hooded sweater as his knock-around outer layer. Unlike the photo, his is plain.

Another friend wears his waxed vest over EVERYTHING... suits, running clothes, sailing duds, weekend attire... you name it, he'll pair it.

A zip-front sweater might be a sensible upgrade, but it may be a tough sell. I have long-advocated for curling sweaters, but they can be a little eccentric looking. I wore mine to a party this winter, and as I stood by my host's magnificent fireplace, his pre-teen daughters giggled at it overtly when they weren't too busy texting, eventually asking me if I was "warm enough".

A cotton jacket is one of the most versatile garments, wearable in a wide range of temperatures and weather.

Another option is the lined shirt or "shirt jacket" as some call it. I keep one of these at the office, one at home, and one up north for the cool evenings (even during summer). It's comfortable, warm, and like a zip-front, it is easy to wear and remove.

None of what I have listed above is a style grand-slam, but it will be a good start. Since this isn't a catty-male style forum, I can be realistic about this.

I would suggest voicing your concern (be cool about it), ask for occasional compromise in the matter, and provide an alternative for him... preferably one that he has approved. Remember though, if it is not similar in use to the "hoodie" (easy-on/easy-off, opening front, versatile, comfortable, and warm), it will not likely catch on. He wears it because he likes it, and while some people (myself included) think that this garment often looks horrible on adults, the majority of the population finds them applicable to nearly any setting and situation. You need to accept it in moderation, but don't settle for it completely. If you push a guy too much, he will latch on to it out of pride and you'll have to move on in one way or another, with or without him.

Clark Rockefeller

2012-01-20T21:57:00.001-05:00

Perhaps because he is in the news lately, I have received numerous emails asking me about him and his life in Boston. There are several articles in publications around the country that shed some interesting light on the topic, most of which were written between 2009 and 2010. I wanted to give a slightly different version of the subject for the record, and while it is not salacious or sensational, it is the truth.

Of the misconceptions surrounding Christian Karl Gerhartsreiter and his time in Beacon Hill, I’ll address the most common:

Rockefeller/Gerhartsreiter “infiltrated Boston high society.”

This was a particular favorite sound-bite because it kindled inherent social resentment and the media were quick to gloat. I have yet to identify the “high society” referred to in the stories, mostly because it does not exist in any of the ways that people like to think it does. R/G was socially active not by calculating “infiltration”, but because he bought tickets to charity events just like everyone else did and he went to museum and gallery functions just like others did. Often. If you donate as little as $25 to certain causes, you get invited to their “galas”, which are often pretentious crap-cuddles (that deserve harsh dissection in a future post). R/G went to parties and was involved in volunteer committees around the city. He showed up at a few of my parties as well.

The Rockefeller alias got him access to a world he wanted to be a part of.

This one is subtle, so stay with me. R/G was not appointed to boards and committees because of his alias. Like any city, there are plenty of famous lastnames in Boston (and nobody cares), and the reason he was invited to participate in the programming at several institutions is because he had free time and he had an interest and enthusiasm to do it. If someone can show up for a mid-day meeting to evaluate art submissions to a local gallery, he is likely to have a spot. He generally dressed pretty well, and he was an indefatigably doting father who attended the local church. That being said, he was an unlikable goof-ball who forced his (invented) education, family gravitas, and self-anointed cultural authority every chance he got. He was generally disliked socially, but I know several people who say that while he was a laughably pretentious twit, he would work nicely to put together events and parties for people.

Here is the important part: Very few people cared about his supposed lastname. He would introduce himself as “Clark ROCKefeller”, over-articulating the lastname to drive the point home. 99% percent of women who met him left feeling creeped out more than anything. I, like my friends, had no reason to doubt his claim, and felt that he was just another trust-fund man-child who was clearly coasting on his family reputation, having done nothing on his own of measurable worth. There are PLENTY of those types around already. Nobody likes a snotty prick, but new batches of them surface every few years, burn through their good-natured neighbors, occasionally break some hearts or bank accounts, and ultimately move away in disgrace. Between his staggeringly ludicrous lies at parties, most had him pegged as a liar pretty quickly in terms of his claimed achievements, but most had (as I did) no reason to doubt the name he used. It is important to realize that even in the perceived "high society" circles, there are still droves of young losers and cads, drifting aimlessly and squandering family money, soiling the coattails of their hard-working ancestors who provided the largess.

His claims were beyond dubious. He regularly told people that besides consulting for NASA on cutting-edged propulsion technology, he was a counter-espionage consultant to the CIA, all while "assembling one of the country's greatest art collections" in his spare time. He also, never disclosed his class year at one of the several schools he claimed to have attended, so most people thought that he had been a drop-out. He was also snobbish the way a movie caricature would be, with the comically lilting swish in his speech, half-closing his eyes as he uttered something dismissive from his up-turned nose about wine or about Dutch portraitists. At a party I hosted (NOT in my home, thank God), he trotted around the function telling women that he was “a widower”, though his estranged wife was still clearly alive.

His wife had been hoodwinked by him

Many in Boston have their doubts about this one. His wife was an MBA workaholic with an impressive paycheck from a behemoth consulting firm. Several websites interestingly accused her of being a bigger con-artist than he, as she had apparently advised in her professional capacity that the world financial markets were stable and worthy of further investments… in 2006 and 2007! I assume that she is horribly embarrassed by the entire ordeal, but she had to have ignored hundreds of red-flags along the way to get where she had with him. As for the accuracy of her world financial forecasts, history has already dealt her credibility a cruel check.

His role as a father

Of all the fakery he constructed, and all of the pompous non-sense he spouted, one thing that was real was (and likely still is) his love for his child. He was a fixture around Charles St., tweed jacket or blazer, hand-in-hand with his daughter going in and out of markets and stores. He dressed her well and he was envied by many other fathers who would have also liked to spend their days with their children instead of working at offices. The unsanctioned flight to Baltimore with his daughter likely had little to do with his alias and his general jack-assery, and probably had mostly to do with his desperation and love for his daughter combined with his lack of sound judgment.

R/G was liked and accepted

In a few cases he had friends, but most people who met him distanced themselves from him when he turned on the stupid snob-act. “Oh God… here comes Clark Rockefeller” was a common saying accompanied by two or more people rolling their eyes at parties, pubs, restaurants, and events as he approached. To most he was an eccentric braggart who was tolerated more than liked, but who was also often avoided.

One normal friend of mine was invited to his house for “some food and to examine the art collection he was considering donating”. As an artist, she hesitantly accepted. His spacious Beacon St. house was empty of furniture, save several cardboard boxes and crates, and he treated her to a dinner of white rice (from a rice cooker) and a few slices of deli meats on a paper plate… no utensils.

Not a single person reading this blog would have been fooled by the claims of achievement R/G made regularly had you had the odd experience of meeting him. You would have found him immediately to be a boob with few redeeming qualities.

While his story has entered into the Hollywood-caliber pages of history, it is not unique. I can think of at least a dozen people I dread seeing at parties because of their gas-bag personas, their relentless name dropping, and their toxic social climbing. Yes… I get it… you went to [Ivy-league institution]… you’ve mentioned it six times during this conversation. Nobody cares. Yes… we’ve heard about your family estate in on the coast… nobody cares, and you’re also a terrible neighbor… go back to hitting on the twenty-somethings. While R/G certainly had a more interesting back-story, he was hardly the first puffed-up self-aggrandizing buffoon to hang around at museum and library foundation parties telling people about his privilege… and he will certainly not be the last.

Loafers and Loaves

2012-01-18T22:26:00.000-05:00

A new pair of loafers arrived in the mail, and were immediately returned-to-sender... they hurt in a way that I recognized, and I knew that they would never be broken-in. I would go into detail, but I've been bad-mouthing the company enough lately. On the walk home from the waterfront, I found this new hidden bakery off of Hanover St.

An alley hidden in plain sight.

A stroll down the tiny passageway.

Go in the door, and take the stairs down.

Excellent bread. A full bag cost me $3.

The alley out.

Hard to find. Well worth it.

----

The North End is also home to the "Skinny House"... one of America's famous spite houses. I can identify with this type of operation. There is often a pleasantly bitter taste is petty retribution... like the flavor of Angostura, but mixed with smug self-satisfaction and shaken with ice.

Ralph Lauren Gets It Wrong

2012-01-15T20:42:00.002-05:00

The crest on a velvet jacket at Ralph Lauren's store in Boston a few days ago.

Polo Ralph Lauren was established in 1968*. However, when they "borrowed" King Henry VIII's crest for one of their velvet jackets, someone got the banner wrong when they printed "MCMLXII". "1962"

The crown is a hilarious touch.

Henry VIII's crest.

Fleur de Lis in threes and Leo in Trio.

For all the time and money they spend, they can't even come up with their own fake crests? They have resorted to stealing those from the likes of Eton and others. Emulating is one thing, but thievery is another... besides, I'm sure that Henry VIII would have been able to correctly write his Roman numerals.

For the record, I rarely take crests seriously.

-----

I have clothing with the little horse on it, and I don't really mind that small quantity.

But "RL" on your slippers? Your name better be "Randolph Lattersly" or something similar. Why not put his initials on your stationary as well, or just go all the way and legally change your name? Maybe you're actually a descendant of Marco Polo, in which case, I'll shut my mouth.

*There are conflicting reports as to when the company was founded, possibly mincing the actual incorporation with the concept launch. I go with the business documents that all say 1968.

Foul Weather and Wearing Day-Glo

2012-01-13T09:52:00.004-05:00

A reader recently emailed me about this photo:

He asked why I thought "that neon [was] still possible on any man after 1988". While these socks are bright, they don't quite qualify as neon/Day-Glo/Hi-Viz, or any of the other industrial names associated with safety and visibility. It's good to get a little peppy (I said peppy, not preppy) with the clothing now and then, but I must respond with an answer that will twist the stomachs of the holier-than-thou. These colors are meant to draw attention to themselves for increased visibility. I see this color very often in my daily life as well, and the most common uses span every strata on the "cares about what they wear" index. Stay with me on this one... I'll come back...

-Police officers and road crews wear them for obvious reasons... SAFETY. Anything that gains someone an additional second or two to avoid being plowed into while managing our infrastructure is fine with me. This is an appropriate industrial application. The yellowish/green version has been common in Europe for a while, and has only recently replaced the high-visibility orange once favored industrially in America. Stay with me here...

-My neighbor (a technology entrepreneur) wears this color while bicycling to his swank office everyday. Again, he is interested in arriving to work in a state of not having been killed.

Now, on to the meat of it. I ended up wearing said color yesterday after the wind and pouring rain worked my wax-cloth jacket beyond capacity. Actually, only the hood of my jacket was the hue in question.

---Wax-cloth jacket and LL Bean Jones Cap... good for light rain---

When a little drizzle with some wind is the forecast, the wax-cloth can suit you well. When the wind picks up enough to destroy most umbrellas, if you are doing more than just running from car to building, a heavier jacket is needed. The off-shore and coastal sailing jackets come out and that is when you start to see neon. You can often see men with nice shirts and ties dashing through the financial district with their neon yellow hoods over their heads and suits, having given up on their long Brooks Brothers raincoats.

The hoods are neon because when you fall in the water, only your hood and cuffs are visible. On the deck of a boat, the neon hood lets you quickly see where all of the vulnerable craniums are.

When the weather get REALLY ugly, all style bets are off. The tall soft-fleece collar feels nice around the ears, the jacket is warm, the fleece-lined pockets are deep, and the wearer is guaranteed to not get one drop of wind-driven rain on his clothing underneath. Is it stylish? Not really. Am I asking questions and then answering them myself? Yes. Yes I am.

--Rigging Coat--

If you are the pretentious type who wants to advertise to everyone that you have experience with boats, you can rest assured that your branding message will be driven home because of your offshore jacket (the same way people do with their ski jackets). So there you have it... either someone is wearing the neon hood to draw attention to themselves about their boating skills or they want to stay dry and they don't care how odd they may look in it. Two opposite approaches under the same ugly neon hood, and you'll have to decide into which category they fall.

Also, if you enjoy genuine blogs that capture the visceral joy of sailing, you'll love Earwigoagin.

What is Really Worn: More Preparatory School Myths

2012-01-10T10:42:00.000-05:00

As Massachusetts is a hotbed of excellent schools, I thought I would continue my series of reality-based blogging. I excluded the co-ed schools, because the fetishistic mythology in the blogosphere seems to wax delusional about boys-only academies in particular. Brooks Brothers and Ralph Lauren imagery is happily absorbed and regurgitated as factual in the same way the Barbour catalog scenery is assumed to be real and on-going if one just knew the right person and could just get the right invitation to join. Again, it's mostly nonsense. Private schools very often make horrible decisions like everyone else.

Criteria for my research:

1. Had to be a private boys-only school

2. Had to have a daily jacket and tie requirement

3. Had to be in Massachusetts

...just in case anybody thought that this kind of stuff is real.

What is overwhelmingly the most popular style of shoe for young lads at the best Massachusetts boys-only schools?

I'm not joking. Boat shoes are a distant second, but suede bucks, loafers, or more English style lace-up shoes are rare. I'm not saying that this is bad either, I'm pointing it out to dispel some of the misunderstandings. I was recently told via email that I was wrong because the information I was conveying was not corroborated by 1980's "preppy" movies and did not have specific mention in The Official Preppy Handbook, an eye-rolling chuckle that is now decades old but still referenced piously as manifesto by young perverts. I own a copy of several birding handbooks, but I don't dress like the birds in the descriptions... same for my mushroom handbook.

Winter Firewood Wear and Warm Drafts

2012-01-09T14:08:00.001-05:00

Just in time for the warmish weather snap, the firewood arrived (the above photos are not mine). For the house in the city, I can get through just about half of a cord... maybe 3/4 of a cord. Between travel and a reconfigured heating circulator, burning through a full cord in one winter is almost impossible for me. Swinging a new Estwing one-piece into the nicely seasoned hardwood gives the shoulders and hands a familiar sensation... a youth and young adulthood spent swinging an axe regularly. Getting to know the season of each round rested on the splitting stump, practicing the angles, the accuracy, the solitude and the strange intimacy that comes from repetition and focus. Start the task with a jacket, shift into sweater, then rolled sleeves, and occasionally into a tee shirt in the snow. The number of garments removed correlate directly to the length of time splitting. My father used to say "come back in when you've worked yourself down to your shirt." I would put the axe and the maul into the bench-vise and sharpen the edges with the hand-stone, wiping them with a slightly oiled rag.

These days, after the wood is delivered to the city, several neighbors come by to take their share of the stack, and though they all pitch in to the order, cherry-picking is not allowed. We all haul the wood into each other's houses, sometimes hoisted by gantline to top floors, sometimes stacking it into basements, but always ending with a neighborly glass together.

My 1/2 cord stacked in the courtyard (above) with a sweatshirt over cuff-links (below).

Every winter, I buy my wood from a professional woodsman in-state. He wears old running shoes, a Boston College Eagles Footlball sweatshirt, and regular jeans. He's young, and makes his living cutting trees, milling them into planks or cutting them into rounds, and even splitting them. He doesn't wear silly $80 flannel shirts, and he sure as hell does not wear $350 boots. He recently had to hire two other guys because his hard work has been paying off. I imagine he has no use for the trendy Urban Lumberjerk.

----

Later that evening, an annual black-tie party in the city with some showy socks on my feet.

Slightly obnoxious

In New England winters, one stands or sits in front of the heating vents in the drafty old city houses, and lets the warm air get very familiar with your lowers. C'mon... it works.

In Northeastern winters, a bundle of four or five split hardwood log segments is an acceptable gift to bring to a party, if you are tired of bringing wine... just make sure that your host has a method for burning the logs.

-----

Wet socks, gloves, hats, and kitchen towels steam and then stiffen at the fireside, a fireside made possible by genuine honest-to-goodness woodsmen who don't own or wear foolish designer outdoorsman outfits.

Dumb Trends that Endure, and How Southern Women Can Save Us

2012-01-05T14:29:00.003-05:00

Fashion is for people with no style, it is often said. On the near-empty subway home from a very pleasant dinner of sushi and martinis, I sat next to an abandoned copy of GQ (January 2012 issue), and started spinning through it. To my schadenfreudian pleasure, I saw that it was still borderline useless, designed by man-boys for the specific consumption by other man-children.

Look very closely at the images below. If you have a pulse and are awake while viewing these pictures, you will see that the trend clobbers your style sense with its ugly style agenda.

There is nothing wrong with socklessness in moderation, but the high-water/pegged cuff-with-dress shoes trend is just that: a trend. And it's dumb. Very dumb. It's for children and not for men. It was almost charming when young Londoners did it in the 60's, and it was almost funny when Pee-Wee Herman did it in the 80's, but today it still looks dumb. I try to avoid saying that this or that is right or wrong, but many trends can generally be dismissed out of hand as suspect at best, and subversive at worst.

Not that this should come as a surprise within the pages of "men's" magazines... especially when they are publications that encourage men to undertake grotesque body-building (unrelated to athleticism, by the way), practice sporadic abstinence with shaving, and to pain endlessly to achieve a pseudo bed-head hair style. I generally tend to be laissez faire when it comes to style, preferring that people do and wear what they like if it is no harm to me, but when it becomes wedged down one's throat, my hackles get crackled.

Consider this "fashion advice" from their long-running column:

Since a bow tie conceals the collar points, I find this advice especially moronic. Below, I have a spread collar with a bow tie... what's the problem?

"YWP, If you don't always like GQ, don't read it." An appropriate suggestion since I just said "laissez faire" a few lines ago, but it goes deeper than that. It is clear that there is a resurgence in style-hungry young men, and like you, I quietly bristle (as unsanctimoniously as possible) at that to which these eyes turn. Should they be looking to blogs? Maybe as a last resort. Magazines? No. They should have been guided by an older generation of fathers, grandfathers, brothers, uncles, teachers, and even public figures. Further, they should be guided (by insistence) by mothers, sisters, girlfriends, and wives.

Southern women are the best for this... they lay it out plainly about what their boys and men should wear, how they should act, etc., and they stubbornly adhere to their expectations in a way that is always refreshing and appropriate. I always love spending time in the Mid-Atlantic and South for this reason. They insist that men dress and behave in a certain way, and it pays off. As a Yankee (who married a Yankee) who travels several times per month, I assure you that the contrast is vivid. That is not to say that there are not appropriately strong-willed and exceedingly hospitable women elsewhere who refuse to abdicate to lower standards. In New England there are many, and I imagine that it comes from family, school, friends, or any combination of those, or even from an innate sense of self-assuredness and certainty of how they choose to interact with the world (a nod to the Fowler sisters, M.F and K.F.).

In Boston, men will pretend to sleep or read on the subways and buses to avoid giving their seats to the elderly, the injured, or even very pregnant women. When the offense becomes too glaring, it will normally be the smartly dressed gal with a sweet southern lilt (student or transplant) who will be the first to insist that "At least one of you able-bodied men will SURELY give you seat to this woman."

My close friend with three girls says that if he had three sons, he could only teach three boys how to behave... but with three daughters he can teach the whole town... and he lives in Maine. Sound philosophy.

2012: Black Tie, Robbery, and Opera Pumps

2012-01-02T19:28:00.001-05:00

A Happy New Year to all. I was honored to receive your well-wishes and blessings, and I want the same for all of you. Ringing in the new year is always a fun party, regardless of what is happening. Even if you are hosting nobody and attending nothing, there is no point in not sprucing up one's clothing assembly a bit. I never, NEVER buy into the over-priced blow-outs at restaurants, etc., and generally opt for the black-tie parties. Some ill-timed remodeling required a dinner party elsewhere, and while the entertainment had some trouble staying sober enough to hit the right harmonies, the band was still tight. I was happy to wear the Dr. Frankenshirt creation I had whipped together earlier in the year:

I like that the pattern is visible through the bib. I also tend to wear shirt studs with a peak-lapel dinner jacket, and not with the American notched style. I like the casual easiness of toned-down evening wear. Black tie should be cooled off and approachable, and not the revved-up once-in-ten-years burden that it has become.

I called Giuseppe, and asked where he got his cummerbund. "Keezer's" he said, so I picked up a new black one... for $7. If you live in or near Boston, you really should go in there to experience it... I picked up several nice silk ties for under $15. It's a unique and great experience, and you feel like you're looting a formal shop in post-apocalyptic Russia. The tie in the photo above is 100% silk, square-ended, and delightfully unlined, making it easy to tie and easier to wear, and they asked $9 for it new.

A pair of Henry Maxwell opera pumps* (refitted by John Lobb... not a collaboration) held well and kept me vertical on the wooden floor of the dance hall off of the main dining room. Don't listen to the purists... these are fine shoes for black tie. Come to think of it, don't listen to the purists on anything.

By the time Mrs. and I took the floor, "Fly Me To The Moon" was being belted out by an over-scotched crooner, and an equally gin-soaked bassist, trying their hardest to hit the right notes, which they mostly did. At any party, don't be too cool for the little plastic hats either... wear them.

I'm very often confused for someone who cares deeply about wine... while I enjoy it, I'm not precious at all about it, so please stop insisting that I get a new wine glass for every different bottle served with the various courses. Besides, I enjoy making the uppity climbers scoff by rinsing out my glass with drinking water before switching from red to white, gulping down the pinot-rinse before the white is poured. Great-Uncle Max used to tell barmen who offered him a new glass for each drink (usually Scotch) "No, I'll keep this one... I'm just now getting to know the ice."

Purple/blue socks... the left one now smells of either XO or VSOP.

An odd little chair stuffed into the back corner of the dressing room... likely donated. I'd like to think that someone absconded with it during their college years and finally dumped it off decades later, as I did with many of my college chairs.

As the sun rose over Boston on the first day of 2012, I was the first one up... the first one in the entire city, it seemed. A cool (not cold) cloudless day greeted us, and we made our way back home for the usual New Years Day coffee (hangover's brunch) with friends and neighbors: a chance to gather together with strong coffee or tea, a solid breakfast, and an opportunity to retell the stories from the night before. I generally keep my wits about me on New Years Eve, because a very young boy will wake me at 6am regardless of the quantities from the night before.

A new striped bow tie also from Keezer's. $12.

Elegant and fun black tie NYE parties don't have to be expensive at all... in fact, the expensive ones nearly always suck. Horribly. My favorite NYE is still the evening I spent with Mrs. (before we were married) at a burger joint in Boston after we got tired of the party we had waded through for several hours.

A close friend in Seattle sent me this story:

An elegantly dressed man showed up in a Fairfax Denny's early New Year's Day, but he wasn't just there for the pancakes. Police say the suspect, wearing either a gray suit or tuxedo, held up the restaurant manager at gun point, and escaped with a wad of cash. The incident happened at the Denny's location at 10473 Fairfax Boulevard, at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday. According to police, the suspect approached the 25-year-old restaurant manager holding a handgun. The manager opened up the safe and handed over an undisclosed amount of money. Nobody was injured. Police said the suspect is a 6'1" tall white male, approximately 50 years old, possibly wearing a gray wig. Police said his handgun is black. Anyone with information on the crime has been asked to contact City of Fairfax Police at (703) 385-7924.

Strange that the gun was black, because I've always thought that a chrome Walther PPK goes best with black tie.

Happy 2012.

*Some call them court shoes. My "court shoes" are white, have non-marking soles, and are festering in a Back Bay locker.

Scraps and Oakum V

2011-12-29T08:35:00.001-05:00

Winter Blues

Cleaned Belts*

Wool Defense

Pub's Window-box

*Once every 5 years, or as needed.

Christmas Pie

2011-12-25T10:08:00.001-05:00

Each year, I make a Christmas Pie for dinner. In the past, it was filled with duck or goose from a blind, game bird from a field, venison from the woods, or lamb from a farm. Since I have not hunted in the last few years, I have been making a Yankee seafood pie, with the ingredients harvested by local fishermen... and not by me.

Lobsters, scallops, shrimps, and cod. Potato, leeks, onion, shallots, and salt.

Fresh from their "stovetop jacuzzi".

A butter-crust is the base.

Lobster meat, leeks, salt, onions, added.

Our beloved cod... the darling of the north Atlantic coast.

Cod slices and scallops.

More lobster meat, leeks, salt, a tablespoon of heavy cream, and a pinch of pepper.

A starch to bind the ingredients.

Baked for over an hour.

Gone in twenty minutes on Christmas Eve.

Two pies add nicely to your table full of friends, family, or strangers who could use a hot meal. Dessert is always Port and a dish of cracked walnuts.

Merry Christmas.

Mary Poppins and Wine Bags

2011-12-21T09:27:00.000-05:00

I can't take credit for constructing this one... or even thinking it up for that matter. A Tuesday night cocktail party materialized as carolers were circulating the neighborhood, and this clever wee wine bag was given to the hostess (my wife) by a friend. On said friend's other arm was a bag of home-grown satsumas from her parent's property in California, and were better than the Whole Foods variety.

As fireplace season started up again, the chimneys were swept in preparation for the annual delivery of split hardwoods next week. Speaking of chimney sweeps, Mrs. bought the DVD of Mary Poppins and had a movie night (late day) with several young ones over the weekend. The scenes are lovely and timeless, and among the many, these shots caught my drowsy eyes:

Notice the triple frog-closures.

When the actual chimney sweep arrived on Monday, the disappointment to my child was instantly visible and borderline heartbreaking. The sweep arrived by van and not by nimbly-pranced rooftop. He looked nothing like Dick Van Dyke and worse yet, he didn't sing, dance, or actually get inside the chimney.

"Ev'ry thing looks good here" he said as the small extended fiber-optic camera scanned the interior of the stack. Jr. sat patiently and waited for a wink, a Cockney colloquialism, or some aerial acrobatics. Instead the sweep's loud shop-vacuum just hummed away as he watched the monitor. "All set, buddy. See you in two years" said the surprisingly clean sweep, and he packed his extending brushes and left. I explained that life is nothing like movies, and that very often things are not what one expects. It was either that or ask my wife to hold an opened umbrella and jump off the roof.

Style Sins

2011-12-19T10:10:00.001-05:00

...were the least of his horrendously a**holish and horrifyingly cruel sins. His "tailor" continually let out his waistband, while 99% of the population had to keep theirs in as he starved them over the last two decades (since this is not a political blog, I have to tie it into men's clothing somehow). Maybe his one-piece zip-front gray suits are flame-retardant, because he'll need that feature at his next stop.

Long Flights and Slippers

2011-12-16T10:07:00.001-05:00

Before a party, I stopped by the tailor to find a matching button for a pair of pants, and was reminded I "don't look good in bow ties". He also indicated that my shoes "must have been polished by the family dog." After, I was happy to finally get out in the strange velvet jacket I had fussed over earlier this year.

As it turned out, about 10 other men also had been hoping to have their velvet jackets make their seasonal appearance. Within a record four minutes, I had slopped cocktail sauce on my sleeve and called my hostess the wrong name. By New Year, I hope to be down to three minutes. My wife later explained that the charming older woman with whom I had been chatting was not flirting with me, and that the "winking" was involuntary on her part. "She wasn't winking at me?" I asked. "No. Sorry, Darling." I was moderately deflated.

One of the many velvet jackets that evening.

A fine man and photographer friend (and fashionisto) gave me a pair of cherry New and Lingwood green velvet slippers, and like a gushing Cinderella, I accepted them. They treated the brown velvet jacket well in an overkill sort of way, and it was remarked (with obvious disdain) by one woman that I "sure seem[ed] comfortable". As a matter of fact, I was.

A day or two later...

A six hour direct flight to the desert southwest made the feet sore, but I had the foresight to bring along a pair of slippers for the plane... not for prancing around like a peacock, but to ease the ache of leather shoes and squirming. Cold and rainy weather for the first few days required a heavy coat, then it went into the closet once the week warmed up. A pair of brand new velvet Stubbs and Wootton slippers from Giuseppe made the flight slightly easier during the altitude-induced micro tissue expansions that afflict the feet.

Crocodiles... but not the Lacoste fellow. The design on the toe is beautifully embroidered. These usually stay under the office desk, but I grabbed them at the last moment as the taxi arrived, and it was the best decision I made during the trip. As I drove through the desert later that day, and early the next morning, uncharacteristically rainy days provided impressive rainbows over the rocks and cactus.

In all of it, a pair of slippers seemed to be one of the few comforts, and a long flight home this Friday will have the same. Maybe the guy in the seat next to me will take the hint that headphones and my nose in a book indicate that I don't feel chatty after the one hour mark.

Slippers are fantastic little inventions, but they are delicate both structurally and socially, with wildly varying opinions and (if you read other blogs) odd fetishy-passion. Yes, I was the guy in the suit wearing slippers on his flight across the country, but I was not the guy in the track suit and neck-pillow yelling at the gate agent.

Urban Practicality: Old Shirts and Tie = Wrapping Paper

2011-12-12T09:21:00.000-05:00

An old blown-out shirt and a frayed tie.

A few stitches with doubled thread.

Buttoned up.

A tie bow, not a bow tie. Brooks Brothers, college years purchase.

Off to the post office.

Early Winter Clothes

2011-12-08T09:19:00.001-05:00

A last stroll through the streets after closing up my temporary office. Papers shredded and coffee pot scrubbed clean... a small hillock of sand on the balcony from daily shoe emptying.

I was the fool in the lime green cotton pants and sockless ankles at the baggage claim at Logan Airport, collecting my USDA-inspected-and-stamped luggage. A fast cab ride home and a quick change for an afternoon Christmas party.

The old dames in the grand old house were charming, but let me know with Yankee code words that they had designs on the large ham in the middle of the table in the dining room, and a flicker of the eye made it clear that I was not to stand between them and the carving platter or mustard dish. How are your grandchildren? "My family is fine, thank you. Yes, I saw your husband earlier upstairs at the study bar. No, I'm not traveling for Christmas. Cal told me that Chessy had a stroke, I'm sorry to hear it. Chessy was the beagle? I'm still sorry to hear it. "

These are the people who throw parties at noon and wear stylish duds until the day they keel over. The white-haired men in the London bespoke suits that were made before I was born guzzle gin and Scotch, and spend the evening grazing at the candle-lit food table.

A dear old friend in a tweed three-piece spent half an hour decrying the insider trading in Congress and on Wall St. as we stood next to the swinging door to the upstairs wet-pantry where a few caterers were sub-stationed. Just as he said "insider trading" for the 80th time, a young catering server quickly flanked him and whispered "the oysters will be coming up the back stairs in about four minutes." "Ah... thank you, Courtney" he said and suggested we position ourselves closer to the door from where the platter would likely emerge. Insider trading indeed.

Pre-dawn breakfast at the only place to get eggs before 6AM on the Boston waterfront.

LL Bean wool sweater in bright red and those warm but crappily made wool socks from Polo. Back to the reality of winter and hopefully a better shot at the carved ham at tomorrow night's party. I love this season.

Panama Hats

2011-12-04T20:39:00.004-05:00

...and other styles about which I will no doubt be corrected.

After wrapping up business and the last portions (fragments for me) of the recharging effects of the tropics, the flight home to New England will be met with mixed emotions. In a recent post's comment section, a certain southern gentleman made mention of a hat pictured in one of the photos. I needed little excuse at all to return to the hat shop to procure one.

The preference was stated, and the supply was bountiful.

I picked out the one that matched the order.

His band selection was a good choice: solid black.

It was tightened and measured.

Fitted and pinned.

Pleated.

Seated.

Heated.

Treated.

Boxed and Shipped. It will reach the Continental US before I will. I hope it fits.

----

A day later...

Seems that it does. No gamble for ADG.

-----

Then, at the last minute, I couldn't resist getting one for myself, with a band to match Jr.'s.

In the background, the first hat is ready, while mine is being measured for its band.

Mine in the foreground, Jr.'s smaller one behind.

$60 seemed reasonable, especially because I had spent $0 the preceding weeks, and it was the least expensive one there in my size. Luckily, my taste for small brims was rewarded, because the brim diameter is directly correlated to price: smaller brim, cheaper hat.

---

Then, I got a tour of the other hats...

This one costs $6000... unfathomable to a Yankee.

I was then shown the $1000 hats. Still, way beyond my tolerance, but beautiful at close examination. I held my $60 hat next to it (mine is on the right) and you can see the difference in weave. My hostess then held it a foot above my hands and dropped it to me. It floated down like a silk scarf or a plastic shopping bag. It was as light as a feather... and a surreal moment.

A closer shot:

"It takes over six months to make." Judging by the impressively delicate hand weave, I'd say that is a generous production estimate. Again, $1000 on the left and $60 on the right.

I'll be flying home soon, and sadly, the hat will have to wait until next summer to be brought out... just sitting on the shelf, reminding me about the grinding winter that will be yoking me soon enough. I can at least get some miles under its grosgrain band for now.

Humidity Bouncing

2011-11-29T14:13:00.000-05:00

Island hopping around the territories and a few off the grid. A vehicle full of beautifully uniformed lady officers (US) picked us up... their hair wound tightly into neatly pinned buns under their pulled-low hats. Seattle, Kansas, Miami, and San Diego birthplaces for each of them, and all smart as whips and as tough as nails. I love women who can qualify with a .50 caliber.

A seaplane functions as a commuter craft and remains out of the scope of inspection and supervision of the FAA, making the out-of-market gypsy flights fun and forehead sweat-inducing.

Seashell hunting in the late afternoon with Jr., who found me a nice paperweight for my (temporary) tropical office. The air conditioning has been left in the OFF position, and the humid salty air swirls across the desk and fills the sun-lit office. All bedroom windows and doors stay open throughout the night as well. Mojitos made with mint and basil leaf, and lightly sweetened with brown sugar make me question human existence as I once understood it.

We ran into some friends from Boston, and the children played together for the day. When we dumped the bucket of collected shells out for a poolside examination, two shells began quickly scurrying away, making the children squeal with laughter.

Mrs. had a custom made hat in a tiny child's size to keep Jr.'s head protected from the heavy sun. Under $40, and some complimentary coconut candy.

A bucket of slowly collected shells were threaded onto dental floss to make a necklace for a favorite teacher back in Boston. Patience, son.

Tan and summer-weight checked suits all around, and in the old cities, everyone (but the tourists) dresses well. Elsewhere (and far off the grid) roadside barbecued pork on a skewer runs me $1 from a wood-fired grill, and my sailing knife stays nervously on my belt when I venture to the beaches sporatically prowled by neglected ribby dogs. In some areas, the pristine and deserted beaches should be approached skeptically as local desperation has recently made them occasionally unsafe. The best restaurants have ugly cheap plastic furniture, florescent lighting, open walls, and fantastic food. You are also likely to find well-dressed theater goers, politicians, laborers, and locals of all sorts elbow to elbow, enjoying themselves and their neighbors. Mojito. Mojito. Mojito.

Colonial Thanksgiving

2011-11-26T07:21:00.000-05:00

No turkey and stuffing. Red snapper stuffed with peppers. A colonial Thanksgiving from a different colony. Open window and the crash of surf, and wind-agitated palm trees. High ceilings and tall shutter windows and doors. Linen and loafers. One more week to attempt the avoidance of sunburn. Business requirements of a suit and tie in the coming week.

Kate Hall and the Kater Skirt

2011-11-22T10:44:00.002-05:00

When my wife asked me if I would mind accommodating about a dozen or so of her attractive friends for a private skirt fitting in our house, I happily agreed. Then she dropped the hammer: "Thanks, Dearest... if you don't mind clearing out for a while, that would be great. Come back by 10pm." Oh well. Luckily my neighbor (whose wife attended) had a full bottle of rye, so I went next door.

Kate Hall has been behind several women's clothing lines, and now runs her own in Maine. The signature skirt is the Kater Skirt, a double-lined silk skirt with (most often) contrasting waists and triple buttons. They began as primarily a summer line, though Mrs. has commissioned several winter weights in lined wool. When girlfriends continued to request similar skirts, my clever bride decided to make it into a party.

The always lovely and sweetly charming Kate Hall. Her skirts fit every type, and the lines of each garment make any woman look great.

She also gave out these wine bags, made from old (cleaned) sails. The dacron holds the bottle nicely and provides a sturdy carrier. The old brass hank is there for effect, though I've used spares before for "flying the khaki pennant" (drying your pants on the back-stay while underway). She is a work horse and a relentless perfectionist, but she is also endlessly accommodating. I can say with years of experience that she throws fantastic parties, too.

---

*ADG, your gifts to Jr. on the sill, just as he arranged them.

Tea and The Urban Harvest

2011-11-21T16:53:00.002-05:00

The roof garden is nearly gone. The basil was pestoed long ago, the tomatoes plucked and eaten, and the strawberries finally slowed down. Left, are the rosemary pots, the oregano and sage, and the mint.

I like coffee and tea, but I really only drink black tea and the very occasional blend specifically formulated for a sore throat. While visiting a middle-eastern cafe in Harvard Square, my group was seated at a small intimate table and given a beautiful pot of mint tea, which suited our stomachs well after the winter gorging that immediately proceeded our cafe visit. The tea was fresh, hot, leafy, minty, and delicious.

This weekend, I harvested 90% of our roof-garden mint before the cold got too far into it.

Picked and de-leafed.

Dried in the oven (120f for 45 minutes).

Crushed and scooped into a teabag.

Boiled. Unlike black tea, you can boil mint tea instead of just steeping, and it's impossible to over-steep.

It turned out nicely, and I generally despise herbal tea.

No caffeine, so Jr. can sip one too after filling winter meals in the city.

It's not quite as good as bitters for settling the over-stuffed stomach, but it does help. The rest of the pot was cooled and poured into ice cube trays to make minty ice for liquor drinks later on for an autumn cocktail party. Hello, winter.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

The Art of the Guest and Hilarious Pajamas

2011-11-17T10:21:00.001-05:00

We grew up with a bustling house. There were always dinner guests, long-term guests, foster children, adopted friends, relatives, entire sports teams, and people who happened to be within earshot when mother signaled for dinner. The table would be expanded, chairs crowded in, and place settings reproportioned. Guests and children alike were forced to follow the strict ritual of the dinner with permissions to be excused, waiting one's turn, and not speaking loudly. Mother was agile in her hospitality, and could clear for action at a moments notice, sending us all to our stations to make things happen.

The opposite of uptight, my siblings still think nothing of quadrupling dinner guest rosters within minutes of dinner, and guest rooms are always ready. A couch or an air mattress is just as good as a guest room, and the best weekends are when the house fills unexpectedly and all spare rooms, beds, couches, and squares of floor are occupied the next morning... bonus points for stumbling upon improbable pairings of guests in the morning.

Let me shift the angle of this to focus on the guests themselves... or one in particular.

Either you love having guests or you don't... I rarely find middle ground, but one friend of mine has perfected the art of being a house guest. A perfect host himself, I am always happy to hear that he is heading to Boston from New York City. On weekends, breakfast is always in pajamas, and longtime friend and college roommate "Plum" tends to elevate pajamas and robe wearing to an art-form, explored with enthusiasm. He enjoys mixing dressing-gown style (robe over shirt and tie, trousers, slippers) with pajama function (robe over pajamas, worn with cashmere sweater and scarf). A normal morning usually has Plum arriving to the meal dressed in an amusing mix of styles directly indicating a level of indulgent luxuriating never imagined by others.

In winter, silk pajamas, sleeping cap, soft leather slippers, suede-soled mukluks, silk scarf, possibly even a fez or a bear-skin shawl, all are well within the realm of possibility when he is a guest. He usually shifts into his academic tweed to give a lecture and then attend receptions and parties until the wee hours. Though he may arrive back to our place at four or five o'clock in the morning, he always rouses early for breakfast with my family.

Plum has worn each of these hats during outdoor cigar evenings in autumn/winter.

If it's cold outside, he'll make a fire in the morning, and skillet the bacon and sausages from the hearth. Potted shrimp on toast, brandied peaches, or potatoes get skewered onto long toasting forks and carefully turned over the flames while my young son looks on in salivating amazement. It is important to note that he approaches all of this with a wise-ass angle and he is never smug or annoying about it. It is almost a sport to him, and because he is never showy in his professional professorial clothing (he prefers dark tweeds and wools), he can be costumy and fun during the winter. If he's a guest at a summer or coastal house, he will find an ancient bathing suit in a trunk somewhere, and at the urging of the nostalgic grande dame, trot it out, absorbing the laughter and ridicule with a wink.

Wool bathing suit at a junk shop in Eastern Europe? Plum will buy it. A canary-feathered opium robe from Hawaii? Absolutely. If you fall asleep on his couch, you will wake up warm because he will have draped you in a heavy Klondike sled blanket or the fur-covered hide of some Asiatic goat.

We've played endless hours of cards together in foreign train stations, nearly drowned our college Dean while sailing, and smuggled black-market fireworks across the Canadian border. While there are many who make hosting into an art, there are few who make being a guest an art. Plum does both.

Reader Emails: Christmas Gifts

2011-11-14T16:08:00.000-05:00

Dear Y-W-P. I want to get a good Xmas gift for a friend who is always well dressed. Can you suggest a nice event to take him to? Maybe the symphony or the theater in Boston? I live in Cambridge [...]

***NOTE: I responded with an actual list of nice events in Boston... most of which have a legitimate accompanying foundation affiliated.

But it got me thinking...
Style blogs are often silly, stupid, and superficial... Boxing the Compass is without a doubt silly, stupid, and superficial, but it's fun to put together on a weekly-ish basis.

Instead of velvet slippers, vivid pocket squares, and too-tight tweed jackets, consider giving donations as gifts this year. Research the charities well, and ask around. If they throw ostentatious or lavish fundraisers, be skeptical. If they can provide full disclosures of their balance sheets, all the better.

Half of my family is of Connecticut stock, so when reader JKG mentioned this charity, I thought I'd look into it a little closer. I liked what I found.

Organic is hit-or-miss, but local is always good. Last winter, my wife and I were staying at a nice resort-like inn in Connecticut. When the manager told us for the third time that all of the linens were "made from 100% organic cotton", my wife finally told him that we had no intention of eating the towels.

Keep in mind that many charities, trusts, and foundations have matched giving, so even a $5 or $15 donation is appreciated. My brother often gives donations on behalf of his siblings, and it is a nice way to enjoy Christmas morning.

People always make jokes about getting socks for Christmas, and by the looks of many blogs, I think that some of the ankles featured (in lace-up dress shoes, mind you) could use a pair or two. The Trad put it well when he suggested this.

Greatest Email Ever

2011-11-13T19:33:00.000-05:00

I just got this from a fellow I ran into at a recent trunk show.

[YWP],
Apologies for the tardiness of this email, I misplaced your card while drunk and just found it last night also while drunk and here we are.
I enjoyed our talk at the [x and x] last weekend and if you are still keen on drinks let me know how your week looks.
Regards,
[Name]

Literally, my favorite email of 2011.

*NOTE: This is why you should carry social cards to social functions and business cards to business functions.

Resoling Shoes and Marching Band Interference

2011-11-11T16:39:00.002-05:00

Two pair of shoes with sole holes.

I called Giuseppe to ask where he sends his, knowing that he had long ago smoked out the best possible value for the desired skill level. "Savas" he said. Perfect... so I put the shoes into a Ratsey Bag and hopped on the subway bound for Davis Square (Savas had Saturday hours). Outside of the subway, I pushed through the throngs of alterno-marching bands which were gathering quickly. When I reached Savas, the door was blocked by about 500 people and a large boisterous brass ensemble, and the business had closed for the day. Should have called first, I guess. Just my luck.

During high school, a friend was taking the SAT's one Saturday at a local school. About 30 minutes in, a marching band began doing a dress-rehearsal outside of the classroom window. Apparently, they marched back and forth for over an hour, which nearly drove him to a boil (he's regularly anxious about nearly everything). I guess it didn't harm him too badly, because he went on to a fine school.

----

One of Boston's best dressed fellows recommended the spot he takes all of his (London-made) shoes. I dropped them off at Rinaldi's, and was told to pick them up in a week.

A week later...

The brown pair:

Not bad, but I had to pay an extra $25 per pair for staying in Boston and not going out to Somerville for Savas. The total was $150 for two pairs. It was a good price for the city, but had it not been for the Davis Square marching band festival, I would have saved $50.

A different pair was sent back to Allen Edmonds a few months ago. They offer full reconditioning and resoling for about $100. To be honest, I thought that the replacement sole (the original was also rubber) was too thick and bulky.

Above, you can see that they did patch the inside of the inner back heel. Their work is good, and they do a fine job of repairing any damage to the outer shoe, but the replacement was just too clunky compared to the relatively thin and pleasant original rubber sole, and the shoes look and feel heavier.

I spoke with the cobbler a bit, and he said that the resoling business is expanding noticeably. He said it was "the economy". Perhaps... but let's hope that when (and if) things turn around, the values and lessons learned will be kept and possibly passed to others.

***Please forgive the odd formatting. Blogger is being testy.

Selvage Salvage

2011-11-09T13:46:00.002-05:00

When this blue and white striped shirt died, I salvaged the cuffs, but there was still plenty of shirt left.

$5 later, the back panel of the shirt became a new large cotton pocket-square/handkerchief.

----

For those of you who seem obsessed with the word "ivy"...

Boston is particularly beautiful in the autumn with its league of actual ivy.

Belts With Nouns On Them

2011-11-07T14:53:00.002-05:00

Last week, the upstairs function room hosted a trunk show for member Nick Mannella and his array of belts and other belt-like paraphernalia, all of which sell under the name of Knot Belt Co. I picked up a nice number with lacrosse sticks and plenty of room, just in case I stop exercising and begin tripling my caloric intake.

You can likely find your school color

The young gent who runs the operation is a fine squash player and remarkably able to keep pace with older members and their odd pop-cultural references from the 70's and 80's.

Nick Mannella

His products are pretty solid and very reasonably priced. Some of the nouns and combinations (dare I say "motif"? No... I daren't) are classic references to old pursuits (sports, etc.) and some are cheeky puns which specifically resonate with certain activity participants... like ski bunnies.

If I could just get a picture of my belt onto my boat shoes, this one would be great.

---

When the weather gets cold, the indoor courts do also, and a down vest fits the bill nicely... brandy also helps.

I have a Brooks Brothers tie with two racquets (rackets, I guess) crossed, but I caught enough flack about it that I had to get the official triple. Happy now, J.P.?

A pair of warm and comfortable socks from Polo (and NOT from the trunk show) that are sloppily made and were obviously at a discount. Even beginner knitters do better.

At least my new Knot belt held up nicely... and yes... I paid for it. As the policy of this blog is one of full disclosure, I received their "trunk show pricing" as did everyone else. The proprietor Nick was also gallant enough to provide open bar for his show, which made the prices seem even lower.

Reviving Shirts VII

2011-11-04T10:02:00.001-04:00

Two identical shirts in a small blue check pattern. One was the recipient of bleach damage from an obviously incompetent dry-cleaner during a business trip... the same one that ruined another shirt. Since I didn't feel like sending this one to the scrap yard or to the surgeon, I decided to mix up a very strong solution of bleach and even out the spot. A full dunk in the Clorox marinade and I now have an almost white translucent-check shirt with an over-all hint of pink.

Originally identical twins, now their details are the only indicator that they are related.

For whatever reason, I seem to have several sets of identical twins as friends. Some have remained identical into adulthood, and others would barely pass as related at all.

Concerning one set of twins who are very close friends me and my family:

Jan 1, 2008
Visited by [Twin 1] & [Twin 2]. Though identical twins, they make a point to differentiate themselves in dress and manner, and their efforts are useless. In the end, the only thing that truly makes them outwardly different, are their self-unseen eccentricities. The more they attempt to consciously separate, the more they seem like twin brothers, often reverting back to arguing, slapping, and punching, though both possess advanced graduate degrees from remarkable institutions. Both are over 6 feet tall, intelligent, very thin, and while [Twin 2] is prone to ludicrous injuries (falling and cracking several ribs from not taking his hands out of his pockets to catch himself) [Twin 1] regularly finds himself in situations of such bizarre and unlikely detail, that the retelling becomes immediately legendary. [Twin 1] was asked to put together a pilot program on the Travel Channel, and used our fireplace for the backdrop of the monologue. Spent the evening putting together cue cards, and setting up the shot. [Twin2] was director while I served as unskilled flunky.

[Twin 1] has contributed to this blog in the past, and has become a well-known figure in men's style. A stickler for tailoring (necessary with his build), he cuts an intimidating silhouette with the exactingly elegant fit of his suits and shirts. He is also known for his hand-made pocket squares.

Ralph Lauren vs. Brooks Brothers

2011-11-01T15:55:00.001-04:00

A pleasant lunch with an old friend today gave me the chance to swing by the Ralph Lauren Store followed by an immediate visit (one block away) to the Brooks Brothers store. I compared the mannequins... which do you like better?

Ralph Lauren

Five minutes and one block later...

Brooks Brothers

Some nice patterns and VERY heavy wool

Brooks Bros. first of three floors.

Brooks Bros. seems to be bringing out the very heavy wool this year.

---

I was lucky to see the following when it originally aired. Forward to 0:50 for commentary on McLaughlin's jacket. Pat Buchanan has a great line, but McL's retort is even better:

"Doubtless, a stallion."

Black trousers and a solid black tie on a yellow shirt... black velvet collar on tartan... very nice. It makes me excited for the holidays and all of the parties.

Scraps and Oakum IV

2011-10-31T10:01:00.001-04:00

Sloppily assembled

Self-writing joke

Still intact

Minor conflict

Happy Halloween, all. -YWP

Stonewalling

2011-10-28T09:13:00.002-04:00

If you enjoy a stroll through the woods in New England, you will likely find stone walls. A very short moment in each year is the harvest. Mechanized now, the harvest was once a near-panicked and frantic race for many seasons. Making hay is even a risky venture with New England weather. I occasionally bird hunt in up-state New York amongst the cleanly-shorn fields where some of the migratory birds glean the errant grains from the ground.

The labor is poured out, elbows and backs wear down... some will never be the same. Toes and fingers are crushed, and shoulders on men both young and old pinch during a pre-dawn stretch. In April, it's still cool enough for hard work, and there won't be too many biting insects. Burning stumps and brush tend to smoke the clothing, and at the end of the day, the clothes are better kept by the door instead of in the bedroom... it goes back on the next morning. They smell, but it's the arms and joints that complain the loudest.

Then... the field is used as intended... grazing, agriculture, hunting... if children find dead animals they poke them with sticks. Season after season of harvests. Relatives and neighbors are brought in to pike and rope the assembled beams on a new structure... treenails are commanded home and Mother brings out sandwiches cut into triangles while water is gulped from ladles or tankards.

Years later, Father dies after a few years of being a grandfather. Mother goes ten years after. The children have moved to the town with the grandchildren and the cousin takes over the farm. His ruined shoulder kept him out of the Great War. He scales back the production and leases more out. Buildings start to age, and the barn roof will go three seasons too far, first bowing, then sagging, and then opening up. Equipment rusts away and wood rots away. The land is long since grazed, and saplings take hold like bacteria besting a neglected wound.

The land returns to forest, and the cousin, now elderly, occasionally walks the stone wall, remembering his childhood and the seasons of building it. He saw a bear a decade ago, but not since. Coyotes are returning. He remembers his uncle sitting on the wall smoking a pipe, he remembers acorn-throwing play-wars with the other children, and he thinks he remembers hiding an old pocket knife somewhere in the stones. What was the hen's name? The milk cow was named "Seffa". Everyone and everything has changed, nieces and nephews rarely visit or write, and the others are dead. The wall has held up better than any of them. Those damn stones. A nice young doctor from Concord wants to buy the land... thinks he'll start an orchard. He must be as dumb as the wall itself.

All photos are Eric Sloane illustrations.

A Flea and Several Hounds

2011-10-26T10:25:00.001-04:00

Purchased at Top Shelf Flea Market IV over the weekend from Zachary Deluca for less than $40. 100% wool and not too heavy.

A tie picked up from Giuseppe's booth. Hounds catching the scent.

Liquor prices at the bar could be fulfilled with pocket change. Some excellent vintage finds... even Mrs. found plenty, and my son's Auntie brought home a dead fox for her shoulders. I was happy to meet many of the folks I've known only by email (a bad way to maintain an association), especially a particularly well-dressed Pacific Northwest power broker attorney who bounced around the city with me afterwards, sampling comfortable leather chairs and exceedingly comfortable drinks.

Easily Influenced: Love Letters and Sunkist Soda

2011-10-25T11:15:00.001-04:00

For almost forty years, a woman named Joan worked for Grandmother, and it was Joan who actually ran the house. Joan was deputized as de facto first lieutenant, and she took her job very seriously. She had her own room at the other end of the house, and kept the pace exacting, regular, and perfectly coordinated to Grandmother. My older cousins called her the Gendarme, and she would give us a “five-minute warning” to clear ourselves and possessions from the lawn before the mowers started, and then literally chase us away once they could be heard. My father always described her as “having the warmth of a German combined with the openness of a Yankee”.

Joan was a widow who saw three sons go off to Vietnam, but only one return. Her surviving son was the local mailman, and he was virtuosic in memory and had never had a cold, fever, or sickness as far as anyone could recall. He was dependable and friendly, and lived by a cowboy code of refusing to gossip, which frustrated those along his route. He would walk the mail up to the big houses and collect required signatures, etc. and often delivered hand notes between neighbors.

Grandmother’s cousin had moved to California --to Hollywood of all places-- in his thirties, partly to find himself, to crash several sportscars, and mostly to piss off his father and mother (Grandmother’s aunt and uncle). He had scandalized his uptight parents with accounts (by letter) of lavish poolside parties and relentless name-dropping of disliked Hollywood figures, none of which played well with that portion of the family, but which suited Grandmother surprisingly well. Even when both were much older, Grandmother liked visiting her cousin, his parties and the guests, and Joan would always go out to California with her to keep things in order and assist with logistics.

On one trip during the late seventies, Joan met a younger handsome former hippie/actor who charmed her irreparably, and for the first time in her life, she actively began dating. It was a strange and improbable match, but Joan had given herself completely to this man, and Grandmother was happy to see a bounce form in her step because of it. They dated for the entire spring, and Joan spent all of her free-time with him. She also began to hum and sing around the house Grandmother rented in Hollywood for the spring.

That summer, Grandmother and Joan returned to the New England coast, and began the process of opening the seaside house for the summer with the usual efficiency. When we arrived, everything was in its place and running as expected, but Joan was noticeably different. She kept a small battery powered radio by her side in her small office, and sent away for Beach Boys records that her son would deliver, played every evening when she was off-duty in her room. Within a month, she sang along to all of them, having memorized the lyrics. She wrote letters to her beau at the rate of almost one per week, and her son accepted them each morning during his rounds. As the weeks passed, the love-struck Joan waited for a letter to be answered, but a response never came. Her son, would always hand her the daily bundle of mail, and say in his characteristically honest tone that he had not seen any letters from the man in question. Joan concealed her disappointment as best she could, but even the children could tell that she was wounded.

Joan’s son was married that summer, and Grandmother surprised him by sending them on a honeymoon to Europe for three weeks. It was the only vacation time he had ever taken from work (excluding his tour in Vietnam) and they shipped off in early August. His replacement was an older capable mailman who was unfamiliar with the route, but still friendly and professional. During his first week, he walked up to the house with the mail. The bundle also contained Joan’s letters to her beau, all postmarked and stamped by the California post office as UNDELIVERABLE and ADDRESS UNKOWN.

“These were sitting down at the office” he said, handing her the letters. She stared at them for a moment and then took them into the house, disappearing into her room for several hours.

---

When her son returned, tanned and refreshed from Europe, he walked up to the house on his first day back in uniform, with gifts for everyone, the nicest of which he gave to Grandmother. His thankful bride sent about two dozen pies throughout the following week and we ate ourselves stupid. According to my father (who recalled the conversation below), Joan asked her son if there were any letters for her from California, and he responded as usual “No, sorry, Mum… none today.”

“Do you think they’re getting through?” She said, giving her son the chance to come clean.

“Of course, Mum. I’m sure he’s reading them.”

“Okay.” She said, knowing that he had sweetly been shielding her from the disappointment the entire time, in the only way a son knew how.

“See you tomorrow, Mum.”

“Okay, Marcus… glad you’re home safely.”

----

Several summers later, my cousins and I were watching a tiny TV during a rainy summer day by the sea. There was a commercial for Sunkist orange soda that incorporated a Beach Boys song (“Good Vibrations”) and featured a catamaran launching off of an oncoming wave, ostensibly in southern California. My cousins and I were gobsmacked. We immediately knew that we were going to attempt the same feat. It took about three days to sweet-talk and arrange for use of a catamaran, which was a small (ubiquitous) Hobie, and three of us set out to perform the jump, speculating about the height, the gasps from onlookers the jump would elicit, and the likely heroic status we would have for the rest of the summer. We were also certain that Sunkist would want us in their next commercial. As it turned out, Sunkist would likely not have been impressed at all by the pitch-poling disaster, the embarrassment of a spectacular capsizing, the loss of one pair of boat shoes, the stitches required for two foreheads, and the pleasure craft that thankfully came to our rescue.

***UPDATE: I was just corrected via text message by one of the participants:

"you got it wrong dork!!! nobody got stitches. only big bandages. bled like crazy tho."

My apologies, Cuz. -YWP

River Style

2011-10-22T10:36:00.000-04:00

A weekend+ trip to the Ozarks for some much-needed fishing. Saturday afternoon, I checked into my cabin and took a canoe for a solo trip down the river for a few hours as the late sun set in the cliff-lined river as the trout fed on a hatch all around me. Before sunrise the next morning, I enjoyed a lumberjack's breakfast before meeting my Ghillie for a full day of guided fishing. Gorgeous rainbow and brown trout, frigid tail-water, and warm sun in cloudless skies gave us a perfect day.

Drift Boat piloted by an expert Ghillie.

Straw hat for the Ozark sun.

Waders, reel, and wading boots.

Offensively yellow socks worn under waders. The picture does not do them justice... they are almost day-glow. My Ghillie was not impressed, but he was diplomatic.

Gorgeous vistas.

Last remaining rental in the lot... an American muscle car. It made the drive fun with a strong rumbling engine and firm suspension.

One final fruit hangs on.

The trout-enriched White River.

The landscape and its relic.

An evening out with with friends. Grilled fresh-water fish and barbecue were washed down with beer purchased in one of the few counties that allow alcohol.

I've fished these waters before and am always impressed. Baptist-heavy counties are voted "dry" by their citizenry, outlawing the sale of ANY type of alcohol (though the tide seems to be turning) and everyone smokes. Sore hands and forearms from paddling, rowing and casting and the first lip-chapping of the year... all well worth it.

Those Boats, Those Boots

2011-10-17T11:20:00.001-04:00

At 06:00, the boxer puppy barfed on me for the second time since midnight. It was December of 2002, close off the coast of Ireland, and we had anchored the evening before. I was the guest aboard the boat that belonged to the father of my close friend. His father had made good during the huge up-swing of the Celtic Tiger, and was within a year of retiring. In fact, they had all done well. They were smart and hard-working, and all in their twenties. I had raced with many of them back in Boston and around the northeast, and I took the two weeks before Christmas for a visit to Dublin and the coasts.

Their father slept aft in the larger berth, my friend and his brother in the bow, and I took one of the mid-ships bunks. The puppy was sea-sick, and had spent the entire night breaking wind and whining. After it puked on me for the second time, I decided to get up.

Within an hour, we (minus the puppy) planned a trip to one of the small islands nearby. The father stayed aboard “to care for the dog”, which obviously meant that he intended to sleep for a while longer. The boat’s tender was a long (17-or-so feet) Whitehall with two sets of oarlocks, a small sail rig, and a sturdy rudder. We lowered some things into it and argued over which two would row, and who got to sit holding the tiller. I ended up as one of the rowers.

We pulled hard through the nasty gray winter drizzle that (of course) had turned to rain the moment we set out. Towards the lee-shore we stretched out the oars, my friend in the stern steering us along and laughing as he sarcastically shouted out rowing commands. Jerk.

The tender ran up to the pebbly beach and we dragged it ashore. After hiking a small grass path, we came to the ruins of an old structure that provided a half-roof under which we could cower, while my friend started up his Whisperlite camping stove (bought in Freeport, Maine the summer before). Within minutes, the tiny kettle was boiling, and we steeped our Assam tea. From his pocket, the brother produced some scones in a plastic zip-bag, and we sat on the broken and rotting beams and dunked the scones into the piping hot tea and laughed about the poor dog.

We hiked the small island for a while, feet warm and dry, and returned to the tender. Again, I lost the bid to steer, but I did secure the aft-most rowing position, and my friend had to absorb the wind and spray across his back instead of mine, while the brother quietly steered, facing into the wind. It was a rough pull to windward, and when we finally muscled alongside the boat, we remembered that we had left the small camping stove in the ruins back on the island. At least I was able to man the tiller once.

I was borrowing a pair of Dubarry boots for the trip. I had never even heard of them, though the father and two boys each had two pair, and took sympathy on me for my (perfectly adequate, thank-you-very-much) winter Wellies. A few months later, I was fitted for a pair, and my feet were happier for the switch.

I have worn them on bird hunts, at miserable and hopelessly muddy outdoor events, and on the VERY few occasions when I get guilted into serving on race committee during the fall or early winter. They are pricy buggers, but the cost is appropriate. They are warm, dry, soft, and sturdy. They don’t feel like heavy boots, and they are both breathable and absolutely water-proof. Thankfully, unlike other boots, they tend to remain on the feet of those who use them for their intended purposes, and are only occasionally seen going from an SUV to a chain coffee shop.

--Photo credit--

Anytime Dubarry has a booth at a show or convention, their salespeople perform this this cutesy demonstration.

They are funny looking, but they work. The hover somewhere in the $400 - 500 range (location depending) and the company is pretty good to deal with. I have never walked city streets with them on, even during winter.

Practical Clothing and the Subtle Landscape

2011-10-14T13:51:00.003-04:00

An extended weekend with clear blue skies and warm air was well-timed. The moment was seized with leisurely drive out of the city to half-day at a fair where ribbons of varying colors had been awarded to all manner of vegetable, animal, and flower. A sunflower head the size of a small tire sat near a pumpkin that weighed nearly a ton. A booth sizzled away with an aroma that was magnetic... battered and deep-fried peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. Twinkies and Oreos battered and fried? Yes. Hell yes. Battered and fried cheesecake? I'm listening. Thankfully, Mrs. and the others were off looking at the exotic ducks, because I knew the face she would make if she saw me consuming batter-dipped deep-fried dessert on a stick.

"We fry all of it, Sir" the man in the apron told me. The small spotted scars on his hands and forearms told me that he had plenty of experience dropping things into hot cooking fat.

"I wish I had known that" I said. "I had a bacon cheeseburger earlier. I could have had you fry it" I sighed.

"I would have, Sir" he said.

Neither of us were joking.

Onward to New Hampshire for a last weekend on the fresh spring-fed glacial lake. Swamp maples always turn first. Some call them swamp fires, because of the brilliant red leaves that appear first in autumn.

That Monday was the popular trubute to that Johnny-come-lately Chris Columbus... I'm of the Leif Ericson doctrine. Would that make it a Valholiday? I know, dumb joke.

This might be what the Abenaki and the first settlers saw when they hunted and fished. The marshes turn early in autumn, and the cooler temperature bring the trout back to the more shallow depths.

A patch ironed onto the inside of a rip. Boat shoes are preferred for pulling docks from the water and I have not fallen in since 2007. My day will come again. On the last boating day of the season, I decided to go for one last swim. I climbed onto the stern of the boat and plunged into the HOLY %#*@$! THIS WATER IS COLD for a bracing swim.

A sweater that is older than me and lives at the lake. A shirt I've had since high school, with a hopelessly fletched collar. Don't let other blogs fool you... this logo was not considered cool throughout the late 80's and into the 90's.

Season's last family paddle.

[Above photo zoomed in]

On the drive back to the city...

Landscape's beacon.

Public Library

Architectural flourishes are actually very practical features.

The HQ of the iconic magazine.

The New England landscape is not wild. The nucleated villages are specifically laid out. Houses built before the 1800's had central chimneys and faced south to absorb as much sunlight as possible. Only after the classical revival period (1815 - 1825) did the end-gables face the streets. The woods you see are not the wild virgin forest we often assume. Vast acreage of southern New Hampshire and Massachusetts were once cleared for farming. Laboriously assembled stone walls still line many property lines along the road, originally laid after two or more seasons of painfully excavating the stones.

Sturdy maple trees also line the road, but they were planted there to make tapping easier, as syrup makers prefer not to wander all over the woods changing buckets. Now, the trees are connected with modern tubing, and the reservoir is emptied and reduced inside the home to create the desired grade of syrup. Steeples are also the Yankee landscape's permanent beacons, and columns of smoke are visible year round in many parts. Besides large highways, the landscape was not changed in any macro sense the way oxbows or the occasional dam alter things.

An autumn cocktail is made well with Maple bitters. A bar in Central Square mixes it with Canadian whisky and lemon. A colleague, who told me about the bar, appeared in the office in this soft herringbone suit.

Modern trends have made rye and bitters very popular again, and like three-piece suits and dressing intentionally, this trend resurrects what was once very common. Not all trends are bad. If your style doesn't change much, you will likely come in and out of "fashion" about every twelve years. If you think tight high-water pants and sockless dress shoes are here to stay, you likely also think that the LL Bean Signature aesthetic is here to stay too. Talk to me in five years. If you think that the urban woodsman/lumberjerk look is permanent, you likely can't repair engines, can't load/shoot/clean a gun, and can't swing an axe.

Baked ham with maple glaze. French-Canadian farmer's (meat) pie is topped with syrup. My tie this morning also has a few spots of Grade A on it.

Reviving Shirts VI

2011-10-13T09:08:00.001-04:00

A pink (T. Pink) shirt of mine had some blue staining on the cuff that would not come out, even after several professional attempts.

I also had a Lewin shirt that had been ruined by a dry-cleaner during a long business trip several years ago. The cleaner had apparently used bleach on the collar and cuffs, and the damage ruined the shirt (for business purposes). It's possible that the cleaner was used to bleaching white shirts in this way as standard procedure... mine didn't really need it to begin with... I'm just not that filthy.

Two shirts, both marred, but enough parts to reformulate.

The cuffs could be reversed to hide the bleached areas. The blue striped collar on the pink shirt would have looked great if it hadn't been damaged.

Contrast-collars are easy to find, but contrast-cuffs are more rare. It's actually rather subtle, now that I look at it. I hiked back my jacket sleeve for effect.

Good enough for business, and I only had to part with $12.

Scraps and Oakum III

2011-10-06T13:47:00.000-04:00

Non-profit's ostentation.*

Bar's misspelling.

Disappointing fit.

Tassel Sporran.

*Scrutinize your donations carefully. Insatiable blind lust for expansion should be a red flag. Stop feeding the beast.

Mister Midwester & the Tall Martini

2011-10-03T20:44:00.001-04:00

The months of September and October have held an unhealthy frequency of travel all across the country. Between business, weddings, and visiting friends, non-stop moving is taxing on the senses. Beside the indulgently bad behavior on full boil at airports, the modern man now falls victim to the ease of travel he once demanded. Being home these months is closer to a starboard/port watch (starboard/larboard for you very old-timers), with twenty hours in each city, then home for twenty. I was tempted to post many of the pictures I secreted of 50-somethings with large cellphone-connected ear apparati wearing the ubiquitous jeans/white running shoes/golf shirt get-up of typical suburban splendor, or the scuffling 30-somethings in their athletic wear, but I realized that I was just getting a bit too punchy and mean-spirited from the heart-rasping explanations to my son about why I had to pack a bag and leave again, and why I had to go alone. Thankfully, a resolute Mrs. continues the Naval regularity of the household in my absence.

Screw it… here’s a picture from the airport.

Mouthpiece lifted up for conversation... how courteous.

Several weddings which included fully kilted gentlemen and very relieved parents of both parties also provided a half-dozen female friends from childhood who have aggressively rebranded themselves for reasons known only to them. Maggie, Susie, and Kate did not welcome my addressing them as such, letting me know in no uncertain that they are now Margaret, Susan, and Katherine. Eventually they gave up once they were surrounded by several tipsy long-time friends who had no interest in relearning their new names. Older relatives caused bristling by also refusing to address “Bets” as “Elizabeth” even during toasts. I would have no reservations hiring a “Bets” to handle a lawsuit, negotiate a purchase, or to tell me to remain silent while she explained to the inquisitors that I have “no comment” on the matter. Thankfully, “Cam” had no desire to rename himself “Cameron”, and Matt and Doug were also fine with the shorter childhood versions preferred by relatives and coaches.

I was the sketchy guy in the elevator en route to a reception taking pictures of himself.

During one trip, I had the fortune of time to make a detour to visit fellow blogger Mr. Midwester. Those who follow him know him as the most generous gent around the men’s clothing angle of blogging. He happily mails out impressive finds from his cache of clothing finds (postage paid) to those who ask. I have several ties and a particularly poppy (4th-hand) jacket from him, and our correspondence has always been genuine and disarmingly nice. The best part about him is that there is no catch: no hidden agenda for giving away the free stuff, no weird ambition or angle, and nothing other than what he says. In a cesspool of marketing, branding, and concealed blog shilling and fakery, he provides a trustworthy plain truth and a revelation that neighbors can now exist across state lines. He is a new father to a gorgeous baby girl (whom I had the absolute privilege of holding) which has occupied his time these past few months. I took shameless and cheap opportunism to visit some of the thrift shops in his city (since he is now devoted to hurrying home every day) to glean a few items that his absence had allowed to remain on the racks. I only had a total of three hours before I was off to the next city, but it was well worth it. He somehow finds clothing that fits him extremely well, which seems improbable because though I am over six feet tall, I was barely at eye-level to his chin when we shook hands for the first time. I wish we were actual neighbors.

One of the ties Mr. Midwester sent me... Brooks Brothers... worn on the flight to Chicago.

A touristy spot enjoyed. 1000' high gin.

Thanks for a fun (though brief) visit, and for hosting me in your town, Mr. Midwester. Great curry, too.

Esquire's 75 Best Dressed of All Time

2011-09-30T11:57:00.002-04:00

Put little stock in these dumb lists. See for yourself:

The List (from 2010).

Either way, these are some of the images that I found the most pleasant, starting with Arnold Palmer. Note his masculinity that does not rely on freakishly built biceps or tight clothing.

There is little that needs to be said about this fellow.

Clint shows us that tough guys can wear V-neck sweaters.

Paul Newman makes boating/painting/floor scrubbing clothes look great.

He was odd, but he often wrapped himself in good clothing.

Obviously, the list was thrown together by a small team of young people under a deadline. Missing are actors like William Powell, David Niven, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Gary Cooper, etc., though they listed characters in films. The list could go on and on, but at least they're putting something out.

Charge It

2011-09-29T13:30:00.000-04:00

When the summer gets too hot, the sea gets too lively, or the previous evening was too indulgent, club soda fills the prescription just right. It gives cigar-mouth a sorbet effect and livens up any liquor. I take it with bitters and ice almost daily. The problem is hauling the bottles all over. I hate buying it in an sort of meaningful quantity, and the liquor stores refuse to deliver it in any manageable count.

Of the dumb things we do as a culture, the enthusiastic purchasing of water quickly comes to mind. I bought a seltzer bottle and a dozen boxes of cartridges. "Charged water" (as my Nanna calls it) is far more handy than throwing away (or recycling) bottles or cans constantly, because you fill it from the tap (Boston and NYC have some of the cleanest municipal drinking water in the world). Once filled and bubble-ized, the seltzer works just fine and holds its charge surprisingly well. The bottle can sit in the refrigerator until its ready to pep up your whisky or whiskey, your rum, brandy, gin, etc. While they were once indispensable as Vaudeville sight gags, they are pretty rare now. Several of you will likely chide me for not buying an antique seltzer bottle, but the gaskets never work so I went for modern.

You save about a dime per bottle, and the recyclable (bin) cartridges get mailed to your house... no more schlepping Schweppes.

I also found this old number at an antique sale. One spot for bourbon and another for Scotch. I paid about $12 for it. It's kind of crappy, but charming.

Between the seltzer bottle and the whisky holder, autumn picnics are looking more inviting.

Vintage Knitwear for Ladies

2011-09-23T11:24:00.000-04:00

On her recent trip to Brimfield's textile market, Mrs. picked up a new (very vintage) suit for herself. It actually came with the original catalog.

This is the suit she bought.

I dig these older photos, and the styles they portray. Some of them have some real gravity. Made in Italy, the Giana catalog shows outfits that were warm and heavy, likely held the smell of cigarettes for days, and were the garments of some excellent parties. The hair is fantastic, and reminds me of a certain Grande Dame who was feared by most people around her... all but her hair dresser, who provided a vengeful torrent of sass when he felt that she had spoken abrasively or in a manner that indicated her privilege.

Good weekend to all. My immediate travel plans include a stop over to one of the most generous style/clothing bloggers, the grain belt's own Mr. Midwester. Tales to follow.

Nothing Wasted

2011-09-19T20:54:00.002-04:00

From the age of ten until college, I spent two weeks every summer at a fishing lodge with several similarly aged cousins and family friends, all dropped off by our fathers to the chaperoning of a middle aged widow. The widow was a semi-retired college professor, whose husband had died just after my first summer there. Her father originally owned the land and had built a large but rustic lodge between the lake and the cold river that ran on the other side of the hill. When she had inherited it as a young graduate student in the 1960’s, the lodge was a revenue-generating fishing club, sought after for its rainbow and brook trout who naively gulped the flies presented to them. She stayed there every summer and henned over the small local lodge staff who tended to the guests. When we arrived, all but one of the lodge employees were sent away, and she did the cooking and caring for us herself.

The widow/hostess’s late husband Charlie was a professor of engineering of some kind, and he had prospered by holding patents on some complicated weaponry-related technologies. He was about twenty years older than her, and she never fell out of love with him, even long after he had died. During the winter, she lived in Boston, in a large townhouse on a fashionable street, purchased for something like seventy five thousand dollars decades ago, where she sat in her large study and wrote her papers and refined her research for publication.

Everything about her was sharpened. She was handsome in the way a predatory bird was with sharp eyes, statuesque build, wavy blond hair cut in a bob, and tall slender limbs, almost wiry, that occasionally revealed spear-point elbows and knees. She never formally exercised, but she was always lean and tautly drawn, with an intimidating gaze from perpetually serious blue eyes.

We would arrive each summer and be sent to “the dorm”: a room full of ancient bunks and a small wood stove where we would live for two weeks. We were up at four thirty or five every morning, at the rousing of our hostess. Hot chocolate or tea was offered to the groggy boys (coffee when we were older) and we were sent out fishing (with a teenaged “guide” when we were younger than 14) until seven o’clock, when a full breakfast was served back at the lodge. Our hostess prepared and served all the meals with the help of one young lady who drove in from the neighboring town each day at seven, and we were expected to wash the dishes. On Thursday and Sunday, we had to wear a coat and tie to dinner, and she would require us to say grace before each meal (though she was actually an atheist). She served hot roasts with potatoes, and light vinegar salads for dinner. Lunches were packed for everyone, and nearly always consisted of sandwiches made with the cold meat of the previous evening’s dinner, like cold roast beef on buttered bread with lettuce and thin tomato slices.

She was strict and cold, and she spoke sharply and briskly, even in the early hours. She smoked two cigarettes per day: one at five in the afternoon and another after dinner. She only wore navy blue sweaters in thick wool and small-waisted but sturdy and conservative skirts. When it was hot, she wore khaki shorts.

One afternoon as we fished from our various canoes on the far side of the lake, a summer storm caught us, and we tried to make for the shore to beach the boats and wait it out. Out of the rain and wind appeared a Boston Whaler, driven by our hostess in her dark green rubber rain coat and black sou’wester. We lashed the canoes in a train and she towed us back through the violent-but-short storm, like Mother Goose with her goslings.

During one summer at the end of our stay, she gathered us together in the front room by the hearth and told us that she would not be returning the next year. Her writing and research would require more of her time and she would remain in Boston. We all looked down. She said that Sarah would be taking over the Lodge duties and that all of the usual member-groups would still be booked for as many years as they wanted. We knew that that we had just had our last summer there.

“I want you all to know that I’m proud of each one of you. You’ve turned into nice young men, and I’ve adored watching you grow up. I always thought of you as my family somehow, and I love all of you.”

We were stunned by the tenderness of her admission, delivered in her typical untender tone. She brought us all into her small office and gave each of us something that belonged to either her husband or her father. Among other things, there was a small old camera, some binoculars in a leather case, a collection of briarwood pipes, a compass, a leather billfold for holding flies and tippets, and some beautiful brass candle lanterns. I was given two pipes and a fly reel and a silver stop watch.

Ten years later, when I was in my twenties, my father called from Florida to tell me that I would have to attend a reception in his stead as he was unable to fly back for it. I put on my blazer and tie and made my way over to the campus on the subway. The school was dedicating a research grant to Charlie, endowed by his widow. When I saw her, my stomach tightened unexpectedly, partly from nostalgia and love, but mostly because she looked frail and weak and much older than the seventy or so years that she was.

She smiled when she saw me, and said “Your father told me you were coming. I’m sorry that he couldn’t make it. You’re looking well.”

“You too.” I said unconvincingly and trying to keep it together. Her hair was still cut the same way, but it was white, and though she moved slowly, her voice and flickering eyes were still sharp.

She kept me next to her for the whole evening, literally leaning on my arm for stability and refusing to sit when I’d offer. At the end of the reception, her Haitian nurse appeared and helped her to her car. The nurse casually mentioned the advanced breast cancer that had spread, as if I had already known about it. Typical. The old gal was too stubborn and beak-sharpened to tell us she was dying.

I visited her a few months later at her home and she was unable to talk at all. A month after that she was gone.

Her nurse was at the service, and told us that our hostess had kept a photo album of “her boys” next to her as her treatment-battered body failed. It had been compiled over years, and had photos of us from each summer and photos that our parents had sent during each school year. We were also told that she had wanted to see us all during her cancer battle but had been too embarrassed of her “undignified” state and her homecare. Very typical. Her service had one (and likely only) distant relative attend. Charlie was her family first and foremost, and after it was too late, we realized that we were too. We had always thought that she was annoyed by us. I recently asked my father how much he paid every year for us to go to the lodge. He candidly told me that she requested a check from each family for $35 at the end of the summer... a little over $2 per day. I called my uncle a week ago to verify this, and he said "The old goat would ask for a check from us, and in all the years we sent you boys there, she never cashed a single one ever. But every year we sent one."

--

Spreading her ashes at the lodge was probably against her wishes, as she was always unsentimental about herself. At the slightest hint of attention or care towards her (especially admissions of vulnerability) she would clip the conversation dead. We put her remains under the cedar tree and smoked Charlie’s pipes while we tearfully sang a hymn she somehow loved. As we headed to the car, my short-tempered cousin suddenly ran to the front door where the brass bell hung and twisted the clapper free, hurling it into the lake inexplicably. Somehow we understood.

Every autumn, two or three of us go to the campus to present the small research grants to promising young geeks who could use a boost doing all of the engineering magic that I can’t even pretend to comprehend. We wear Charlie’s bow-ties that she gave us… a little too thin and a little too 1950’s… but we wear them. We all have good eyes, but we secretly wish that we needed glasses just to go with the suits and the tweed... the way Charlie did, and the way that only a few souls in academia still do.

Whisky or Brandy afterwards at a local college bar, though we skip the cigarettes, and when it rains, we buy drinks (anonymously) for any gal who strolls in with an unfashionable-but-practical sou'wester.

Seattle

2011-09-14T18:19:00.000-04:00

An exclusive club that is actually not exclusive and not even a club.

A tower of collars. Excellent.

A newly renovated interior hosts the Arctic Club. Big Band and cocktail bossa nova smooth out the first floor, and the barman adds the martini shaker to the rhythm. The billiard balls clack occasionally, and the walrus head stares curiously out over the touches of Alaskan mineral and dark wood paneled walls. This "club" is actually just a DoubleTree (Hilton) hotel, and the rooms are offered at very reasonable prices for business travelers who want to stay downtown. The odd thing is that this hotel is a bit nicer and actually clubbier than many of the actual private clubs in the area. Of the great features, one is treated like an adult with windows that open wide to the city, even on the high floors. There are also no TV's in any of the lobby or bar areas, and it has a nice (though affected) older feel to the place. My room has a French press, a kettle, and enough coffee for a week.

Not too many ties or suits in Seattle, but the fresh seafood is of astounding quality. I make it back here a few time a year, and my early-riser East Coast clock has me up at a lonely hour to stroll the city in search of someplace that serves eggs and bacon before six o'clock... none found. Coffee here is strong and thick, the way I make it, and a dear Boston friend who relocated here to launch his latest tech innovation takes me in and out of the great gin-joints as he plays liquor tour-guide for the week.

I see endless hotels that try and miss the mark, and it's nice to be in one that hits it. My lime-green gingham check shirt and striped gray suit pairing also missed the mark, but I'll do it again. With the sunshine, the oysters, and the fresh Olympic air, it's a great week to be alive and in Seattle.

The Douglas Fairbanks Auction - No Thank You

2011-09-10T21:55:00.000-04:00

I have been watching half-heartedly since word got out that it would happen. I received several generous invitations from organizers and individuals to attend some of the preamble concerning the auction. While I appreciate the aesthetic beauty of both the sum and the parts of the clothing items, I can't seem to be anything other than repelled by the estate auction.

I love old clothing, family hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. I also have many great jackets, ties, scarves, pocket-squares etc. from elderly friends who though (correctly) that I would appreciate them. I do.

As for his collection, it is impressive, and is a snapshot of an era that will never again exist, including landmark firms that have gone extinct. Men's style bloggers write about this subject at great length and to sometimes intense debate and the auction is very in-the-moment. It is appropriate to mention it and to take the opportunity to salute a great style heavyweight from a romanticized period.

What is being left out of the discussion is the fact that it is being auctioned off in the first place. Was there not a single relative, friend, God-child, heir, etc. who could lovingly take respectable stewardship of these things, ensuring that they remain in appropriately sentimental hands? Perhaps the seductive power of liquidation was too great to overcome.

As for buying the clothing... then what? Wear the blazer around to parties, letting everyone know that it was from Douglas Fairbanks? It would be a barely tolerable conversation piece if it had been a gift to you from his family ("Doug was very fond of your father, and he would have wanted you to have this"), but to then disclose that you bought it in an auction as a salivating gawker makes the name-dropping unforgivable. Fairbanks was an impressively decorated Naval officer in the century's most epic conflict, famous actor with unbelievable personal stories, and man of the world, achievements that were earned, and not purchased at auction.

In our typically pleasant exchange, another writer of a blog was also a bit off-put, and likened the enthusiasm to "vultures dancing on a carcass", "itching to swan around" in one of the purchased suits from the Fairbanks estate. I agree.

If Doyles produces a glossy catalog, it will be worth sending away for, but for God's sake, imagine that it was your family, and you were now witnessing the looting of beloved items at the hands of unsentimental heirs one generation closer to the deceased than you, gleefully dissolved by overseas collectors and the smug rapping of an auctioneer's gavel.

Summer Round-Up and Rot

2011-09-07T12:56:00.002-04:00

A few shots from late summer. Many days of bright sun with cool sea air. The city air gets a cool milky mist in it, and the smell of salt.

Roofdeck: Carrots. This one was excavated before its time by a critter.

The tomato and herb plants were untouched.

Roofdeck: Banana Pepper. Zucchinis were sterile for some reason this year.

Jalapeno

Pre-Dawn on the Harbor: USS Constitution

Roofdeck: Beans

Boston Common: Hurricane Irene

Hurricane Shoes: LL Bean.

Father's Old Tie: Puritan Shop, Hyannis, Circa 1970. Now mine.

Roofdeck: Strawberries. Chipmunks DO live in the city... and they climb up old houses to feast.

Giuseppe and I took the children for a quick hot-weather sail around the harbor. He's in the Quoddy's, I'm in white-soled blue canvas. When it's very hot, my feet bark at leather shoes.

The boys all went out to the great Anna's Taqueria for their excellent fresh lunch. I noticed a guy in line with nice pink shorts, and when I looked closer, I realized that the happy grappler was handling his burrito.

-----

I went to college in the early 90’s, when things like not recycling an aluminum can or speaking abrasively would trigger infantile-but-mandatory group discussions with no constructive endpoint. These discussions were useful however, in determining who to avoid, befriend, or possibly which weaknesses of your classmates and dorm mates could be later exploited. The required discussions were invariably centered around anything that could possibly cause someone else to “feel uncomfortable”. While we should have been discussing literature, mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, etc. that entire decade saw it fit to regularly piss away precious free-time venting over things like gender roles, anything ending in “ism”, and trying like hell to somehow get a blanket and pre-emptive apology from the men.

In one wretched discussion, a particularly annoying hippie (from Palm Beach!) was insisting that all food scraps could and should be saved for composting. She somehow drummed up support from the school, who went so far as to actually promise materials and construction of the simple wooden system. Another meeting. We were all called to hear this vapida lecture us about food use, waste, etc., and boast about the support she had brokered from the college. A dean was present, smiling and likely dreaming of the photos that he would work into school materials of students standing around a stinking compost heap, smug because their two cubic yards of rancid decomposition would surely single-handedly save the entire Earth from immediate destruction.

Halfway through the meeting, mutiny was brewing. Our carefree lives and careless daily uses would be burdened with the putrid agenda of some Florida heiress, and we all felt the threat acutely. While several students were nodding and smiling, most others grumbled and squirmed. We all knew that no matter what the issue, the only way to survive such meetings was to remain quiet at all costs. One could even agree to actionable promises and vows of conduct without ever risking accountability for later ignoring them… but one had to remain QUIET.

“The only issue we have now is where it will be built”, the insufferable girl proclaimed.

“NO!” A gal piped up dangerously. All went immediately wide-eyed, as she initiated debate… the last thing anybody wanted. “The real question is what do you plan to do with all that compost?” she demanded angrily. “We don’t have gardens, we’re not a farm, and in case you didn’t notice, WE’RE ON A CAMPUS!” It was a simple question that nobody had yet asked. She then finished sharply with something along the lines of: “We've had three meetings about this. Just build it! Can we leave now?!”

The compost project died that evening, almost audibly, and soon after, the hippie set her crosshairs onto paper recycling and the drug-addicted drummer from a local band, both of which were disasters. At the conclusion of the meeting, I made a bee-line for the angry gal who turned out to be from Bath, Maine. She was tall and pony-tailed, wore dark jeans (before they were cool again), a scratchy old flannel shirt with an earnest repair at the elbow, high-miled running shoes, and pearl earrings, and I asked her out that night. She accepted.

We remained friends for years and then lost touch. I always think about her question when I see enormous piles of diligently kept compost, rotting away, never to see a garden plot or bed. Now, in the city, there is a compost project within a block of me, but I don't know where... somewhere to the south, clearly detectable when the wind blows southerly. I hope that they're using it for something.

Quick Shift to Evening

2011-09-01T10:36:00.001-04:00

At five o'clock in the afternoon, a friend called to alert us that he had two free hours in the city while on a delayed connection at the airport and was headed our way. This dinner would necessarily consist of just Mrs., the guest, and me. A cheerful armada of chipper sitters allowed the fast arrangement, and I had nearly no time to change.

Our guest, a particularly elegant and stylish bachelor and long-time family friend percolated our motivation to shift into non-business evening clothing... or as close to it as we could get in under five minutes.

A butter-yellow sport coat would be the only modification, but it gave the boring business get-up a bit of summer-evening. Switch out the pocket square, and the deal was done.

Since there would be only three, the restaurant choice was easy. Lala Rokh is a tiny Persian restaurant and a fixture in the neighborhood with excellent food and attentive staff. More importantly, it has Boston's smallest bar: three seats. [Patsy K: surely you have been there, yes?] A few gin martinis at the minuscule bar, then to the table for not-at-all minuscule plates of grilled lamb, minted rice, saffron yogurt, sultanas and mushrooms. A gulped glass of the house red wine, and our guest was back in his taxi to the airport in time for his evening connection to the West Coast. We arrived home just in time for me to read Richard Scarry's various tales of lederhosen-clad Tyrolean animals to young and sleepy ears.

Familiar Footing

2011-08-28T11:51:00.001-04:00

Arrived to the gin-clear water of a quiet medium-sized New Hampshire lake. The Orvis jacket has lived there longer than I can remember. A pair of LL Bean mocs, flip-flops, and boat shoes are the only footwear I take. The Bean mocs are useless on wet wooden stairs and logs, but brilliant on granite faces of enormous rocks. At quarter to six in the morning, young Jr. awoke with the declaration that it was time to "make something". "The only hardwood we have is firewood" I told him.
"Okay, we'll use that!"
"Uhh... Okay. We can do that."
The woodshop is where many generations have crafted the replacement planks for docks and buildings, forged iron hinges, repaired caned seats, and every manner of repair imaginable, often completed to unnecessarily fine detail.

Small lads can cut a line steadier than one expects when using a coping saw. A pencil line makes a good guide. The gratification of a rasp, a file, and a few planers comes easily to new woodworkers.

Young hands learn the joy of concentration and the pleasure in craft of using hand tools. Chisels and a club mallet make a straight line, even though they were new to him.

Fitting the mallet head and driving the wedge in elicit young smiles and reward the patient planing and (well-supervised) chiseling.

A rag of Minwax and the summer sun cure the creation. Here, it rests on the bench we made in ten minutes using a bow saw and a hand auger. The mallet spent hours cracking acorns, smashing ants, "cidering" crab apples, and pulping weeds.

A sail towards the swimming island where we anchor astern and tie the bow ashore to jump off the high sheer rocks, my bare nancy feet griping about the granite during the first two days.

Mumma and Papa Loon teach their two young how to fish and swim. We had the same plan.

A grapnel for throwing to shore trees, a mushroom for mud and muck, a Navy for sand and rock, and two Danforth styles for sand and gravel. With these in the hold, we can land in any of the lake-bottom's personalities.

Spliced eyes and toggles are a project to pass time, but are indispensable for large coils of line, rolled towels, hanging picnic bags, and nearly anything else.

Water sparkles with sunlight from lunch until sunset, and on the VERY rare morning when the water is not glass-smooth, Jr. and I enjoy the opportunity for a six o'clock sail in the rainy gusts while others sleep.

One never outgrows a love for water, and a restless thumping in the chest propels adults of all ages to climb to the top of the granite edge and leap into the clear deep, feeling the water in the nose and bubbles past the face that haven't changed since the first life-vested panic-filled jump as a tot. I use the same words of encouragement this year for mine (from the lower ledge) and the giggle is distinct when the heads surface, gasping with surprise and relief. Boys and girls of summer. They are full steam until the dinner spread, with a thirty second transition to twelve hours of snoring, and only then do I uncork the bottle. Other boats appear at the dock, and friends stroll up to the house with their bottles and a years worth of news to share.

Summer White, I'll Miss You

2011-08-21T20:49:00.000-04:00

One thing I always miss after summer is the tropical white jacket. Usually in a cream or ivory, there is something very pleasant about them, and it's not just the aesthetic of the contrast. When you wear the summer "[off] white", you are constantly reminded of the nagging ticking clock, the mercilessly turning calendar pages, and the very real sense of season. You are forced to confront the temporary momentness of it all and indulgantly absorb it while you can.
I had the tailor repress the lapels by over an inch to tame them... the idea is a look of "as light as possible". Not only should it be light and cool, but it shouldn't make people sweat just by looking at it. Summers in cooler places do better with the heavier silks, wider lapels, or wools which are stifling in a hot city.

The jacket is a true ivory color, though in this image it looks a washed out white in the late day sun. What do you expect? I use my phone for all the pictures. Aint no artsy photographist.

The lush gardens at their peak, the fresh peas and corn, and of course, the rum and tonic... all provide me (and most others) with an unexpected kick to the skull when I look down and see that July has evaporated again. My stomach prickles with the fear/guilt that I let it escape somehow as if I'm sitting in summer's bistro, and a half-finished plate of splendid moments gets taken from me by the waiter/calendar when I turn my head. "But I was just getting started!" It's a souring admission of self-swindle.

You can fill in the blank: "Late August? But... but...I never got the chance to______________."

I have a madras cummerbund that I only wear in summer, which requires VERY slow walking because of the abdominal insulation it provides. All the pleats angle upward, and hide under the jacket for the evening, visible only when walking with an unbuttoned jacket... a feeble attempt at self-cooling. Tall black socks are needed for black tie, but begrudgingly worn in summer as ankles turn into diva nudists sometime in late June.

A pair of London-bespoke shoes specifically for city black-tie and the half-lining of the light-weight dinner jacket make it tolerable. My gorgeous evening-gowned date was stunning and turned heads as she sipped her Ward Eight... how she ever agreed to marry me several years ago is anyone's guess. She doesn't wince when I order calves liver, and she insists that we start every meal with cocktails and a tray of fresh oysters at the bar. By the time we leave after dessert, she has organically charmed several people into new genuine friendships, and they will be invited to the next party where she'll greet them beaming and attentively.

More difficult to find are the more-to-very yellow dinner jackets, and I openly love them.

When the seasonal nostalgia gets too much during a crappy winter, the solution is shameless, simple, and fun: A party with a summer/tropical/cruise theme stipulating that men MAY wear their summer dinner jackets. Granted, it's depressing when you head back out into the snow at evening's end, but sometimes a little self-deception/fakery* is needed.

*The life-force of men's style blogs.

Reader Question: Mixing Seersucker

2011-08-18T14:05:00.002-04:00

"Dear Yankee Whisky Papa. What are your thoughts on mixing seersucker pattern? I don't have a seersucker suit but I do have a jacket and different pants."

I have a seersucker suit in tan and white, and a few odd pants and jackets myself. I had never actually tried to mix them actively, though not from fear of fashion police or Levitican law... I guess I had just never done it.

I thought the two patterns actually worked out well.

I have an old 1980's tie from Thomas Pink that got along just fine, and a Polo shirt I got for next to nothing at the old Filene's Basement.

"How do you pull of an outfit with mis-matched patterns?" The young and easily offended daughter of a prominent coffee family asked.

"Oh, don't worry... they are pulled off much easier than they are put on." Uncle Max said, shamelessly preying upon the generations-younger lady, "But I'll probably need help with the cuff links."

His mischievous wink was enough to send her away until the next party when her social amnesia* kicked in.

*Social amnesia has many synonyms. Some call it friendly forgiveness, or use the phrase "all well by doubles", meaning that the next day, you forget whatever inelegance is spouted and unless it was overly cruel, you put it immediately behind you and don't mention it during your doubles tennis game. Since I don't play tennis, I have to forgive such things immediately.

More Dog-piling

2011-08-18T11:06:00.000-04:00