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

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

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

Winter Blues 

 Cleaned Belts*

 Wool Defense

Pub's Window-box

*Once every 5 years, or as needed.

Christmas Pie

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

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

...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

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

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

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.