Saturday, October 25, 2014

Andrew K. Touchstone - The Mainline Sportsman

This week, Andy Touchstone died at 51.  I got the news from my friend at Maxminimus and it dug my heart out as it did to anyone who knew him.  If you were a regular reader of his blog, you got a good glimpse of the tip of the iceberg.

Andy was a man's man.  Broad-shouldered, boisterous, smiling in beams, and old-style cool.  We met a few years ago through the blogs of all things, but within the first two minutes, he made it clear that his friendship was there to stay.  Whenever I was near Philadelphia, Andy insisted that he pick me up for a thorough evening out.  Everytime.  Early trial in the morning?  No problem for Andy.  Pre-dawn flight to Utah for a ski weekend with his buddies?  He still stayed out late and tore the lid off of life.

He would pick me up at my hotel and we'd go up to the Germantown Cricket Club for a few games of squash.  He played like a gentleman, complimenting each point, rarely using the drop, and keeping the rally on as long as possible.

After, we'd go to the club bar for a few cocktails and then fly back into the city to hit a restaurant for a lavish meal.  Waitresses fell in love with him, and the barmen came directly to his table for his drinks order.

After dinner, we'd go to the cigar room at the Union League and sink into the leather chairs with a drink and a billowy Camacho before heading across the street to the club he once owned.  Inside the jazz club, he was a celebrity amongst the musicians, the staff, and the customers as well.

Sometimes, we would go to a gritty boxing gym where the Philly patois was thick and the lighting was poor.  Young hopefuls knew him and the high-mileage veterans all came to talk to him, asking him about who and what and where and why their training schedule had them on the right track.  Andy encouraged all of them, gave them hope, and for those short moments, gave many of them an older male role model.  They valued his advice, but it was clear that they cherished his attention.

Of all the times we spent ripping around Philadelphia, one subject stayed in the chat-rotation while we were together.  Family.  He was hopelessly in love with his wife and helplessly in love with his children.  He used to always say that he got married young by "cutting the best one from the herd early".  His wife would call while Andy and I drove together, and they sounded like they were still in the first years of their marriage.  When she hung up, he would say "Hellava woman!" followed by a few shots inward about not being worthy of her.

He spoke endlessly about his children as well.  He was as proud as a man could be about Joey; his lacrosse, his judgment, and his sensibilities.  His daughters were always spoken about in terms of their abilities to light up the room, to soothe his frustrations, and to keep him hungry professionally.  "I do this for them", he would say.  Horribly enough, after several drinks as the conversation turned philosophical and sentimental (as it tends to), we had the discussion about checking out early.  He hoped to be a grandfather and he looked forward to weddings in the future.  I did get the now-bittersweet confirmation from him (in February of this year) that "If I die today, I die happy".  He was speaking about his children.

Oddly, I never went hunting or shooting with him.  It was obviously a pivotal component to who he was, but it didn't define him the way many think it did.  Everything he did was at full speed, an engine that revved hot and ran long.  Everyone who met him was offered friendship.  If it did not develop, it wasn't from Andy's side.  He gave himself into every situation, interaction, and moment.  He could coax the affection out of the most cynical and instantly deflate the pompous.

He will be absent from the milestones in his family's future, from weddings, graduations, grandchildren, and decades of fowl passing by over a frozen blind, where his jokes and humor will be retold affectionately, and his memory will see drinks raised in his honor at meals.  His dog will still race to the door, hoping for the guns and the neoprene to be readied for a hunt, and I'll well up and send an email to him, pretending he'll still be able to answer it.

He was truly one in a billion.  God love you, Andy.

Friday, May 31, 2013

The Problem, The Solution

A fellow blogger recently emailed me and asked whether or not I planned to come out of hibernation and resume the blog.  I responded by saying that not blogging is actually emerging from hibernation.  Between the malware attacks and a few creepy internet stalkers, I am a bit hesitant to do much more.

A day or two ago, I was sent a link to the blog Ivy Style, authored by Christian Chensvold.  In the blog post, he reveals another web-sleuth's stalker-bounty by posting the name and portrait of another blogger who wished to remain anonymous.  The source of his animosity seemed to be little more than a dislike for the other fellow's blog.  Instead of simply choosing to not read it, Ivy Style's author repeatedly took the low-road, dedicating countless pages to petty sniping and rallying a cowardly army of keyboard losers in a circle of self-gratification.

Not posting one's identity on the web serves to both protect one's personal interests (family, job, social life) and to keep the ideas and writings focused away from the author and on the writing itself.  One of the reasons I have intentionally walked away from all of this is because of a series of emails I received asking me about my family, with links to the website for my son's school.  The email was 'anonymous'.
Offline, it is common for bloggers to send one another personal emails, and "Richard" was no different, having entrusted a few of us with his true identity.  But we honored his wish and mutually respected obvious self-set boundaries.

Back to Ivy Style...
Unable to let go of his childish obsession, Chensvold sought to direct his malicious and blood-thirsty cadre of trolls, snoopers, and bunny-boilers to the actual personal identity of the author behind the oddly named blog WASP101.  With the operating ethics of a tabloid photographer, he published "Richard's" details, knowing full-well that his small band of laptop-hunched lonely souls would also immediately begin their own cyber-tormenting.

Several people questioned his motivation and professionalism (since he regularly voices contempt towards the "amateur bloggers") and he took the most gutless hand-wipe of a path possible:

"Let me once again clarify that I merely presented strange coincidences and behaviors here. I did not seek to prove something I’m not in the position to prove."

The simple fact is that a clothing blogger wanted to remain anonymous, and was not allowed to thanks to the efforts of a purportedly "professional" blogger.

In the end, the joke may be on Ivy Style, because it now turns out that all his theories about the true lifestyle of Richard were wrong.  Richard gets the last laugh, because he was revealed to be quantifiably popular, genuinely charismatic, and socially confident.  That must sting more than a little for Chensvold.

And all because of a clothing blog.


The way I see it, this will be my last post.  I hate to end on so sour a note, but it seems that there are far too many readers of men's clothing blogs who feel that operating a blog automatically evaporates one's right to privacy, though commenting anonymously on those blogs should somehow remain a protected entitlement.  In my world it does not, but I suppose that I have been naive.  These sick perverts somehow consider one's entire family as fair targets as well, so with that in mind, I am stepping fully into real life by ending this blog.

I have enjoyed the very real friendships that I have made through this, the parties, the visits, the dinners, and every invitation that I was able to accept, and I will continue to enjoy those friendships, hopefully for the rest of my life.  If you find yourself near Boston, I hope that we might raise a glass (of anything) together, and interact as humans were meant to, without the interference or distraction of a lighted computer screen.  If you see the drinks flag flying in the late afternoon, please stop by.  You'll know it when you see it.


That milky warm sea breeze from the Atlantic blows in with the smell of salt, and the city is quiet.  A starling nips off a sprig of rosemary from my potted plant on the roof-deck, cocks his head, and flies off.  Don't drop it you thief, it means the world to me.


Monday, March 4, 2013


I have been overwhelmed by spam lately through this blog.  Today, my account got hacked and the majority of photos have disappeared.  If I can continue the blog, I will.  If not, I'll have to start afresh or just let the ship sink and get back to being superficial in person only.  We will see.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013


In the Los Angeles and Irvine area on light business, playing squash everyday.  One club didn't offer squash, but they let me and my racquet use the racketball courts for wall practice, to the odd stares of others.  There's something about racketball's stumpy racket and rambunctious, boisterous ball that seems inelegant.  I can't place it.  The squash clubs are busy, though.  No monochromatic clothing requirements here, but a good group of folks with competitive spirits.  I know, I'm being a snob.  A few posts ago, I showed a busted racquet, and I got a ton of emails about squash.  Unfortunately, the days of handsome squash sweaters are long gone due to heated buildings.  Sorry, lads.

A typical racquet and ball.
Squash (photo source here)

The History of Oversized Racquetball Rackets
Racketball (photo source here)

Squash teams and clubs are statistically rare in the US, but around the world, you will find thousands.  Trinity College in Hartford had a 10 year winning streak, but there are families in India, Egypt, and Pakistan with generations of champions.  In Boston almost ten years ago, my (now) wife took me to the US Squash Open at Symphony Hall.  They set up a clear-walled squash court in the center of the hall, surrounded by risers and bleachers, and ultra-intense competition in the transparent court with 180 degree viewing (they did the same in Grand Central). 


That year, Peter Nicol (ENG) was the one to watch, and he had the court style of a fencer against the Aussie opponents who were slightly less graceful but more athletic.  It was thrilling to watch, and some of the players could move faster with their entire bodies than most people could just following the ball with their eyes.  If you do attend a high-level match, be ready for great action, astounding athleticism, blindingly fast agility, and the disgusting smearing of sweaty hands on walls and doors.

As always, there is even a myth around squash concerning the clothing.  Like modern tennis, there are nearly no V-neck tennis sweaters, and the audience tends to be dressed in everyday garb as well.  Sweatbands, bandannas, Lycra, and synthetics are the norm.  While only a few clubs require white clothing (or 50% white, meaning the top or bottom garment in white) and collars on shirts, the overwhelming majority do not.  Sport and competition are the focus, and clothing is either purchased by the players or given to those on the circuit by sponsors.  As far as it being seen as a more exclusive sport, ask any professional squash player how many times they have had to sleep on the floor of the court itself during tournaments in their earlier days.  Or on couches, or in locker rooms, or on buses, or in cars.   The meritocracy of squash mostly levels it all out, and it tends to reward the singularly-minded, the relentlessly competitive, and the helplessly smitten.  Playing squash is good for friendships, good for spouses, good for parents and their children, and good for the lungs.  In a dispute, it also beats flipping a coin.   

Saturday, February 16, 2013

Reading Blogs

None of it in jest
Photos, phrases offered up
Oh my. Serious.

There is  a sinking feeling one gets the moment you realize that the blog you've been reading is not self-satire, is not ironic, is not a brilliant parody or astute study, but is offered up as is. Genuinely. Earnestly and unblinkingly serious. My God, they mean it. They really mean it.


Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Touch of Death

About a year ago, I posted about Windsor Button, a relic of a shop in Boston where brass blazer buttons sat in bins by the mile and a reliable source for almost every tailor in the city. In the same post, I mentioned Locke-Ober, and then this happened:

I had mentioned it in several other affectionate posts as well.  Friend and frequent squash opponent Philip also alerted me to the closing of Windsor Button. I mentioned two great businesses in the same post and now they both will be gone.  I mentioned the town of Mammoth Lakes in another post, and it went bankrupt a few weeks later.  Obviously, I have magical powers.  Occasionally, I have used these powers for good, like when I caused Ralph Lauren to discontinue Rugby simply by mentioning it in a blog post.

You're welcome.


To All Our Valued Customers,
They say that all good things must end someday. Sadly, it seems the time has come for us to say goodbye. After more than 75 years of providing sewing, knitting, and needlework supplies to the Boston community, Windsor Button will be closing its doors. We have lost our lease, as our landlord plans to renovate our space.
We realize that Windsor Button holds a special place in the hearts and minds of many New Englanders. Over the years many of you have shared stories and reminisced about shopping at Windsor Button with your mother or grandmother, working at one of the 10 stores, or buying your bridal veil at Windsor. Almost every day, someone will say “I don’t know what I’d do without you”.
The Boston store was the original, and has been the only remaining Windsor Button for the past 20 years. When we purchased the shop in 1998, yarn was not even in the product mix. Look how far we’ve come! We’ve evolved into a full-service knitting shop and have taught countless numbers of you to knit and/or crochet. It has been a journey that has at times been trying, but also intensely rewarding. We have lived, laughed, and of course knitted and crocheted together. We’ve shared joys and heartbreak with many of you and forged friendships along the way.
We ask for your continued support as we sell off our extensive inventory. Please tell your friends, co-workers, family, fellow commuters, and everyone you meet. They will thank you for sharing the news. We appreciate your support and will miss you.
Please join us for one last trip down memory lane!
Susan & Stanley Baker

All of my blazers and probably 75% of my jackets have benefited from Windsor Button.

Sue and Stan Baker are liquidating their inventories, and if you want to buy beautiful and rare brass buttons in bulk, now is the time.
35 Temple Place, Downtown Boston   617-482-4969

Monday, February 11, 2013

Creating Racket and Panic

I'd prefer to tell you that the racket broke from a diving save on a fast volley, or at least an epic tantrum following a heated dispute with a game-changing "no let" judgment.  Unfortunately, it was from a relatively light hit on a ten year-old racket.  Nothing sexy.  Friend (and regular commenter) Phillip pressed me all over the court during that game.  Two days later, I brought a panicked and unsteady snow-bound neighbor to the ENT doctors at Mass. Eye & Ear, and there was a young man from MIT who was the recipient of a squash ball directly to the eye.  He was still in his court garb with his racket over his shoulder.  Goggles aren't fashionable, but they sure as hell work.

A relatively insane brass shop on Charles Street gleams with Dickensian warmth and polish.  Their hours are narrow, but you can find anything there.  Correction: THEY can find anything there, YOU and I have to ask.  The prices will cause shortness of breath and near-panic.

We took the sleds down Anderson Street for three long blocks of fast street-sledding.  No traffic at all, and a luge-like track of hard-pack untouched by snow plows.  Very fast and very fun.  Near-panic for the very young ones who are used to the shorter run at the Boston Common.  All ages, and the adults took turns pulling the wee ones up the hill each time.  Faith in humanity restored.

A couple feet of beautiful snow.  The state government tried its hardest to ruin it for us.  As a private citizen, I can be charged with inducing panic, yet our leaders and the media get awards for it. 

Used ZipCar  to get out of town when all other garages were blocked.  Visited the Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester.  Speaking of panic, the satellite radio tricked me into thinking that it was a weather alert on the display: "ALERT?  CODE 81?" I thought.  I nearly panicked.  Mrs. told me that it was the name of the song playing, and that it was from 1981. "Oh... yeah, I knew that.  I was joking."  She wasn't fooled.  Anyway, at the armory museum, they have one of these:

Source of this Photo
Panic if you're in the flock.  
I hadn't visited in over a decade.  When I was younger, (I did the Big Brother program) I took a group of young boys from the city there in the 1990's.  As you can imagine, it was a homerun for all of us.  This weekend, it still was.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

LL Bean Travel Briefcase and the Farm Upstate

Around the globe several times.  Almost a million domestic miles.  This LL Bean bag was my sidearm/briefcase/work horse for about seven years.  I bought it new at the (now closed) Portland, Maine outlet.  Mrs. and I would get on the Downeaster at North Station and ride comfortably for $22 from Boston to Portland and spend a nice weekend eating, drinking, and puttering in and out of shops and tea houses in the dead of the Maine winter.  At one restaurant, the waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs.  Then she asked me if I wanted to have a drink with my coffee.  I indicated that it was only 9am and I would not be drinking.  She delivered the eggs and a small glass of nice Brandy, letting me know that I would be charged for it if there was anything left in the glass, but that it was gratis if consumed fully.  My wife snickered at the jab and seemed to take the side of the waitress against me when the phrase "If you're up to it" was floated.

Back to the bag.  It was there during many critical and pivotal career moments, it was at the hospital when Jr. was born, it was an overnight bag for single-night trips, and it plagued me with connectivity during vacations and trips to otherwise pleasant locations.  It wasn't stylish and it seemed to attract stains.  The black smears on the leather cover were from ink drops out of a broken ballpoint pen that Jr. had turned into a missile.  The inside had pen marks, rips, abrasions, my name and phone number in permanent marker, and a small assortment of travel and business items like tea, ink cartridges, and pink tablets in case of food-poisoning.

I took it to LL Bean last week to request a replacement of a broken brass fitting that seemed to be beyond repair capabilities of the local brass andiron experts (yes, Boston has several).  They said no, but if I gave it to them, they would give me a gift card (generously) worth the full original amount, and not the (fractional) amount I paid at the outlet.

As usual, the customer service was excellent, but I'm always torn between nostalgic thrift and the consumeristic "just get a new one if you're not completely satisfied".  I was satisfied with the bag and didn't want a new one, but they are mostly unwilling to make repairs.  "Why would you want to pay for a repair if you can just get a new one for free?" she asked me.  Reluctantly, I surrendered it, thinking of all of those trips (both good and bad) and how it partially symbolized our family's steadfast cohesiveness throughout the challenges of frequent absences from business travel.  With the fanfare of flushing a toilet, the clerk threw it into a bin behind the counter.

"Did they repair your bag?" asked Mrs. later that day.

"No, but they sent it to live on a farm upstate where it'll be much happier" I said.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Coming Around (Revisionism)

"Coming around" on an issue is  can be the product of:

1. Careful skepticism with diligent observation
2. Intellectual consideration
3. Proud and stubborn egotism with denial

Well, I've come around recently on a few issues of ludicrous superficiality, so of course, I'll share them. I can also assure you that method #3 was the vehicle in which my change of heart appeared (because with my brick-like intellect and dull gaze, I am incapable of methods #1 and #2).

When I see "PREMIUM" or (God forbid) "LUXURY" on anything, I dismiss it out of hand.  Undershirts that cost $100 or "hand-crafted fruit jam" for $15 is a sucker's bet.  Even $4 for a charred cup of Starbucks is beyond senseless.  There is nothing shaving cream, shampoo, sea salt, or soy sauce can do that would justify a premium designation.  

Then I tried this:

Occasionally (VERY rarely), the premium tag indicates proportionately increased value.
80 cents per cup?  Are you insane?  I railed against it in my own house, refusing to try it because I thought that Mrs. had wasted money on a premium brand.  I made a careful cup of it when nobody was home, and tried it.  Utterly fantastic.  My plan was simple (see #3 above):  I had to deny that I had ever railed against it instead of admitting that I had been a very vocal jerk about it.  

What else?

For walking around the city in winter, they do work.  Now all I have to do is convince everyone that I had never, NEVER spent nearly 45 minutes mocking and articulately ridiculing them element-by-element over martinis at a local gin-joint in the financial district in early December.  I'm NOT saying that I now think they look okay.  I'm saying that I am NOW willing to look silly wearing them.  Big difference.

I also came around on this brand as well:

At the Fly-fishing Show - Marlboro, Mass.

Baron out of Sweden makes interesting bag/luggage lines (some are attractive, some are a bit freaky), and I had dismissed it out of hand as well.  I got their briefcase/shoulderbag and a piece of luggage, and I have to give them high marks.

I wanted something low-key for a briefcase, and this fit the bill.  I had long ago given up on the Orvis Battenkill line for traveling.  And though it's not sexy, LL Bean will take back any piece of luggage when it wears out.  Buy once, and you'll have something (not the original) for decades.  For a large suitcase into which we can all pack for a week, get an LL Bean one, because they will make good on their guaranty even though the baggage checking process will brutalize it.  Again, I'm not endorsing anything, and have not received anything from anybody.

***Note: If you travel by plane on a very regular basis, checking bags accelerates the wear and tear seemingly exponentially.  If you mostly travel by car, or by carry-on, the dynamic may be drastically different.  If your luggage is dusty, dry-rot may be your enemy.

To review: the way I tend to approach things is to obnoxiously dismiss them out of smug self-righteousness, later accept and adopt them fully, deny that I had ever spoken ill of them, and ultimately recommend them for the reasons that had made them popular in the first place.  This hilariously duplicitous approach allows me to hear harmonies when the rest of the world hears (cognitive) dissonance.  In other words, I swear that I sing on key, it just that the rest of the choir is off.

.--. .-.. .- -.-- .. -. --. / .... --- --- -.- -.-- / --- -. / ..-. .-. .. -.. .- -.-- ---...

Handmade cane rods (Germany) at the show in Marlboro.

 A briarwood pipe (not unusual) with a split-cane inlay (unusual).

 The streams in Virginia where I love fishing.  Though I don't get there as often as I'd like to.

 Small native brook trout in vivid colors hide in these whirls, pools, and pockets.

Boston below. 

Friday, January 11, 2013

V V To the Rescue

Vineyard Vines is generally overpriced for my tastes, as I prefer the strategy of waiting it out until clearance opportunities arise. Like a good Yankee, I'm selectively allergic to expenditure. In over a decade of near-constant business travel, I have never forgotten to pack anything, save the time in 2006 when I forgot cuff links. On Sunday evening, after the usual painful goodbyes to the lovelies in my household, it was somewhere in the airport security line when I remembered that I had not packed any socks.

On the other side of the x-ray-nudie-peeping-Tom scanner, a Vineyard Vines shop was about to close. I bought the last five pairs of socks they had. They were offered at a fraction of what I thought they would have been, and because they were solid black, not even the cutesy little whale on them had made them appealing enough to go for full retail. The market forces were in my favor as they lessened the penalty for my absent-minded ness.

A week in San Francisco with conservative and business-safe black socks.

A woman sat at the table next to me with her friend and droned on about her recent trip to Paris. I will spare you the details, the inescapable volume of it forced me to learn more than I cared to know about her 10 days there. From what I could gather, she spent her entire time using her iPhone to plot jogging routes throughout the various districts of Paris, and described each in excruciating detail. Instead of casually strolling in and out of cafe after cafe, sitting and reading, eating and drinking, this vapida spent her vacation there in Lycra and headphones following some route on her phone, and ignoring the worlds greatest restaurants, eschewing conversations with locals, refusing to smoke, abstaining from heavy cream/butter/salt, neglecting the worlds finest wines offered for a pittance, and disregarding the endless art, beautiful clothing, or one of the thousands of parties. I learned all of this in the time it took me to ask for my check and leave.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Scraps and Oakum VII

Comment Unnecessary

Model Ship 

 Colonial Taste

 Actual Wasps

Raising Sissies

 Nice Barometer

 Perverse Maneuver

 Different Brooks

Bonham's Auction...

 San Francisco...

 December 2012

Lot 5003

Brook's Brooky

Want to follow me on Twitter and Tumblr?  Of course you don't. I don't use either one.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Coming Attractions for 2013!

As readers may know, I enjoy providing the blogosphere with invaluable and cutting-edge information that is relevant to every single second of your lives.  In the spirit of holiday giving, I am providing a preview to what many of the blogs will be doing in 2013.  In my sleuthing, I have procured many articles, drafts of posts, ideas and outlines that many of my favorite blogs are planning to release.  Though I won't scoop the entirety of each post, here are some unauthorized previews of what you can expect from each blog.

--- Blog Preview for 2013---

The Trad - Tintin will begrudgingly attend a fashion after-party in Brooklyn where he will finally violently pummel an entire group of post-hipster 20 and 30-somethings.  Afterwards, he will apologize to them and take close-up photos of the tags in their shirts and remark that "the wine wasn't bad".  The young beautiful-but-vapid model he will chat with says that her father was in the Army (but in Canada).  Tintin's ensuing sarcasm will get him slapped, but he will post pictures of his reddened cheek.

The Daily Prep - Muffy Aldrich will ask readers to weigh in on which brand of garage door grease is the most preppy and why.  High-resolution photos of the garage door will be included.  In the comments section, a reader will ask Muffy which brand of dental floss she finds to be the preppiest.

Maxminimus - The doting father with a vast shoe collection will post about the pair of shoes that got away on a missed opportunity in 1986 and he'll somehow have photos of them.  In the post, he'll use "patina" and "wallup" in a single sentence and will combine "ain't no telling" into "aintnotellin'".  In the background of a photo for another post, readers will be able to clearly see a notebook page on which ADG has repeatedly doodled "Mrs. A.D.Flusser" in pink and purple ink.

The Mainline Sportsman - In early 2013, the Sportsman will bring us photos and descriptions from his hunting trip to a lettuce farm where he will bag seven or eight heads of Bibb with a .30-06.  He will also reveal that Christmas was "an odd experience for the family this year", and will without explanation post a recipe (with photos) of very fresh reindeer steaks.

To The Manner Born - Toad will attempt a home-improvement project which he will be unable to complete himself.  He will still claim to be a stodgy, technologically challenged Luddite, though he has kept a vibrant blog and internet presence since at least 2008.

Mr. Midwester - Through a legal loop-hole in the fine print of his popular Style Share series, a reader will lay claim to the actual house pictured in the photo's backdrop meant to show only the silk tie in the foreground.  The claim will be enforced in a Midwestern court.

Reggie Darling - Saucers.  Lots of saucers.  Tons and tons of f#@%*ing saucers.

The Easy and Elegant Life - The Elegantologist's first post of 2013 will include a synopsis of his legal battle to acquire the exhumed DNA of Cary Grant.  He will be arrested a week later when police catch him emptying a vial of replicated DNA into the local water supply while whispering "C'mon, damnit... WORK! It has to work!"

An Affordable Wardrobe - It will be revealed in his final post as he signs off forever, that for all these years, Giuseppe actually went out and purchased everything new and at full retail prices.  He will half-heartedly ask for our understanding, but will conclude the post with "You all forced me into this".

The Cable Knit Charlestonian - Mr. Alexander will be mixing patterns with reckless abandon, and will begin to show not only his eBay purchases, but will expand into photos of grocery shopping, drug store purchases, close-ups of things that he finds in his pockets, and whatever sticks to the bottom of his shoes.

Brohammas - Through his career in visiting academic institutions of scientific innovation, Mr. M will slip into one of the college laboratories and accidentally be cloned, producing ten exact copies of himself.  All ten copies will then form a private club and hold regular meetings.  Despite all of this, when he is invited to attend, Mr. M will report that he "felt like an outsider who didn't really belong there".

Boxing The Compass - The usual crap, only somehow worse.

***Full Disclosure - Prior to writing this post, I contacted each blog listed here.  I only wrote about those who offered their blessing, and you'll be happy to know that each blogger did.  Lady Aldrich astutely titled it "A Christmas Roast".  I thank them and sincerely appreciate their friendship, and in many cases, their generous hospitality.


Sitting on the train this morning en route to a meeting, I saw this article.  Have we really devolved this much?  Are we so absorbed in alternate cyber-existence that this is earnestly offered advice?  Well, a "dating coach" using the nom de pole Amber Madison is suggesting that meeting people and talking to them is a great way to meet people and talk to them.

Don't worry, I've extracted the gems for your reading displeasure and assembled them below.

The sage speaks:

We've truly become fully detached from reality.  

Excellent research, Amber... but where do babies come from?

I recall a (legitimate) journalist friend of mine lamenting a conversation he had with a mutual friend.  The friend was unable to join us out for the evening because he would be too busy with online social networking.

Some college kids near me recently performed a "zombie stroll" where they dressed up like zombies and staggered around the sidewalks for some stupid reason.  Zombie fantasies may not be that unrealistic.  If you want to see brainless half-dead rotting bodies staggering around and ranting incoherently, I suggest going to any shopping center during the next few weeks. 

Wait... why am I sitting here typing this instead of going to a cafe with friends or having lunch with my wife?  I should just stop typing and

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Work Clothes Fortune

A client and I were enjoying sushi together the other day when this arrived at the meal's conclusion.  Said client pointed out that he himself is a business opportunity, and that he was in fact, in work clothes (a smart navy-blue suit).  

"That makes me a problem, I guess" was his logical conclusion.

"Better have another drink" I said.

"Here's to alcohol dealing with your problems" he said as he raised his glass.  Helluva guy.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Three To Get Ready

I sat and stewed about whether or not to write anything about Dave Brubeck for a day or two, and then decided to give it a try.  I'll keep it short.

My father introduced me to Dave Brubeck when I was a child (not a personal introduction, but an introduction to his music).  He'd play the albums for me and taught me to count out the odd time signatures.  I would try to follow and understand Joe Morello's rythyms, both the elegantly simple (Unsquare Dance) and the subtly complex oscillations of time (Three To Get Ready).  Although Take Five has long occupied the space somewhere between staple and cliche, I still love it.  Father had (still has) all of Brubeck's albums on vinyl, and I played them in succession, learning his style along the way.  His West Coast musical style was warm, clean, optimistic, academic, approachable, and free of the depression and drugs of the East Coast sound.  I loved it.

In highschool, my parents bought me the cassette of Quiet As The Moon, and I instantly recognized Joe Morello's distinct drum style, until I read the insert and realized that the drums were played by Brubeck's son, in a style that was part imitation, part inspiration, and part tribute.  We learn the things we do from our fathers, and our fathers' friends.

Elementals was the first good honest attempt at blending classical and jazz. Today, it hardly sounds cutting edge, but it was when it came out.  It's even more James Bond than James Bond.

Dave Brubeck taught me the complex variations of style.  He inspired me to take classical and blend it with modern in a fun experimental way.  Though he taught me to not get too bogged down in the rules, he also demonstrated that one should damn-well know them and understand them.  He also subliminally taught me to pay tribute to one's father, to follow his lessons, but to also adopt his style elements, first through awkward imitation, then self-exploring articulation, and finally through ingrained subconscious comfort.

My father saw the Dave Brubeck Quartet perform when he was in college.  I had always hoped to see Brubeck play to close the loop on the father/son cycle, but it sadly never happened.

When I listen to it now, I still think of those hours, days, and years of listening to those albums with my father, counting out the time during solos that surely would stray, but never did.  Father always encouraging me to explore further.  I think about how Brubeck influenced both my style and my understanding of style, how it forms, and what it means.  Experimentation, including abrupt or uncharacteristic departures from the norm create rich sounds for the ears and styles for the eyes.  Occasionally, we miss, and sometimes we hit it just right.