Seasonal Ritual

By the end of summer, the drink signal becomes sun-bleached, mildewed, tattered, and generally ratty.  I order a new set in the early spring each year (couple of dollars only) and start afresh.

A long-standing ritual in my family and house is that we dispose of the old one in solemn ceremony (in other words, we throw it into the fire haphazardly while drinking liquor).

The purpose of the "drinks signals":


During warm months at 5pm, we fly a cocktails flag outside of our city house, and welcome in for drinks anyone who presses the bell... anyone... which has been interesting.  I am the sixth generation to conduct this strange tradition, though the original burgee didn’t make it past the second. 

Boxing The Compass, Feb. 3, 2011
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It becomes an open house for anyone who has the gumption or friendship to press the bell.  You are invited up and given a drink.  Like generations before me, this 5pm open-door policy has resulted in some hilarious/interesting afternoons.  In some cases, it has been attended by the parents of friends who used to frequent the same event hosting by my parents and grandparents, long before my time.

Coats Driven and Philadelphia Barriers

We packed into the Sail Loft (a favorite sailor's pub) and we were able to fill the boxes with eighty-eight coats, plus hats and scarves.  The quality of coats was astounding and humbling (noted and appreciated by the organization's representative who attended).  I can't thank those who attended enough, and for those of you who emailed me telling me about your local donations.  A thanks to all of you and your generosity.

Of note was one young woman who had no extra coats at home, so she went to a local store and bought six new children's coats off the rack.  We had a diverse turn-out, and I'm deeply grateful for all who attended.  Phillip (a regular commenter to Boxing The Compass) and his wife were instrumental in the effort, and it would not have happened without them.

Bay Cove is directing these coats to programs assisting people in entering or returning to the workforce.  I do believe that enabling those who are able to participate in commerce of any sort will benefit everyone.  The large number of children's coats will likely be distributed within hours of me writing this.      

- - - - 

I was in Philadelphia last week, and though the Mainline Sportsman was down for the count with the influence of influenza, I was able to have a perfectly pleasant evening with the gentleman behind the blog Brohammas.  We talked away the afternoon and well into the evening, and he was as adventurous with his willingness to eat strange foods as I was.  He's built like a fighter from rugged Western stock and judging by his build, he was likely an acute terror to his rugby opponents.  Saddled atop his concrete shoulders is a highly intelligent mind and an approachable personality.  A dedicated father and husband, he embodies the good side of being analytical and the analytical side of being observant.  We hit it off very easily.

How does this tie into the coat drive?  We talked for a while about barriers both real and perceived.  Lastnight, the representative from the coat charity told me that clothing is actually one of the more significant barriers to entering into the job market.  I will spare you my lecture about how local licensing and permitting deters budding entrepreneurs, but the clothing issue as a barrier is more real than I had realized as it pertains to the entry rungs on the ladder.

Coat Drive

A friend/co-host/organizer put this together for the coat-drive.  

Hope you can make it, or support one in your local area.

We sat (by the fireplace after work, each with a glass of Scotch), and agreed that we wanted little to do with raising money that would only feed administratively top-heavy "charities".  A coat drive was his idea, and I was immediately onboard.  I've bitched about this before, I know.  100% of coat donations will be made available to those who need them.  If you haven't worn it in two season, you likely won't miss it.

What Does Charlie Wear?

In Boston, our subway system updated to electronic swipe cards several years ago.  When I was in college, the fare was 85 cents which held unchanged for years.  The Kingston Trio rightfully decried taxation, but griping about transit is never on my list of things to do.  I still have many of the old tokens which are destined to become cufflinks at some point.

If Charlie, who was named after the old song Charlie and the MTA (I was required to not only memorize the lyrics, but be able to sing them as a child... true story) is the quintessential T rider, I think we might be in good shape.  Notice his suit's beautifully pressed pants with hefty cuffs, two-button jacket, and button-down collar.  For some reason, he has contrasting buttons on the collar, but no matter, he's still well put together.  He also travels with a hat and apparently a positive attitude and a predisposition for favorably rating that which surrounds him.

Since our business districts are still very formal (especially the financial and legal sectors), it's no surprise Charlie is well dressed.  When he goes casual, all may be lost.  Stay well-dressed, Charlie.

Lessons Learned from Ralph Lauren Rugby

[Or, How To Make A Bad Sandwich Out Of Otherwise Good Ingredients]

Two bloggers (who hate one another) simultaneously alerted us to the closing of Ralph Lauren's Rugby line in their blogs here and here.  I thought that I would offer a more sarcastic and mocking tone towards the Rugby brand.  If you ever wanted to be a Ralph Lauren designer, here's how:

Start by wearing something normal.

 

Now, add a tie to let people know that you go to a preppy college 

where ties are somehow required or normal on campus in the year 2012.

A rugby shirt over the whole thing lets people know that you are also a jock 

who can be counted in for any pick-up game on the fake quad during a picturesque autumn.  

The rugby shirt will protect the tie and shirt, I suppose, if that ambitious kid tries to tackle you. 

"Damnit, Clayton!  I said two-hand touch!  I don't want grass stains on my chinos!"

Now, it's back to the main campus hall where jackets are also mysteriously required.  

Not enough time to remove your rugby shirt?  

No problem, put your heavy herringbone tweed (with severe taper) over that.  

Alternative: corduroy jacket with elbow patches for more allusions to mythological academia.

Even dumber alternative: hooded sweatshirt instead of rugby shirt

Rumpled?  Check.  Carefree?  Again, yes.  Uncomfortable?  Horribly.

Are the autumnal winds giving you the chills during your tailgating or 

ambiguous spectatorship of something horsey?  Put a down vest over the jacket 

which is over the rugby which is over the sweater which is over the shirt.

Should there be a dusting of snow, a quilted jacket (practically a uniform these days) can be put over the whole thing.  It looks stupid, you say?  Correct.  While the layers may bring your internal temperatures to a near-boil, you can at least be comforted knowing that you are unable to move beneath it.  

This won't be a problem because you'll be standing in poses all day 

hoping that you get photographed by someone for a blog.

Nothing says rugby like a scarf.  I suppose I should have used an 

oversized striped one for this, but this will have to do.  My God, this looks stupid,

and I'm in my mid-to-late thirties.

Now you are ready to stand unnaturally contrapposto, hold a football or bundle of books like Doryphoros, or gaze stoically with your chin and heavily combed hair aimed at the horizon.  

Extra points for tucking the sweater and rugby shirt into the belt of your jeans, 

and let's not even talk about socks, the ubiquitous Jolly Roger, or the false sizing labels. 

[None of the above garments are made by Ralph Lauren.]

This is not the first time I've humiliated myself for the blogs benefit.

Barometric Courage (A Rant)

When the barometer drops, so does our courage.

Boston was not hit hard, yet the "courageous" leaders saw fit to cancel just about everything.  Schools were empty, the financial district was a ghost town, and subways and buses were yarded.  This criticism extends to both private and public sectors, and to the the well-honed panic mechanisms in media who work everyone into a panic.  It was really the tsunami in Japan that made me realize that we are collectively, not the group we thought we were (or say we are).  As individuals, we may be resilient and self-reliant, but as a group, we are panicky dooms-dayers.  After the tsunami, the citizens of Japan pulled together and self-governed in the way that we wished we were capable of, and it was then that I realized that we were in denial.

The financial sectors in my city shut down as did most retail.  Yesterday, it was only the new citizens who had the backbone to open their businesses and to keep the gears of industry turning.  People who started businesses against all odds and oceans and green-card red-tape were standing behind their counters, ringing cash registers, etc., while the MBA's from the "best schools" cowered at home hoping that Skippy's treehouse would survive the wind and debris, and that their ESPN feed would not cut out.

We did not keep calm and did not carry on.  Commerce halted and our fragile spirits quivered.  Children were kept inside parked in front of televisions and parents called one another to foment panic and anxiety.  Don't wait for the city or town to clear the downed tree.  Don't wait for the cavalry or for Superman or for someone else.  Pull it together, organize your crumpled neighbors and get things moving again.  Take your ax  chainsaw, two-way radios, canoe, water filters, and anything else you have and put it to immediate use.  And for God's sake, save the generators for those who have medical needs requiring electricity, not for your damn coffee maker.  Unfortunately, communities often discourage self-reliance with radio and television telling us that it's too cold/wet/hot/humid/windy/dangerous/whatever to go outside.  If we're outside, we can't be in front of the TV or radio, and we will realize that it's never as bad as we are told.

There are plenty of people for whom the storm did much damage and do need a hand.  There is a reason that the early colonists didn't build their houses on the beach.

***UPDATE***

I had a conversation with a friend over at FEMA and one at NYC Transit.  They shed some light on it in a way I hadn't considered.  One told me that his theory was that people (governments and private sector) not actually in danger (Boston during the Hurricane) feel collectively left out of the action and want to feel like they are involved in either suffering or saving.  I think he's right.  Why spend time worrying about others and possibly feeling helpless or guilty from one's own inaction when you can trump up your own involvement to the point where you feel justified not assisting others?  Once again, the theme of selfishness and narcissistic obsession seems to explain plenty.  New Jersey and NYC are pretty screwed and need help immediately.  Many will need clothing as winter is arriving shortly.

Sandy's Sand and Wind

The wind peaked on Thursday night.  We had to hold the rails to stay upright in during the fierce winds and moisture worked its way through a few of the newer "hurricane proof" windows.  Sometime during the wee hours, the winds stopped, then reversed to a more westerly blow with equal ferocity.

We walked the beach the next morning.  There were a few dead fish, but most disturbingly, were the plastics.  Bottle and drink tops littered the beach, not in thousands or even hundreds of thousands, but in the millions, giving me a feeling of hopeless anger.  What's worse, the seas had been so high that the coastal vegetation had acted as a catch for all of the plastics in the surf, blown in from the southern Atlantic, like baleen straining out krill as the sea retreated.  I had seen pollution similar to it on the island of Bonaire's windward side (called "plastic beach") where years of large and small plastics had washed ashore and fully concealed the actual sand on the beach.  It was surreal and horrifying, and that didn't even account for the unseen micro-plastics.

Cuban coffee in Coral Gables after the storm.  A large cup of hot milk to which you add the desired coffee (in the silver).  They make it from finely ground Arabica beans and add more sugar than is advisable.  You could say that I was alert for the next several hours.

I taught junior to make a coconut candle.

 Below, the beach was reduced to a fraction of its original size.  Several large sections of Bahamian cactus washed ashore as well, but plastics were the sickening majority.

A stairway to the beach was buried in several feet of sand.  The small white table top to its right is a standing desk where staff hand out towels to beach goers.  It was under several feet of sand and awash with sea.  Some areas were completely covered in sand from three to six feet deep.

The construction at home has been completed, so we head northward to Boston today to face Sandy for second half of her tour.  Hopefully, she'll spin out before causing too much harm.  The skies are cloudless but very windy today and the large Atlantic swells are still rolling into southern Florida.  I am a storm magnet, Dave T.

Another Casualty of Casual

***Getting CRUSHED by the storm here in Miami today.  

Palm trees bending and their fronds pointing away from the wind 

as if they're in a speeding convertible. Rain works it's way under doors 

and into closed windows.  We are hunkered down 

in the cocktail lounge.  No rationing so far.

-----

From the Boston Globe, October 22, 2012
By Brian McGrory, Globe Staff

Excerpt (with emphasis added):

Here’s what I was faced with,” Ray continued. “I had a choice. Make Locke-Ober more casual, lower our standards to conform with the way society is today, or I could close it. I could close it with its history and its dignity intact. Because, frankly, it looked as good as it’s ever looked. The service was good, and the food was good."

"It’s unfortunate,” Ray continued. “It’s bittersweet for me. I’ve owned it since 1978."

But the reality, Ray has learned over the past decade or more, is that Boston has changed, often for the better, but not always so. An increasingly younger city is on a constant search for the next new thing, restaurants being no exception. Formality, here as everywhere, is a thing of the past.



Read the rest here.



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We were enthusiastic regulars and will miss it dearly.  What's worse than losing it is that which killed it after holding on for 137 years.

Coat Drive

If you find yourself in Boston on Wednesday, November 14, 2012 at 7pm, come by:

The Sail Loft
80 Atlantic Ave.
Boston, Mass. 02110

Please come out to join good friends for an evening of cocktails, conversation, and most importantly coat donations for those in need.

We are gathering to collect clean, usable, and warm winter coats of all sizes for those in need in the Boston area. 

Please take a moment to look through your closet to find a gently used coat or two that would be of use to someone that is going without this season. I am sure we can all easily find at least one or two coats that we wouldn't miss, and someone else might treasure.

We are collecting coats of all sizes, genders, ages etc. Please bring anything that is usable that you would be able to pass along to someone in need.

This coat drive will be benefiting Bay Cove Human Services here in Boston, and the "One Warm Coat" initiative nationally.

More information on these organizations can be found at:
http://baycove.org/
http://onewarmcoat.org/

Nothing wasted on overhead for this event.  No frills, no fancy.  If you are not near Boston, locate something near you and donate a coat.

Reader Questions

A tropical storm pattern is again ruining a spearfishing trip for me, so once again, the spiny lobster, grouper, hogfish and the invasive lionfish are temporarily safe.  The sun is still out and warm, but the seas are growing everyday and the wind pipes away.  We drove up to a spot just south of Ft. Lauderdale where the activity undersea had been good lately.  When the guide dropped us off over the second reef, I held my breath and dove down following a small yellow line we had marked to the floor at 30 or so feet.  The visibility was a frustrating fluctuation between only five and ten feet with the silt and churn.  On the surface, we bobbed up and down on five-to-eight foot swells.  My purchased permits became a mere donation to the state (happily).  Bad day for us, but the suicidal kite boarders were in fine form.  Even the grackles, gulls, and the pelicans have gone into hiding.

Some reader questions from this week:

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Yankee Whisky,
What, if any, accessories do you like? Specifically wrists and necks.

[unsigned]

...

Dear Reader,
While I generally require that all of my reader questions begin with gushing praise of my blog, I will set aside this rule to answer your question.

Beyond a watch or the occasional outdoor event bracelet which allows me access to the drinks tent, I don't have a taste for accessories at all.  If you have something that you like, or is meaningful to you, by all means wear it.

Speaking of wrist accessories, I imagine that recycling centers are seeing a lot more of these in the past few days:





What a putz.


------



Dear YWP, 

I have been enjoying your blog for some months now and look forward to each new posting. I have a sincere question for you. How do YOU pronounce patina? I have been told that my putting the accent on the first syllable as any proper Anglophile would, is wrong and makes me seem a pretentious ass. I must note, I AM a pretentious ass, albeit a broke one. Nevertheless, I just cannot bear to pronounce one of my favorite words like one would pronounce the nickname of small child. I appreciate your ruling on this.
Yours, 

Douglas in Philadelphia 

...


Douglas,

The leverage that this was given originated in part from Paul Fussell's book Class, which said that the pronunciation of this word was a sure-fire indicator of class.  Unfortunately, like many points in his book, it is inaccurate.

I usually try to infuriate as many people as possible by avoiding emphasis on certain syllables. I also try to pronounce it differently in different situations to confuse further.  You can actually pronounce it with neutrality with practice. If the audience expects one way, I go the other. It's tricky, but it can be done.
Does this answer your question?

-YWP


***Note: As of earlier this year, Fussell is dead.

Dress Code in The French 25%

Or is it French 1/4?

During my few days in New Orleans, my only free time is usually dinner.  On this trip, I took a colleague over to the stodgy old Galatoires ("Gal-uh-TWAs") for a nice French Creole meal.  When I couldn't decide between a Martini and a glass of bourbon, the gentleman serving us suggested "Why not one of each, sir?".  Done.

The rack of jackets available for under-dressed male patrons.  

Notice how many were in use by the number of empty hangers.

A pneumatic press assists the formation of Connecticut shade-wrapped 

Nicaraguan filler on Bourbon St.

There are better restaurants elsewhere, but the deep wear and soul (I almost said 'patina' again) on this place made me think of Locke-Ober back home: old, traditional, a little stuffy, but still pretty fun .  Though they require jackets on men, they sadly allow jeans and sneakers.  You'll also find smartly dressed elderly patrons drinking liquor, laughing, and being lovingly fussed over by the wait staff.  Next to us, two women in their mid-eighties with perfect hair, smart suits, and conservatively worn pearls sipped gin and told each other stories in a beautifully southern patois.

The next night, a chef friend of mine gave me more food than was sensible at the kitchen table of
Revolution.  Very pricey but since I was his guest, I avoided the pain of the bill.  They know exactly what they're doing in the kitchen.  For atmosphere though, I prefer Galatoires.

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Next post will be from southern Florida, where we are hiding out while the staircase is torn up and replaced.  I hope that the majority of the loud construction directly disrupts certain neighbors of mine.

Hopefully, the new devices I procured will allow us some fresh grouper off the Atlantic coast.  I am guaranteed to get a sunburn, and hopefully not a spear through my own foot or a shallow-water blackout.

Because this is a men's style blog, I want you to be under the false impression that my entire time there will be like the guy below watching the regatta.  

In reality, I will be the inelegant and disproportionately pale guy asking his wife to spray him with another shellacking of SPF 30, but I won't tell anybody that part, and neither should you.  Deal?

More old images here.

East Coasting Southward

A benefit for the (sadly underfunded) Boston Mounted Police held in Hamilton, Mass.  Too rainy for an actual game of polo, but the youngsters were allowed to crack the balls around.

---

In a federal office, a painting depicts a Cold War building.  When I looked closer, I saw a charming 

(and unlikely) detail.

---

 In Topsfield, the blue ribbon went to this picturesque little bonsai.

The train ride to New York City was fast, but the obnoxious cellphone conference calls were all around me.  In the city, I stumbled across this group while working my way in and out of the
spots on West 44th.

A college friend (and bourbon-pushing host) has keys to Gramercy Park.  He took me through and gave me the last three years of gossip concerning the politics of the place.  Fascinating.

A lunch with (The Trad) Tin-Tin, who served great wine and great food.  He was as much the gentleman as I had imagined.  Sharp wit, attentive host, and an all-around fun guy.

---

At Penn Station, I saw this Anglo-clad gent waiting his train as well.

A heavy new jacket, gift from Plum.  Thick and thorn-proof and warm beyond reason.  He took me in and out of some excellent restaurants near Clinton Hill.  I like bars and restaurants that offer very little choice.  Gigantic menus are a turn-off for me, and I often leave the choices to the server or the chef.



Bartenders are always put off when I order "something to drink" but refuse to specify even the category.  "Beer?  Wine?  Liquor?  Sir, you have to narrow it down."  Since I like nearly everything, I'm easy.  "You're the professional" I tell them, "I'd like something to drink".

We Americans have too much choice, and we limit the richness of our experiences by constantly customizing our food and drink environments.  Next time you're in a restaurant, order "something to drink and something to eat" and see what they bring you.  Sure, they'll protest at first, but you'll be better for the experience.

In DC now, en route to New Orleans for dinner at the dress code mandated Galatoires.  

Play Your Cads Right

Having grown up in unfortunately close proximity to several spoiled and worthless lumps, I have had the displeasure of knowing them now as adults.  The type is unavoidable in city life: man-children who grew up in consequence-free environments, perpetually unhappy yet striving to fulfill the unfulfillable, and endlessly revolving in a worn-out formula of social interaction and long-fatigued charm.  In doses, they can be alright for an evening, but they quickly burn through the good graces of their once-reputable family name and (wrongfully) the courtesies extended to them because of legacy.

On a recent occasion, I had the odd experience of somehow agreeing to join one particular man-child to his house in the city following a late arts event.  As a group, we walked from the event to his two floors in a nice old city home.  We were a group of five men, and all but one had successfully avoided the after-invite to his place for drinks for almost a decade.  For reasons known only to gin, I relented, and made the trip that thousands before me had.

Once inside, he encouraged us to make ourselves "at home" while he mixed up some drinks.  We were getting the more casual treatment; had there been women present, he would have activated his routine, which was notorious and predictable.  His house was a once-large but now cluttered cave.  His parents had left him the majority of their collection, and he jammed everything into his two floors.  Stacks of precious English porcelain unused in decades, framed artwork older than his building stood in fours and fives on the floor behind his large doors and camel-back couches, and more silver than imaginable awkwardly crowded every available surface.  Cardboard wine boxes were stacked in the pantry, partially opened, and his entryway was jammed with groaning bookshelves and about forty umbrellas.

Countless women have fallen prey to his "charm" but once back at his place, only the drunk, dedicated,  or ultra-wonk art worlders stay for the final act, the majority being scared off by the evidence.

Parents and grandparents who establish trust funds for their progeny should always include strict incentives and conditions for personal, academic, charitable, or professional development.  As I sat on his dusty couch, one of the men in our group leaned over and said

"This guy's had life on a silver platter, but nobody can sit at his dining room table because of all those silver platters". [***Blogger's Note: the silver was stacked haphazardly and tarnished nearly black].

He was right.  Once the trust account began making distributions to the man, he gave up.  What's worse, it is obvious that his trust was meant as a supplement to income.  When he says that he "is on the club's board" he is right.  What he doesn't tell you is that since most clubs occasionally resort to posting a list of persona non grata for unpaid bills, he is listed there.  So yes, he is on the board, but on the bulletin board.

He sees himself as a romanticized man of leisure, but he doesn't have the personality, the commitment, the actual knowledge, or the resources to pull it off.  He rides the coattails of his parents and grandparents, referring to their country or seaside houses as "my place on the coast".

One woman told me that she agreed to go back to his place for "one last drink" following an elegant charity ball about a year ago.  She pointed to the spoked ship's helm leaning against a wall, and asked from what boat it originated.

 "Oh, it's from my boat", he said.

"So... how do you steer the boat now?" she asked, setting a quick trap that would determine her exit speed.

"We actually sold it a few years ago" he said.

"We?" she asked.

"My parents and I together" he said.

She confirmed that he was a man-child there and then, and she showed herself out amidst his protests.

Why do I write all of this?  Not because he has languished on several pseudo-academic and museum boards contributing nothing and forcing others to carry his weight.  Not because he never pays the bills he lavishly runs up.  Not because he buzzes the same cocktail parties every year and angers his hostesses.  I write this because he stuck me with the bill for the second time in the most crafty way possible.  If it had not been me, I would have applauded the chess-like maneuver, but I was bested by a cad.

As I write this, I can also think of a fast dozen or so who fit this description.