Counting Down

Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives...

Not to be crude, but SWEET TAP-DANCING JESUS H. ON A SILVER PLATTER is this week going slowly.

I had hoped to avoid the dreaded med room for the remainder of my tenure. Alas, it was not to be. At Space Camp there is nothing more discouraging than a sojourn in the med room, a smelly, airless little cupboard filled with futility and despair in pill form.

But as I once overheard a semi-sozzled softball player say to a cohort at The Dublin House, W. 80th and Broadway: "Hey, uh, sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do, uh, and do it! Uh."

A blast of humidity and summery temps scotched my plans to trot out some fall stuff for my final week of The Caring Professions, but I kept it as prep-school as possible. I enlisted some co-workers to assist with the photography, as Ralphus adamantly refuses to enter the building - fearing, quite rightly, that once the Caring Professionals got their mitts on him he would never get away.

Labor Day Weekend - Tennis

Our little community has a mixed doubles tennis tournament every Labor Day, on clay courts, no less.

My cousin Dan marched off Sunday before softball, saying that his drubbing would be so quick he'd be back in time for the third inning.

Instead he made the finals.

The men of our family all possess a peculiar grace on the tennis court. Part confused stork, part badly miscast Nijinsky, we leap about after the ball, often missing it completely but looking pretty damn cool in the process.

Dan has a particularly memorable repertoire of moves, some of which I managed to capture:

The Planets Are In Alignment:

Head, left hand, racket and ball appear perfectly lined up. However, zoom lens distortion and the camera angle fail to reveal the fact that the ball is several feet to Dan's left.




Stalag 17:

A little-known fact is that Dan and I were abducted by the Lizard People some years back. They experimented on us a bit, but were quite decent by way of providing recreational facilities. Here Dan recreates our method for disposing of the loose dirt from our tunnel. (While everyone is looking at the ball, the left hand is sprinkling the soil on the clay court.)

In the end we didn't escape; we were traded to the Red Chinese for two mid-level Halliburton execs and eventually abandoned, penniless, in Hong Kong. We pawned the chips the reptilians left in our necks and came home on a tramp steamer. I am not making this up.






Chairman Mao, Call the Chiropractor: A winning combination of odd posture and receding hairline make this a fan favorite.




Twelve O'Clock High: Dan is distracted by attacking Japanese Zeros.

Labor Day Weekend - Softball

We play an odd brand of softball. Batting orders are set by age - youngest to oldest - and we take liberties with the rules so the toddlers get on base once in a while.

Or maybe the first baseman simply can't handle the throw.

My cousin Henry is proving to be a natural athlete - his swing is nice and smooth, and he's getting some percentage of his power from his legs.

Rat's Ass Style

Ever heard the expression "I don't give a rat's ass about (such-and-such)"?

Well, I don't.

(Although I've often wondered where one would obtain a rat's ass, in case one did give a...)

I am a burned-out case, in every aspect of, well, everything.

So I am using these last few days of official summer to stick it in the eye of the beholder. In this case I have the trusty Brooks sack blazer, a pair of Lands End skinn(ier) chinos, AE cordo Randolph penny loafers - and a splendidly obnoxious pink interplay between the tie and pocket square. All that pink and red really complements the broken veins in my nose.

Even these size 35 trousers are a little loose. I am not going to stop this diet and exercise routine until I look as close to Paul Newman in "Harper" as I can get (minus the short-sleeve shirt with a suit routine).

Yikes, what a world. Last night I ate something I am still tasting; tonight there was a problem with the furnace at work; they bled a line and I spent six hours breathing fuel oil fumes until my head about exploded.

I have no real idea what I am going to do next and despite the finery I can't buy a date in this goddamn backwater.

And I still need a haircut.

Screw it. I got yer rat's ass right here...

Introducing TITT Style

We interrupt Mr. Sullivan's protracted sulk to bring you this bulletin...

TITT (Throwing In The Towel) style is an updated American look, which should make Tony V happy. Paul Stuart suit, BB shirt, Sam Hober tie, AE Park Aves.

The suit is lightly padded in the shoulder and darted, but it fits me as well as anything I own and it is an ideal weight for just about anything indoors.

The highlight of the day was handing in my resignation. The time has come to leave Space Camp - for good.

It's been a hell of a good run, overall. But I just can't handle the late hours anymore. Selah.

First Faint Feeling of Fall

It's been mighty cool for mid-August around here, with the daytime thermometer not getting much above 75 F. Which means, among other things, that some of the heavier jackets are making their way back into my life.

Including this elderly houndstooth sack jacket from the late great Huntington Clothiers of Columbus, Ohio. My father used to get his shirts from them; they ran a small ad in the New York Times Sunday magazine for years.

Their jackets occasionally pop up on eBay, and I found a very cool checked suit with their label once.

I'm thinking Hard(er) rather than What The Hell these days. WTH invites comment, either derisive or appreciative. Hard invites a punch in the nose. Cool, but mean.

Trad, Not-Trad

Found this pink seersucker popover shirt. Forgot I had it.

Blew off Tradliness completely for Tuesday's return to the salt mines. Cool enough for a lightweight lined jacket and wool trousers. Can tweeds be far behind?