Aspiration Exasperation

The men's clothing message boards occasionally get bogged down in what has to be the World's Stupidest Argument - one that is so dumb it can't even be defined adequately.

But here goes:

Do the guys who make a point of dressing as Trads (substitute Ivy, TNSIL, etc.) refer back to a mythical Golden Age, when men wore sacks, women stayed home and we were keeping the Commies at bay? Is a buttondown collar a sign of someone who is already in the country club, or of an aspirant? Does a 3-2 roll on the lapel guarantee goodness and decency on the part of the wearer?

And is anybody else as tired of this crap as I am?

So here's my last word on the subject:

Thanks to despair.com

MIA Style

Stands for "Massive Ivy Attack."

Got a new gig at the same old, the newspaper that is, but a more interesting beat, a little more money and a whole 'nother attitude.

I was trying, on this grey, muggy but slightly cool day, with the threat of rain looming, to mix up summer and fall elements. You tell me if I succeeded.

The Great Loafer Hunt Marches On

"Hello, J.P.? Lissen, you tell those dumb bastids I won't take a goddamn nickel under the original offer!"

As if I didn't have anything better to do, such as find a job, I recently received two full strap loafers.

First up, a pair of seconds from Footjoy via an outfit called Golf Locker. Get on their email list, because every so often they have scads of Footjoy leather-soled dress shoes - seconds at around $120 and allegedly blemished shoes for around $90. A wide range of sizes and widths, too.

And hey - they are made in the USA. I think they give Allen Edmonds a run for the money, and even at full whack ($250 or so) beat the bejeesus out of poor old Johnston & Murphy, RIP.

Below, a pair of eBayed Allen Edmonds Randolphs. They will need new soles and heels in the near future. I love the heels on these.

This wraps up the Great Loafer Hunt for now. My quest is complete, and I have a loafer for every loafing-type occasion.

Unemployment and other matters

On the first full day of unemployment I got the news that it won't be for long.

This is good, since I won't have to make pizza. And bad, since I was looking forward to a minor period of loafing.

In the meantime, a couple of guys from the Ask Andy Trad forum have launched a new one called The Curriculum.

I need another clothing forum to fart around on, I really do. But they were nice enough to ask, so I signed up.

I continue to lose weight, and have punched new holes in all my belts.

I am listening to the following records, which tend to dictate the mood as I push along on my spring cleaning in the fall:

The Apples In Stereo, Discovery of a World Inside the Moone (upbeat)
Van Morrison, The Healing Game (introspective)
Elmore James, Best of (ballsy)
The Lonesome Brothers, Mono (rootsy)
Velvet Underground, White Light/White Heat (decadent)

I continue to consider moving to Portland, Ore., which has the incredible virtue of being a town where nobody knows me besides my old college buddy and his wife. And they know how to keep a secret.

I read Jack Kerouac's On The Road for the first time in at least a decade. I don't believe I ever read it sober; it's pretty bad.

I might go upstate in New York in the next few days to fish for steelhead.

Life could be better, but it could really be a hell of a lot worse.

Here is Pensive Trad, caught at a moment of combined irritation and uncertainty. I think it was Kerouac that put me in this mood.

I don't do casual well. I hate not wearing a tie.

Bill's M2, old J and M rubber-soled beaters I found in a thrift shop, new LE tattersall, McGregor Drizzler jacket, NY Giants baseball cap (same as the Mets but with a black body) in reserve.

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.