Summer Leftovers

Here I am, looking as if I had just swum through a tub of Neapolitan ice cream. Maybe it is the burning heat of our Indian Summer that inspired me, or maybe I just wanted to reminisce about the old days – when northern California weather used to make me feel like I was somewhere south of the arctic tree line. Part of the issue is that I live more coastal than bayside; this is a critical difference when it comes to micro climates and fog patterns. But we’re now in the thick of an autumnal heatwave and that’s cause enough to disinter the BBQ and finish off the backwash in that bottle of Boodles.

Last Days of Summer

Miss KMK along the water in San Francisco. The title of the post is misleading because our local summer has yet to start (it, like most San Franciscans, is always running late), but I meant it for readers everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere. As these images attest nicer days do occasionally happen and, were it selfishly up to me, the California drought never would have ended – girls wore fewer clothes and it was better motorcycle weather year-round.

You should visit her here.

My Old Italian Friend

Luigi here has been through the ringer a few times already, “broken in” one could say, though I suppose life will have broken us all after that many spin cycles. But, at the very least, I promise to be a pleasant strolling companion for his twilight years. Maybe he’ll even trust me with a few words of his aged wisdom, perhaps something like “iron at low temperature” or “Viva Garibaldi” or some such cryptic remark. You never know with those old Italians.

Another Post from the Edge

As you can see it’s summer here in San Francisco. Standing on my roof in the fog often feels like I’m standing at the edge of the world, and given my proximity to the Pacific, and San Francisco being one of the more westerly oases for the spiritually and culturally exiled, I suppose I am standing on such a precipice. This shot in particular looks like I was waiting for a bus and suddenly found myself teleported to the rooftop. Here I’m clad in my de rigueur rumpled shirt and trousers, with my concave torso at least being disguised in several layers of fabric. The lack of a pocket square is because I fled the house in some haste – tardy, as usual, for what some call work.

The jacket is from the discontinued Polo “University” label; although that bridge line is no longer, there are currently others to choose from. My preference is Rugby – a favorite of Polo’s attempt at “gateway drugs,” though perhaps that isn’t being quite fair to Rugby, which was once the more daring child of Papa Ralph’s. But, ultimately, it is the accountants who control our blue chip consumer goods, not the creatives, so I don’t (usually) blame designers for any lulls.

Ahem, back to me – the sweater vest is Façonnable. I confess some surprise that the fit wasn’t more of a “slim”, you know — with their famous Mediterranean diet and all. Though, with my creeping decrepitude, leaving room to grow probably isn’t a bad thing. The shirt is Cafe Coton and the tie is American Traditions. The latter’s name is open to some interpretation, invoking either “witch trials” or, more probably, “WASPs.” (Both Cotton Mather and Thomas Paine can be perceived as American heroes depending which American you ask.) American Traditions, at least at the time of this particular tie’s birth, was owned/licensed by Superba Inc, a subsidiary of Phillips-Van Heusen Inc, who own nearly every brand you’ve ever bought at a mall. Ah yes, the “comglom,” or in slang: “if an oligarch was transposed into a spreadsheet.” Of course, as Citizens United v. FEC showed us, there is no difference anyway.

Tie: American Traditions
Sweater Vest: Façonnable
Shirt: Cafe Coton
Blazer: Polo
Trousers: BR

Summer Chill

That abused word “chill,” as in”relax,” is not how it’s generally used in San Francisco between June and August. Instead it’s used to exclaim that it’s damned cold… as usual. Now, I used to complain that all the wool topcoats I brought with me from the rust-belt were unwearable in SF. Thanks to Al Gore’s climate change, I now can wear them year round and with the prevalent lack of central heating out here, at home in bed as well.

Here I’m seen wearing a vintage camel colored Pendleton overcoat. Being tall means the overcoat appears to be length of a driving coat. Such things oft happen to me; as this world of ours is by and for shorter people (cue Randy Newman), it should come as no surprise that “Floods” is my World of Warcraft screen name. The rest of the outfit is (with the exception of the plaid tie) warm, safe and simple. A pistachio heathered Banana Republic sweater and honey brown chinos — also from the same Gap step child. A JoS A Bank shirt. The tie is a summery cotton number from Target who, for a little while at least, were trying to do menswear with a dash of class. It can’t be easy when their demographic seems limited to maternity hoodies and mom jeans (and that’s just the mens dept.) I’ve heard they’ve had luck with faux upscaling their womens lines by bringing in guest designers. Maybe they need to step up and buy an overplayed Madmen endorsement like every other retailer in the next price point above them.

Here is an earlier summer shot of the same tie. Captured as I paraded it about on a notably warmer day (note the rakishly undone collar button though, to be honest, I’m not sure a sweater vest ever qualifies as “rakish.”) In my defense, since I often work in local micro-climates unrecognizable from the one I dress in, I usually dress for wherever I’ll be spending the most time. Or I might dress for my mode of transport: when riding 2 wheels and 650cc’s into work, I lean toward layers that can withstand wind, fog, chain grease, and friendly fire from neighboring car windshield cleaning spray; if carpooling (“To the office, Jeeves”) I might sport loafers and a blazer; public transit calls for Kevlar under a trash bag poncho (to easy-clean the hobo vomit).

Tie: Target
Coat: Pendleton
Sweater: Banana
Shirt: JoS A Bank
Trou: Banana

J C Leyendecker @ the Haggin

Anyone in northern California, or it’s Central Valley, in the foreseeable future should make a detour to see the Leyendecker room at the Haggin Museum in Stockton. The Haggin is one of the few (possibly the only) American museum to recognize Leyendecker’s work as being artistically valuable, so it’s not surprising that they also have the largest collection by the artist.

Leyendecker, like his later colleague Norman Rockwell, is typically dismissed as a mere illustrator by modern hackademics and artless critics. An oft repeated criticism of these two men is that their work was commercially commissioned (as opposed to being their innermost expressive gestures of the soul untainted by the rot of avarice) and therefore not art. If we follow that flawed logic to it’s absurd conclusion, the Louvre should deposit the Mona Lisa in a trash bin since the painting was (unfortunately for it) a commissioned portrait — just like nearly everything by Titian and Rubens.

I don’t have the time in a single post to cover the full history or merits of J C Leyendecker, or America’s golden age of illustration. However, for the purposes of this blog it is relevant to point out that it was Leyendecker who gave us the iconic Arrow Collar Man. His stylized renderings of form and fabric are wonderful, at times even fetishistic, and celebratory of an ideal form of beauty for the era.

Note: the paintings which became magazine covers are medium sized easel paintings, oil on canvas; also on display are the series of lifesize children’s faces for Kellogg’s cereal ads.

http://www.hagginmuseum.org/leyendecker/

The Order of the Garter

Men are a peculiar species. Not just humans in general, who are weird enough that I cross the street to avoid them, but specifically the subspecies of males. Straight men, scientifically speaking, don’t talk much among themselves about anything that doesn’t involve cars, sports, or (presumably naked) women (gay men are encouraged to substitute their own clichés here: Judy Garland anyone?) (And, as an aside: it has always amused me that straight men who obsess over watching beefcake, tightly-wrapped-in-spandex dudes tackle each other for a living, fail to see how… um… “latent” their interest in sports is.)

Anyway, as as endlessly fascinating as the previous mentioned conversational topics are, it is a narrow list, and of limited help to a burgeoning male on the edge of adulthood. Lacking any sort of proper mentoring, rite of passage, or even the likelihood a present father, today’s young men have to turn to the internet to watch instructional videos on “why it itches” or simply “how to shave.” With the abundance of extra hormones in the fast food chain, teen boys are in need of a shave a good 5 years younger than dad.

One of many areas in which men of all ages are hopelessly uninformed is the realm of socks. After all, how much does a man need to know about pairing socks with Nikes? Assuming he owns a pair of something nicer than sneakers, a man must be semiconscious about what he’s making the rest of us look at, between his cuff and brogue. A spell back, my cyber clothing colleague, Will, over at A Suitable Wardrobe, posted about how socks now are generally of a quality that one can forgo sock garters altogether (he also mans-up the support item of this post by calling them “sock suspenders.” Nice touch.)  I know for a fact that the socks sold through his online store are certainly of this top caliber. But the bulk of foot tubes in my dresser drawer are, after a few cycles through the wash, shapeless sacks whose top has no interest in clinging to my knees, preferring instead to flutter about the ankle. This complaint has been voiced often enough in conversation with other sartorially inclined men that either A) Walmart needs a better quality production gulag on the mainland, or B) there is an egregious industry wide conspiracy of “planned obsolescence” in hosiery that warrants rioting.

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Whatever the reason, a daily solution is still (as it was for grandad) sock garters, and among the nicest are those made by Swan Clothing. An accessory company started by Tara Bethune-Leamen 2005, she has previously focused on women’s accessories, however her luxury sock garters could be considered a first foray into the men’s room, so to speak. These garters are ultimately unisex — not entirely surprising  since women have historically co-opted our dry goods and looked better in them (e.g. The Night Porter and what Ms Rampling did for peaked officer caps/suspenders); as such, one shouldn’t be alarmed when visiting the Swan Clothing website. You will find a shapely set of lady’s gams modeling them for you which, frankly, I reckon as a bonus. If only Polo did that with bow ties; I’d buy even more.

Below I’m carefully concealing something. Hint: it’s below the belt.

And for the regular reader(s) — the tie of day:

Specs for the latter images:

Tie: Superba (100% Dacron and “fully washable”)
Shirt: Chalres Tyrwhitt
Cardigan: McGregor (vintage)
Trousers: BR
Overcoat: BR
Socks: Rugby (given the inspiration of the day I thought it worth mentioning)

Don’t forget to visit:

http://shop.swanclothing.com/