Douglas Fairbanks, Jr - A Life

Photos for The Trad by Alice Olive

It's an odd thing...digging through a dead man's belongings. Low estimates on Lobb, Huntsman and Lock had me salivating like a hyena until I was struck by a thunder bolt of guilt. A conscious revelation of picking over the wool, leather and felt of a man I only knew through books and film -- It suddenly seemed wrong.

Standing at Fairbank's desk, I looked down on the snap shots, post cards and newspaper cartoons he felt fit to place under glass. I picked up his Dunhill brief case, placed it on the desk and opened the leather flap looking for something...maybe loose change. I don't really know.

The Rolodex was magical. Not because of the famous names, but because of the local grocers, a car rental car company behind Kate Hepburn and the florist who delivered long stems roses in NYC for $50 with two hours notice. Still, it was refreshing to see Princess Grace's signature in a guest book -- Her letters fat, cursive and squat -- just like a 16 year old high school girl.

Then it hits you. A life represented by lots in a room-- together -- like a museum exhibit. Perhaps more so -- just not for very long. Soon it all disappears among the bidders -- never to be seen in one place again. That's the magic. Whether you bid or not, stop by to see a life, and make of it what you will. I discovered a man whose sartorial interests paled compared to his storied life. And that discovery didn't cost a thing.

Douglas Fairbanks, Jr Auction, September 13, 2020, Doyle New York, 175 East 87th, NYC (212) 427 2730 On line catalog here.

Frameless Duck Head

We believe what we're told and rarely trust our own instincts. A museum is as good a place to start as any. Priceless art hangs on a wall and for years people line up to look and admire. Not so much because they know anything about art, but because they've been told the painting is art and, this is always important, it's worth a shit load of money.

One day the curator learns the painting is a fake and -- what elicited so much respect -- is no longer worth looking at. So what happened? One day it's art. The next it's not. The painting didn't change but perceptions did when the authenticity was taken away.

Museums offer a frame to art. Not the one you see with the painting but the one that gives you a perception. "Well, it's a museum so this must be art." Same with a popular restaurant, "It's impossible to get a reservation so the food must be good." With wine, "Robert Parker and The Wine Spectator gave it a 90. It must be good." Art, food and wine are given a 'frame' to help our increasingly lost and vacuous culture find their way, without much effort, to the "good stuff."

And since all this is about making a buck - too many times the black velvet Elvis painting gets the nice frame while real art sits frameless and ignored in a dusty corner. When Goody's, the southern discount store, was going out of business I was traveling around a big chunk of the Southeast on business.

Goody's carried Duck Heads and I was positive their demise would spell the same for Duck Head. I stopped in every Goody's I could find and bought up every pair of plain front pants for insane discounts.

It's been a few years but Duck Heads are finally back. The classic trousers that are the sartorial symbol of the khak-i-fied south are the same shade of boiled peanuts and just as salty. Duck Head never had much of a frame. They don't need one. I know my memories connect me to these trousers in ways I can't even begin to describe.

You don't need to frame your memories -- 'cause they're something you understand and know. More Duck Head to come. In the mean time visit their web site and Face Book page.

Duck Head is offering a coupon code DHW186520 for 20% off and Free Shipping on orders over $100.

Wide Boys

A Wide Tie: Purple Label Shirt/ Tie & Turnbull Asser Blazer


A Wide Boy: Hardy Rodenstock aka Meinhard Gorke

They say they're coming back -- As if they ever left. In London, 'Wide Boy' is a derogatory term for a working class schemer. A phony always on the make. Someone who deals in goods of questionable authenticity. Hardy Rodenstock (not his real name) allegedly created bottles of rare wine (not his real job) and sold them to the world's biggest suckers. Rich people. I suppose it's hard to be poor and a sucker -- At least not for very long.

But Rich people can be suckers and live long lives -- As long as the money holds out. Kip Forbes paid $156,000 for a suspect bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. I doubt it has kept him up nights. You can read about Hardy/Meinhard and Kip and Robert Parker and Michael Broadbent and lots of other "experts" in the true mystery, "The Billionaires Vinegar" by Benjamin Wallace. You'll never look at the wine world or experts in the same way.

Someone told me they were an 'expert' since they had read a 'book' on a hot new collectable. Of course, this party also sells these hot new collectables so I'm sure they know what they're doing. The point is, you should know what you're doing -- But that's not always possible. Like the $300 I threw away on a fake box of Cuban Cohiba cigars in 1994. Or, back in '76 when I gave $25 to a hooker -- who told me to drive around the corner where she'd meet me -- only to find a Fayetteville cop who asked me what the fuck I was doing and convinced me to leave before I got into, 'real trouble.'

There's a lotta Wide Boys in the world but there's not a lotta Wide Ties. Least not in the High Street shops. That's an old Purple Label up there from six or seven years ago. Word is they're coming back. Which means some of you are gonna have to have one or two. And that means you'll have to buy shirts with a spread collar. And suits with wider lapels. And a watch with a larger dial. And... You see where this going? No? Then I have a box of amazing Cuban cigars and if you'll give me $300 -- I'll meet you around the corner.

J. D. LaRue - My Kinda Hero

Real Characters

"...a fake Rolex, cheap Italian shoes and a Member's Only jacket"

Kiel Martin - July 26, 1944 - December 28, 1990


The Hand Joke

It takes courage for an actor to portray a fuck up week in and week out. Kiel Martin's J. D. LaRue was that fuck up writ large. Martin would have been 67 today had he not died of lung cancer in 1990. Chain smoking, heavy drinking and twice divorced, it was said he didn't so much act as he played himself.

Stephen Bocho's brilliant Hill Street Blues took the cop show and put it on its Sam Browne belt. Basket weaved into the boiler plate police procedural were long looks into character's personal lives. Many times these diversions were bizarre but almost always honest. The good guys could be bad and the bad guys could be good.

Shortly after graduating from the police academy, I was assigned to the midnight to eight shift with a sergeant who would park our patrol car outside his girlfriend's double wide trailer, instruct me to listen to the radio and if we were called, honk the horn.

Hill Street Blues captured truth and humor in police work rather than the fictional hand jobs given in films like Dirty Harry or Bullitt. It looked into the darkness of people's lives which is where the gold is. And nobody on the show had more gold than J.D. LaRue. Although it was surely plated.

A swaggering detective with a fake Rolex, cheap Italian shoes and a Member's Only jacket, LaRue could have easily been that sergeant I worked for. A huge ego hid a mountain of insecurity, infidelity and drink. Easily hated the first season, his character, like the others, became more complex, sympathetic and real.

So here's to John LaRue and to Kiel Martin. Cooler than fifty Steve McQueens and a hundred James Deans put together. Happy Birthday.

"God Tells Me What To Do But The Devil's My Secretary"

Subway Inn 143 E. 60th St at Lexington Avenue

The first of a series celebrating NYC dive bars. And while the honesty can be too much -- a good dive bar is a refreshing contrast to the vacuous sports bar where Bud Lite consumption is subsidized by insurance company expense accounts belonging to pasty white men in golf shirts, Dockers and Cole Haan Kilties.

The Subway Inn's neon is like a roaring Christmas Eve fire to the eyes of the afflicted. Tourists hurry their children by and must wonder how something so low brow can be so close to Bloomingdales and the Container Store. It's almost impossible to see into the bar through the window but once inside any sense of real danger is left to unknowing imaginations.

I was weaned as a 19 year old on the strip bars along Hay Street in Fayetteville, NC so my bench marking may be out of whack. The inside is not dangerous at all. In fact, the place could use a rougher crowd. Certainly a poorer one. Shots are $5 and bottled beer is less. Hipsters take over on weekends and regulars have it on week nights but to see the hard core pop in around noon. A beer at lunch ain't gonna kill you, but the guy at the end of the bar might.

Rating: The Classic 8/10

Off My Back: Honesty In Chamois

I've been an Orvis customer for 30 plus years. My favorite moleskin trousers in hunter green are from the early 90's. They came in handy on the 50 minute winter commute from Lake Bluff to Chicago on the Metra. They could just sneak by with a shirt, tie and blazer. But with this shirt you were talking casual Friday. It has only improved with age and rates as my favorite hang over shirt.

To this day the Orvis cut is generous. This medium fits...as long as I have a salad for lunch. A burger and a Guinness? Forget it. And even though NYC hit 91 degrees yesterday - I have this Orvis flannel in my Beretta sights.

For me, Orvis is the real deal. Has been. Hopefully continues to be. Imitators of Orvis are hoping they can steal the authenticity but they always miss the boat. Some of that stems from their models in winter clothes and coats and heavy shoes without socks. That would be a fad and a bad one at that. There's also a calculating insincerity that comes from peddling what doesn't interest you.

Some of the younger folks I've met in the last year do get it and have a real love for this kind of kit. Their passion runs deep. They ask about the early 1980s the same way I ask folks about the early 1960s and the way those folks love the 1930s. It's that nostalgia for something all of us have never had but long for. I suppose a two year old today will be asking you about J Crew 30 years from now. Looking at my consumption of alcohol and tobacco in the last 30 years - - I'm guessing I'll miss it.