Merry Christmas

Hay Street, Fayetteville, NC

The bars were razed and the hookers who tagged along were dispersed. That was all the civilians wanted. To spread Hay Street across Fayetteville like margarine on Wonder bread.

Three generations of bloused boot paratroopers spent Christmas on Hay Street. Cheering beer and strippers in Suzy Wong, The Seven Dwarfs or Pop A Top Lounge.

30 years later I walk an unforgotten route and nothing's the same. Cocky paratroopers are replaced with the waddling middle class twirling pasta in ersatz Italian restaurants.


Santa poses for pictures and I follow him to my hotel bar. He joins a red head and she smiles offering him a saved bar stool. He lights a cigarette with a Bic and orders a drink.

I think of Christmas when I was 19. Offering a stripper a heart shaped Whitman Sampler in my Bullit black turtleneck. She smiles down at me from her stage. When I think of her... I smile at Santa and buy him a drink.

Turnbull & Asser's Smoking Smoker

Anachronistic? Without doubt. Expensive? You bet. Mind numbingly beautiful? Depends on who are you. If you're like me... a sucker for out of date, hand crafted attire that most likely will never see the light of day outside your own four walls...then you'll love the smoking jacket. I've written at length about them here.

It makes absolutely no sense in today's world. It's the buggy whip of formal attire but it's also an unmitigated work of art. Last December I took a poll of New York City haberdashers on smoking jacket sales. It's complicated depending on the retailer but know this -- They ain't flying off the shelves.

All the more reason to have one. Trust me...you're not gonna run into anyone wearing a smoking jacket at a black tie Christmas or New Years party. But you'll need some hefty stones to pull it off. I'd say no if you're under 25. Maybe even 35. Why? You'll look silly because you don't deserve it...yet.

I remember entertaining a lady friend in my college dorm room just before Christmas break. Astrud Gilberto was on the Akai reel to reel while she sat on the edge of my bed with her legs crossed watching me pour tonic and gin into a cocktail shaker.

She arched an eyebrow and seconds later I understood why...She wasn't as interested in me as much as she wondered if I'd really shake tonic. I did. She smiled and left. I was all sticky. Good thing I wasn't wearing a Smoking Jacket.

The Trad Profile Report

Click on image to see naked women

Many thanks (and 32 points) to Yankee Whiskey Papa at Boxing The Compass for this.

C Rations & Latrines

No chunky - only smooth

C ration peanut butter was a smooth and flavorful spread that was often used in spoofing new soldiers. We called them Cherry's in the Airborne. SOP was a Cherry would be assigned to clean latrine toilets. Once finished, his attention would be diverted while a small amount of peanut butter would be placed surreptitiously on the bottom of one of his toilets. The tiny 'British Tan' pile would contrast nicely against the stark white porcelain.

At inspection, the young Cherry stood proudly by his row. An inspector would walk past upon review, stop at a toilet, point to it and ask the Cherry, "What in the hell is that?" The Cherry would come over and seeing the pile shake his head in disbelief. "I don't know, sergeant?"

The sergeant would peer down into the toilet, "It looks like shit." Reaching in, he'd take the peanut butter between thumb and middle finger and bring it to his nose, "It smells like shit." A startled Cherry would stare in horror as the sergeant would insert the peanut butter in his mouth and in lip smacking insouciance proclaim, "It tastes like shit." A shame Tommy Hilfiger missed out on all this.

The World's Best Dressed Man

Alan Flusser featured 25 of the best dressed men (living or dead) in Esquire's Gentleman issue - Summer, 1993. Sadly, he missed one. Not just a well dressed man but, as a certificate from the Swiss Tailor's Guild announced, "The World's Best Dressed Man." Even his shirts bore 'W.B.D.M.' monograms. I'm not sure how this man could have slipped by Flusser. Unless of course the monogram was on his cuff.

Khaibar Khan Goodarzian was, in 1961, man about town -- a man's man --a man of style, substance and, "550 suits, 50 tuxedos, a dozen full-dress outfits, several hundred pairs of shoes, lots of silk underwear and handkerchiefs from Sulka, $750,000 worth of jewelry and four rare and costly oriental rugs." or so says the proof of loss statement provided to the Continental Insurance Company.

Goodarzian claimed he was the hereditary chieftain of a northern Iranian tribe called the Bakhitari. An investigation revealed the humble roots of a dispatcher in a British Army motor pool. Still, New York City opened it's arms and charge accounts to Goodarzian. Parties at El Morocco, haberdashers and department stores, all on credit.

The "fire" (you knew there was gonna be a fire) occured late one night in his two bedroom apartment. Actually, it was a one bedroom apartment with a bedroom converted to a closet. A witness saw Goodarzian removing clothes from his apartment the day before the fire. And there was the testimony that, during a party at the apartment the same night of the fire, Goodarzian was upset when butane containers were late in arriving.

Good luck prevailed after Goodarzian disappeared with the butane containers in his bedroom but rejoined his guests and moved the party to a nightclub. It would be seven years before Goodarzian would learn his case, Saks & Co. et al. v Continental Ins. Co. et al., named after the creditors, would pay him nothing. A few years later, the W.B.D.M. was deported. I have no idea where.

The Greatest Suit In The World

Halloween Costume Idea # 1

I first head this in college. I wanted to be Frank on Halloween. Short sleeve shirt & tie. Gas can in one hand and a Mickey's Big Mouth in the other. Never got around to it. Maybe you will. Here's how I'd introduce myself.

Hi, name's Frank
(shake hands),
Just settled down in the Valley.
Yeah, I like to say I hung my wild years
on a nail I drove through my wife's forehead.

What do I do? Anything I want.
No, seriously...I sell used office furniture out
there on San Fernando Road. Yep.
Assumed a $30,000 loan at 15 1/4% and
put a down payment on a little two bedroom place.

The wife? Spent piece of used jet trash...
Makes a good Bloody Mary. Keeps her mouth shut most
of the time. We have a little Chiuaua named Carlos.
Has some sort'a skin disease and is totally blind.
I drive a Nissan. Yeah, I'd say we're pretty happy.

Was coming home from work one night when
I stopped off at the liquor store and picked up a couple
Mickey's Big Mouths. Drank 'em in the car on the way to the
Shell Station. Got a gallon of gas in a can and drove home.

Doused everything in the house and
torched it.
Parked across the street and watched it burn...
All Halloween orange and chimney red.

Then I put on a top 40 station,
got on the Hollywood Freeway
and headed north.
Yeah, I'll have another one.
Thanks.

(to myself)
Never could stand that dog.

Steve McQueen's Porsche

UK Classic Cars Magazine - 1993

The guy who insured pig farms came up with the idea over lunch. Get a syndicate together and buy Steve McQueen's Porsche 911. The marketing guy, who dreamed up porn movie plots, was in for $10,000. His best, a bizarre "I Dream of Jeannie" plot device where Major Nelson's penis size increased with each Jeannie "blink" while being boinked.

The pig farm guy was in for $20,000. He wasn't married, came from money and was boinking the agency owner's secretary. A courageous and ultimately foolish decision. I was married, poor and boinking no one so $10,000 to me was a stretch but not impossible since bonus time was fast approaching.

But January turned into February and rumors of the big day spread across the 20th floor of the Hancock like wild fire on the Serengeti. B-Day finally came in April -- Never under estimate the power of keeping people economically off balance. Account executives sneaked calculators into bathrooms where they would attempt to make sense of numbers in symbolic privacy.

Vice presidents closed office doors and, whether in defeat or celebration, called wives. Celebrants somehow managed to find each other after 5:01 PM and proceeded to drink, smoke cigars, fall off bar stools and show each other their bonus checks.

By midnight, the celebrants stumbled into homes where wives called them beer smelling ashtrays. The tirades cut short only by showing a crumpled piece of paper that turned into a new kitchen, car, bathroom or house. It did not turn into a 69 Porsche. I never did like Steve McQueen.

1972

The Trad in '72


My Inspiration: Soul Train...

and my cousin's Esquire Magazine Oct 1970

I got a Nehru jacket the same year, man. Smoking cigarettes with Friday Shinnaberry in the junior high parking lot -- Mary Willersdorf comes over and asks for a Hampton Police Cadet Corps t shirt. The one with the short sleeves. Mary has the biggest breasts of any girl in 9th grade, but her face is a little smushed in. You know? Like one of those little dogs, her nose almost meets her chin. Not that it matters.

At home I find an extra t shirt. Size small. I laugh to myself. Mary calls and I take the kitchen wall phone receiver into the bathroom and close the door. She asks if I'll bring the t shirt to her house now since her parents are gone and won't be back for a couple hours. She'll try it on for me. I tell her it's a small. She tells me that's okay. It should fit. I tell her I'm on my way. I walk outta the bathroom. I'm dizzy. I'm scared. I'm so happy. I'm putting the receiver back and there's my mother.

"Yeah, well... I'm just heading over to Scott's house. He wanted a police cadet t shirt..." "You're not going anywhere. I heard you and you are not going to that girl's house." "You were...eaves dropping ?!" I turn it around and am pretty proud of myself and my vocabulary. After all, there's a lot at stake here. I add, "Can't I have any privacy in my own house?" That's good. I actually sound like a grown up. She snaps back, "No, you can't have any privacy and this is my house."

It's slipping away. What was there in the palm of my hand is turning into another fantasy for the palm. I can see Mary Willersdorf in that small t shirt running towards me while screaming her parents are gone. A lawn sprinkler comes on and 'Police Cadet' lettering folds into wet cleavage and dark areola while an early Fall chill marks the exclamation points. I wish my parents were gone, but there's always at least one of 'em hanging around. Minding my business.

Humble-Ties

I have a question. I'm a 26 year old working in financial services in New York City. I have a couple Hermes ties and while I love them, they seem too old for me. I also have a number of Vineyard Vines ties but they seem too young. Any ideas? Connor Fused



Dear Con,

You're in a predicament. However, you've provided enough information to work with. A young man (under 35) in an Hermes tie comes off looking, at worse, pretentious -- over reaching at best. Also, older men (over 40) in your office don't like you simply because you're 26. They'll look for anything to disparage and what you wear is an easy target.



I was 21 and driving for a colonel just before I got out of the army. I had known him for about a year, respected him and was flattered he specifically requested me as his driver. Coming out of a G-3 briefing, he climbed into the jeep and said, "Sergeant, I'm so confused I don't know whether to wind my ass or scratch my watch." I'll never forget that or what he told me next.



He told me I was a smart ass. Not so much because of what I wore. Except for his rank and C.I.B., our uniforms and footwear matched perfectly. He told me it was how I walked and talked. He also told me that people would either like me or hate me with no in between. I remember sighing a plaintiff, "Jesus, sir?"



Which reminds me of the time a chaplain in the field was chewing me out for my helmet graffiti which read, "Kill a Commie for Christ." This same colonel came to my rescue and told the chaplain that, "...it's his fucking job to kill Commies and if he wants to kill 'em for Christ, that's his business."



I'm getting off track here so let me wind scratch this up. I said, "Jesus, sir?" and the colonel said not to get him wrong. He loved smart asses but he wasn't everyone. He told me, "You need to be humble. I'm not saying you can't be you -- I'm telling you to be humble 'cause you don't need to wave your flag. It's big enough for everyone to see." I thanked him although I have managed to ignore his advice pretty much the whole of my life.



I don't know if you're a fellow smart ass, Con. But I do have some advice. 'Humble' is not a word you associate with Hermes while 'insipid' is what a designer I know calls Vineyard Vines. If you want something with Hermes gravitas while following my colonel's advice for humility, try Ferragamo. Not the shoes. They're not humble. The ties. As elegant as Hermes but not nearly as in-your-face assertive, the Ferragamo tie walks a fine line of understated style and restraint. Grown up but not middle aged. They're not cheap ($170) but women love giving them as gifts while old farts like me will hate you just a little less.



Update: I have just been advised the colonel retired a major general. I'm guessing I should've taken his advice.

Happy - You Don't Know Shit From Shinola - Memorial Day

Always a problem... shit from Shinola (shine-oh-la)

I heard it growing up but,  being an Army Brat,  I was exposed to a lotta confusing military metaphors.  A favorite of the Old Man's was, "He couldn't pour piss out of a shoe." When I joined the Army, a less elegant but still charming version was heard in Basic Training, "He couldn't pour piss out of a boot with a direction arrow on the heel."  As a kid, I wondered why anyone would pour piss out of a shoe much less,  how the piss got in the shoe to begin with. As a recruit, it quickly became obvious that, "piss out of a shoe (or boot)" was all about incompetence --Of which there was a great deal in Basic Training on behalf of myself, my fellow recruits and the US Army.

These logophile nuggets increased through training.  Drill Sergeant Hunt was fond of, "If your brains were gasoline there wouldn't be enough to power a piss ant motorcycle half way 'round a fucking dime." Or, "If your brains were cotton there wouldn't be enough for a piss ant tampax."  Obviously Hunt had something for piss ants.  My favorite was, "You people move like old people fuck."  Not sure why other than I'm very visual and any sexual fantasy in Basic Training was welcome.   

Infantry school introduced me to, "He couldn't piss up a rope."  Again, a perplexing statement when taken out of  Army context but eloquent in describing raging incompetence with so few words. By Jump School, things got strange with the 'Black Hat' from South Texas who called everybody, "Stevie Wonder." If he caught you chewing gum, he took it out of your mouth and put in his adding, "You chewed all the flavor outta this gum, Stevie Wonder. Why would you do that to me?"

Using expressions like these, once assigned to a unit, were frowned upon. They had become tired and over used -- Much like double monks.  Barrack's poets would take the stage and while the target was the same incompetence...be it the Army or a man other (than yourself), personal style ruled -- I'll never forget the bookish and frequently busted 30-something Spec 5 from Los Angeles who called the XVIII Airborne Corps G-3 Sergeant Major, "An unmitigated asshole." At 19, I had no idea what 'unmitigated' meant but there was beauty in the meter of it that I still find attractive today.

I drove for a colonel, later a general, who left a briefing, climbed into my jeep, turned to me and said, "Tinseth, I'm so confused I don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass." I dunno...I think the Spec 5 has it over the colonel. 

When I asked my Old Man what Shinola was, he explained it was boot polish and the origin of the phrase went as far back as WWII.  I didn't say anything but all I could think of was, why did black boot polish look like shit?  Was everyone eating black beans and rice?  What it took years for me to figure out (piss ant brains) was that the Army of WWII wore brown boots and Shinola made a brown polish. So... now you know, Stevie Wonder.

Short Sleeves - Short Temper: Ralph's Rant

When we're done with dinner… I'm gonna let you fuck my wife."

Ralph knew there was a problem when the prospective client  didn't call back.  Six months of intense work on one of the biggest accounts in town --  Revenue over a million but there was a 10 year relationship with another agency.   Still, Ralph's ego didn't let him say no when he was approached.

The prospect complained of shitty service over a shitty lunch at his favorite restaurant; a place Ralph detested and thought touristy and pretentious. The prospect told Ralph the 'relationship' had been over for a couple years thanks to a change in 'players' -- Both at his company and at the agency.  Ralph looked at the prospect and saw a wounded Gazelle on the Serengeti Plain hobbling along to keep up with the herd.

Ralph's nostrils flared slightly  at the sniff of blood as he shoved a fork of rare dry aged rib eye across his capped teeth.  All the signs were there but then why hadn't the prospect called back?  Ralph called early in the morning and late in the afternoon to avoid the secretary but he only got voice mail.

Late in the afternoon, on the day of the new contract, the prospect called.  Ralph knew in an instant.  The prospect talked and Ralph, in a fog of anger, depression and confusion, heard little but picked up key phrases "…they really came through" "account manager replaced" "lowered fee" "you're proposal was solid" "appreciate everything…" As Ralph held the phone to his ear, he stopped listening and thought only of what he would say.

"I appreciate that, Tim." Ralph said, "A lotta people worked very hard and very long over here but I can tell you've made your decision and I respect that." Ralph heard Tim stumble along a "thanks" and some at-a-boys and still Ralph didn't know what was going to come out of his mouth next but that was sales.  The best never knew what they were going to say. That's why it always sounded so good. So…fresh.  And Ralph knew he was one, if not, the very best.

Ralph saw the light in his mind and followed it, "You know what, Tim. How about you come over for dinner this Friday night?  My wife's a great cook. Graduate of the Kump school.  She's really amazing.  I've got a case of Krug we can crack into…" Ralph heard the prospect's breathing over the phone turn anxious. Like he wanted to hang up but Ralph wasn't going to let him. "And, Tim.  When we're done with dinner… I'm gonna let you fuck my wife."

The prospect's voice is barely a tremble, "I'm not sure…" He pauses a long beat to let Ralph fill it but Ralph isn't biting.  Tim clears his throat, "I, uh. I'm not sure I heard you right." "No, you heard me right, Tim.  After dinner at my house... I'm gonna let you fuck my wife…because Tim, that's exactly what you've done to me."

Ralph grits his teeth, purses his lips and slams the phone down.  A piece of black plastic flies off the phone and across the office.  Ralph watches the bit of phone come to a rest at the feet of a life sized cardboard Batman next to his credenza.  Ralph smiles, clasps his hands behind his head and knows, as sure as Batman is standing in his office, that he has the best job in the world.