I took tennis lessons several summers as a kid. It was one of the few sports that seemed civilized.
Its style, surprisingly, never reasoned into why I enjoyed it so much. When I think now of all the missed opportunities to really dress the part, in crisp whites and whatnot, I scold my childhood self.
This weekend I developed a roll of 35 mm film and found some pre-Labor Day photos I’d taken with my Lomo LC-A, including images of my first (of two) visits to the Minnesota State Fair.
One of my favorite places at the fair is the Agriculture building. The first reason is that the signage and the restrooms are all as they were 50 years ago.
The second reason is the gradient jars of ribbon-winning honeys.
I only rode one midway ride this year, and it wasn’t the Kamikaze – but its red, white, and blue flashing lights were a joyride of their own.
An unremarkable rabbit who did nothing to warrant being photographed.
The view from our sunset SkyRide. Half the fun is waiting in line and hoping you get assigned your favorite gondola color. (Faded Retro Turquoise. But I think we got stuck with Boring Grass Green.)
Once you reach a certain age, if you were ever, on occasion, wise or lucky or brave in your younger years, then certain selections in your wardrobe end up older than you maybe care to admit. For many of us bopping around these blogs, however, a decade(s) old, well-worn wardrobe winner is something to be cherished, to be celebrated, I would think.
Today, on this last day of August, 2009 I’m proudly founding a personal Wardrobe Hall of Fame whose members have proven over the many years, in the face of changing trends, through risk of shrinkage, loss, fading and fraying, to possess enduring style and unrivaled wearability.
The first inductee is a beat-up black Orlando T-shirt. Already vintage when purchased pre-fall of 1996 for six or eight bucks, this shirt pre-dates the official vintage/graphic T trend that launched soon-after and to this day has not ceased.
This was the shirt I’d wear in my youth on rare visits to clubs where everyone watches each other, meat-market style. It’s cool, it’s authentic, but it’s quiet and helps to hide that I try so hard.
Admittedly, I haven’t worn it often in the past few years. The collar’s disintegrating, there’s holes in both armpits, the black has bleached to brown in spots on the front, and the lettering reads ORL only, instead of ORLANDO.
I don’t usually dress so distressed and a mess and I didn’t want to damage the piece irreparably through further wear, but unless I’m gonna turn my Hall of Fame into an open to the public museum (which I’m not), I might as well just wear the thing until it or I entirely die.
Closer, clearer look at the first inductee, after the rare jump.
Sometimes I’ll see an old black & white photograph of soldiers and think about taking it home and tacking it up on my wall. But it seems slightly insensitive, turning their wartime tasks and troubles into trend-ified decor.
Photographs of rugby or rowing jocks seem safer and equally as stylish, but, really have no place padding the walls of anywhere I live – there’s nothing about me that’s ever been slightly sportsman-like.
So it was such a score to come upon this American Legion Chorus image. Former soldiers singing on stage, dressed up to the nines – that sits with me just fine.
I’m really hypnotized by the regal pomp of the image. It has such a magical mood to it that today is all but extinct, I think.
If directors of Jenny Lewis or The National music videos don’t read this and cop the concept themselves, I’m gonna dress one of my gal pals up in a Lady Liberty look and set her on stage with some white-tuxed tenors and baritones and shoot something similar myself.
So inspiring…
More moments from my trip to the Rockies, captured on film via my Lomo LC-A and a disposable Kodak waterproof cam.
The water-iest point of a white water raft ride.
My horse that they told me I could call José or Bullwinkle. I opted for José. He was small but so am I, sorta, so we made a good pair.
About to board a steam engine train. Approximately three hours before a table of diners at an Italian restaurant mocked me and my bandanna.
Happily packaged peanut candies. The only souvenir of my entire trip.
Floating down a lazy (man-made) river.
I spent my arctic childhood winters taking indoor swimming lessons at the local YMCA. I graduated from the Minnows class all the way up through Porpoise, five or six years later, and still love to just float at the bottom of a swimming pool as if its my home.
I haven’t known how to feel toward digital still cameras that shoot video, even HD video, and list the feature as a wonderful perk. How does the quality and the control compare to shooting with an actual video camera? It’s just never seemed worth getting excited about.
But the new-ish Canon PowerShot D10 shoots stills and video (muffled pre-shark-attack air bubbling audio included) under water! For around three $100 bills. Now that’s something I can dive into.
It’s not possible to go swimming without a silly smile swerving around your face, and it’d be impossible not to watch back the footage from a fish eye’s view without that stupid smile showing up again.
Here’s one lucky D10 owner’s recent aquatic clip. (Almost looks like Super8 or something!) YouTube has plenty more splashy video blasts. Just search for Canon D10.
The way the world used to look. (better)
I had a vibrant vision of my future, and it involved this red vintage Marine Corps sweatshirt. Sized Medium, it seemingly would be roomy and quite reliable, paired with anything, pulled over everything.
The future has now come, and it’s much more grim than I’d pictured. The shirt’s tag indeed says Medium, but its fit is even shy of Small. It’s too tight to wear over an oxford, too short to wear solo (or otherwise my belly’s button would show.) A thin tanktop underneath has become my only option and its doubtful I’ll wear it with any real regularity.
So, men – after three attempts at military sweatshirt victory I’m surrendering here, today, exhausted.
Just to shake things up, I turned down the lights for this outfit.
My J.Crew 5-inchers, and brown nubby Alex P. Keaton necktie, and my new but vintage navy blue Coach portfolio bag.
An ideal ensemble for wiggling all around or standing (very very) still.
It’s a rare Saturday that I don’t fill my hours shopping one store after another. But this weekend I was feeling materialistically satisfied (for once) and decided instead to discover what else my great state has to offer other than boutiques and big box shops.
The Minnesota Pioneer Park rests just an hour outside of the Twin Cities, so, looking at the description on-line, it seemed like a smart Saturday sightseer’s spot. Upon arrival however, we began to chuckle that our car was one of only two in the visitor’s parking lot, and the costumed tour guides paired their period Laura Ingalls Wilder prairie dresses with Reebok trainers and neon Mossimo wrist-watches.
The site was a little sorry and very silly, but we still managed to enjoy and educate ourselves even so. The site was set up as a little village with over twenty themed buildings. The two favorites were:
The Barbershop
The Town Hall
Once upon a time, every damn thing, from aspirin bottles to bread boxes to barbershop chairs, were robust and wonderful and designed with real reverence.
I asked out loud, “You think in 150 years tourists are gonna wanna come to an outside museum and see all the lame plastic crap we go buy at Target today?”
Not a day goes by where a desperate reader doesn’t charge up to me on the streets and, down on their knees, literally beg me for tips on how they should wear their newly acquired, vintage cream + yellow French military straps from Ax-Man.
In this day and age, there’s really only one way to sport cream + yellow military straps without sullying one’s pristine reputation as a champion of cool:
Slyly let it slide to potential spectators that you’ve been invited by Thom Browne’s fittest intern to set aside some court time, then hike-up the sleeves on your dressiest dress shirt.
Somewhere blank and bright or otherwise Browne-ish, stunningly simulate your power serve, taking great care, of course, never to break a sweat. And there you have it, cats. French straps, simple as all that.
I rode it up and down dark, dangerous mini-roads through the Italian forest one simmering summer.
And then I secretly took half a roll of film of it one afternoon.
I’m notoriously nostalgic.
(…and it’s been way too long since I’ve worn a helmet.)
A preface to this volume including further information on its founding editor.
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