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.)

My Halloween pumpkin really is dusty turquoise colored. I plucked it up at a church antique show and it made my whole day.

I ain’t ever gonna carve it. I want my blue-green beauty around as long as possible.

These Red Wing desert/chukka boots are my sole shoe selections for Fall 09. I’ve become a staunch supporter of this general style the past few years as I tend to roll my pants up two or three times most days and this style of boot hits at the ankle perfectly then.

Since I’ve been kicking around in earthy brown shoes the past many months, the stark simplicity of these Red Wings’ barely glossy black feels especially brisk and bold to my eye, setting today’s waning trend of woodsmen references in fashion into a slicker and stylistically subtler direction.

Sturdier than my J. Crew desert shoes and less clunky than my vintage 875s, these new Wing-ers weren’t a steal, but will hopefully prove perfectly practical for a litany of fall looks – a wise investment in the long run. (I do hope.)

Is it ridiculous to request what is essentially a forty-five dollar square of fabric, and then dye it red at home?

Probably. But I’m much happier with my Hillside handkerchief since its recent Rit bath.

And sometimes being ridiculous is half the fun, anyway.

Growing up, I was told that my Grandpa Rees was a lawyer for the government. More frequently, I was told what a terrible jerk he was.

As the self-appointed family historian I recently digitized nearly two hours worth of 8mm film footage from my Rees ancestors that I had partially watched, once upon a time, as a barely-caring teenager.

Included in the footage is a brief section of my Grandfather at work in Washington, DC. Fleeting, underexposed images of him walking to his desk are followed by clearer scenes of him outside, shirtless, firing a pistol at criminal-shaped targets as part of his training as a member of the C.I.A. How many kids can say they have footage of their grandfather doing something as awesome as that?

Not until after he died did I know that Grandpa Rees had worked for the C.I.A., and fired pistols, and was interesting and adventurous and cool. That had all been kept a secret. All I had been told was how horrible he was.

For the first time ever now, I really wish I had known him better and made up my own mind about him.

Rather randomly I was given a pair of Long-Johns by a severely medicated friend for Christmas. (No joke.) I’d forgotten all about them until I was swapping my summer wardrobe out for my fall’s, early last week. Sized Medium, I tried them on for the first time and found them significantly saggy…

…But before I banished them to the basement forever into one of my many cartons of costumes, I figured I might as well fashion myself into a Faux Fur Trapper and photograph the folly.

So I did; and now down to the basement they go.

I was sent some sad news on Sunday so I headed to a place called Cupcake to pick out some happy treats in order to soothe my soul.

Cupcake had a funny new flavor called the Clair Huxtable. It makes me smile and I haven’t even eaten it yet, so it was a very good choice for a very rough couple of days.

(Meanwhile I indulged in a Peaches ‘n Cream cupcake and a frosted Pull-Apart.)

I think I’ll finally enjoy the confetti-topped Clair cupcake tonight with some organic milk and the inorganic resurrection of Melrose Place. A junky party for the eyes, ears, and mouth – it’s just what I need.

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.

(more…)

After fifteen years I finally went to a drive-in movie again this weekend and loved every second of it. Ninety-nine point nine percent of my enjoyment came courtesy of the adorably dated signage hanging around my old haunt.

What a good old obsolete logo, sans serif font, or product shot of cola chilling in an icy forest scene won’t do for a guy’s soul.

The world may as well have stopped designing itself entirely after 1986, and I’d have been just fine.

My favorite friend came back from a business trip with a mad stack of expensive, imported men’s mags for me. My favorite was the British-based BUCK.

I find the majority of higher-priced men’s mags rather irrelevant to my life. Waifs with chin-length bangs, shirtless on sand-dunes, slinking around in seven-hundred-dollar cigarette jeans just does not dial anywhere near my frequencies.

BUCK chucks away with all that junk and instead offers pages upon pages of street-style standouts, low-cost covetables, sartorial showcases of pseudo-celebs, and even retro-tinged recipes.

If I still lived across the pond I’d be certainly swapping pounds for BUCKS month after month.

I think it’s required by law that your Style Blogger’s license is revoked permanently if you don’t post about Mad Men at least once a season. I’ll spare us all yet another synopsis of the skinny tie, slicked-hair style that the impeccably produced program has pushed back into the mainstream.

Instead I’ll offer this cliffhanger-style confession: Out of all the sly, city studs strutting around the show, I think it’s actually broody Betty Draper I identify most with. (Read into that whatever you will…)

In honor of Betty and this weekend’s season 3 premiere, I’m gonna serve something retro-suburban for Sunday supper while dressed up in my very best.

Though I’ll try my damnedest not to (deliberately) destroy any dining room chairs.

To escape the intense weekend heat, I retreated to the 18th floor of the Foshay Tower – the first skyscraper west of the Mississippi.

Modeled after the Washington Monument and completed just before the stock market crash of 1929, the historical building is now the first W hotel in the Twin Cities.

The W furnishings and lighting are all nouveau nightclub glam – Carrie and Samantha chic, I guess. But the buildings original detailings remain as they were eighty years ago and were the true signals of style at the hotel.

The elevator doors, the ceiling, the original mail slot…why is nothing today fashioned with such detail and dignity?

Another retro rush of the Foshay tower is its observation deck above the thirty-second floor. To this day the tower remains one of the tallest concrete skyscrapers, second only to the Empire State Building.

Wandering around the Foshay’s narrow decks from way up above in the warm August winds was supremely cinematic.

A gigantic gorilla, second in size only to King Kong, might as well have crawled on up to paw down propellor planes.

It’s good to look at your world from a new vantage point, and to look at your world the way it once was. My hometown W was pretty perfect for doing both.