27 June 2013

Tears of a Cougar

You would be shocked, I think, if you knew what I got up to in my younger days.

You will have noticed I don't talk much about my bedroom affairs with the ladies. One reason being, I'm immersed in it all day (and night) long. And by 'it', I mean pussy and the acquisition thereof. Like real life itself, I'm usually too busy actually doing it to write about it. Still, a few words from the front line are in order.

Permit me to let you in on a secret. For years now, using intricate algorithms and unique qualitative evaluations, I've organised the females in my social orbit into three (3) precisely delineated groups. The last group, which I shall call 'C Squad', the subject of this report, consists of predatory, highly-sexed, single/divorced (or to-be-divorced) women in their 40s-50s, a.k.a. cougars.

Some background. Been there, done that--multiple times. I've at least a decade's worth of experience with this particular animal. In fact in the early days I led field excursions to collect data for research activities related to cougar-hunting, some of which you may have seen already. Our focus was on upscale sites in Newport Beach, including the infamous Quiet Woman, Bandera, R&D, and Gulfstream. Our excuse? We were young and dumb.

Now that I'm older, I can look back with more clarity. Let me assure you, cavorting with cougars can be soul-breaking work, especially for a charming, sensitive chap such as yours truly. And I say this because these women are desperately unhappy creatures, particularly the ones who are divorced and alone. And that includes most of them. This is the secret no one wants to talk about, least of all divorced women themselves. There's only so much happiness one can derive from a large house near the beach and expensive sports cars.

I'm prompted to discuss this issue by a recent newspaper article on the plight of rich divorcees: 'Dating Tips for Uptown Divorcées: Middle-Aged Millionaires Are Just Not That Into You' in The New York Observer (6/25). American women divorce not only because they can, but also because they are strongly encouraged to do so, fueled by visions of endless days of carefree happiness and lunches with girlfriends over Salad Niçoise and chardonnay and exotic travel with sexy young hunks. 'Eat Pray Love', in other words. But reality, of course, invariably turns out to be something a bit different. As the article states:

Where most rich divorcées fail is in assuming they can replace their husbands with a newer model pretty much like the old one. Sorry to say, this tends not to be the case. Most of the time, the divorced well-to-do male is not looking for his equal, but rather for a sexretary from the Midwest, preferably without an opinion. As one recently divorced hedge funder told me: “Being married to a smart, opinionated woman is work! Now I just want tits on a stick, a blonde wig and someone to tell me I’m great when I get home."

As you know, a successful chap with options is not going to settle for a divorced woman his own age (or older), whose bitterness and disillusionment cling to her like the odor of a freshly-used litter box.

And so the party continues.

All those divorced women, alone and lost to memory, crying cougar tears in glasses of wine.

Vichy Nights

San Onofre Surfing Club

26 June 2013

Operation Hang Ten: The Bill Cartwright Dossier

'I Like It Fast'

¡Viva La Muerte!

Waugh Portrait

25 June 2013

Our Man In Hamilton: An Introduction To Bermuda Style

I am happy to introduce to you here an exclusive contribution to Admiral Cod from a guest style correspondent, who, as usual, knows a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. The subject here is Bermuda style, a longstanding interest of mine. It is increasingly necessary, I think, to remind ourselves of the unique cultural (and sartorial) traditions that exist in our world, and may still be lost. Enjoy. - LBF

* * * * * * *

Growing up, I always heard of my father's trips to Bermuda. Anniversaries with Mum, golfing get-aways, and the Newport/Bermuda race brought the island-nation into regular discussions in our home. As a teen, he went with his parents to Hamilton from New York City (his parents had flown on the Bermuda Clipper before he was born) when the fuselage was choked with cigarette smoke and stuffy with heat. I decided that it was my turn, and having never been towed along by my parents, I set out to see the island on my own terms. Thanks to a few friends who knew about my trip, I was given a list of functions and cocktail receptions to which I had already been invited as a guest. It helps having friends like that. 

A short two-hour flight from New York put me in St. George, the north-easterly tip of the island. A $40 (right-hand drive) taxi ride and I was in Hamilton. The British influence can be credited for the landscape. Stonewalls line each twisty road and hedgerows abut the yards around stuccoed cottages. It looks perfectly of the British Isles only with palms and sub-tropical vegetation. Readers of this site have no-doubt noted a fondness for the unique style from Bermuda, and I was skeptical as to the degree to which it was normal. That doubt washed away the moment I set foot into Hamilton. Serious and somber men of all ages earnestly went about their professional pursuits in dark blazers, ties, Bermuda shorts, lightest-weight wool knee-socks and leather dress shoes. The socks are raised to just below the knee and the shorts are made of linen or feather-weight wool or wool/cotton/linen blends with finished bottoms (no seems or hems). Most have a single shallow forward pleat are are dry-clean only. Khaki or shades of tan are more rare than one would think, and locals opt for the colors normally associated with the land and seascape: yellows, red, pinks, turquoise, greens, etc. Bow-ties and neckties appear equally and in softer tones. The colors of the knee socks seem (from what I could tell) to coincide somewhat with the industry in which the gentlemen worked. Finance, management, or reinsurance saw mostly black or dark navy blue socks, slightly off-putting to one's modern American eye. The clothiers and the gallery owners, a few chefs I met, and some restaurateurs wore colored knee-high socks, as did the socially at-leisure.

Shoes ranged from Top-Siders to dress-oxfords all with the ubiquitous tautly-drawn knee socks. I did not observe a trend towards any type of shoe though as the variation seemed no different that anywhere else in the world. Black blazer and red shorts with black socks appeared to be the most formal of the combinations as worn by the photo of Bermuda's 2012 Olympic Team. Once the initial shock of the style subsides, usually after the second Rum Swizzle (the Island's other much better official national drink), you can easily participate. The socks are normally less than $15 and off-the-shelf shorts average about $75. One tier below the finished shorts you can pick up all-cotton versions for about $40. Wearing them right away is simple since no hemming is involved. If you choose, fully bespoke versions are available for much more but they seem to have diminishing returns for the outlay.

Bermuda is fiercely protective of its culture. Rental cars don't exist and ownership and employment are not allowed or handed out to just anyone. Though the shorts and socks may seem like a minor quirk of the island they remain a bellwether or barometer for the preservation of culture against external influence. Unlike other measurements (onion exports aside) it will be the clothing that will give Bermudans the first (or last) reading that they have lost what was once theirs.

- Anonymous


Young Fogey

Lord Lion

22 June 2013

Hawaiian Air (Friendly Fires)

21 June 2013



20 June 2013

Purple Label Splendour

In an Admiral Cod exclusive, I present to you (at left) the charming duds of June. And by that I refer of course to my new made-to-measure suit from Ralph Lauren Purple Label.

The newest addition to my sartorial collection, it is a classic chalkstripe number in deep blue with a single-breasted front, double-vented back, and working button-holes. This is a lightweight model--a choice befitting the Mediterranean climate of Southern California--consisting of 98% fine wool, 2% cashmere. It is exquisite to the touch.

I acquired it at the Polo shop on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, one of the more aesthetically-pleasing commercial buildings I've had the good fortune to spend time in recently. Over discreet glasses of champagne provided by my man Jenks and delightful conversation from the sartorial professionals in attendance, I sifted through a wide selection of fabrics, searching for a pattern that was suitably banker-ish, but with a cavalier air of la haute finance et l'empire. Once I made my choice, details were decided upon and measurements taken. Long rise with a 9" drop, in case you are curious. Eight weeks later it was done. And what a worthwhile wait it was.

Also pictured (above) are a white oxford shirt by W.H. Taylor and my trusted Rolex Submariner timepiece, which receives more comments on its good looks than I do. I am almost jealous.

So Goes Triumph

Prep Kit

Morning Delight

18 June 2013

The Highest Prize

Mood: amused.

I received a vindication of sorts this past weekend.

Imagine the scene: a well-stocked wine and cheese section of a local market. I was there to load up on some provisions in preparation for a blonde bombshell cougar who was scheduled to take up residence at La Estancia de LBF for the night. More on her, later.

Cute housewives in yoga pants and ponytails dotted the place, indulging as they do in inane chatter. I saw out of the corner of my eye a shapely young blonde filly standing several yards away. Over a fine selection of aged Stilton I noticed she kept half-looking over her left shoulder in my direction. As I neared she turned and grinned at me and opened her mouth as if to say something, at which moment I realised she was the very girl with whom I broke up last summer. And she had clearly gained weight.

I walked past her in that confident, knowing, slightly cocky manner I have naturally developed over the last fifteen years or so, and which a few of my girlfriends have dubbed 'the walk'. (The ladies know what I am referring to). When one must quickly exit an awkward situation I find it is best to do so in as dignified a manner as possible.

My late father always said I had a cruel streak a mile wide. I am afraid he did not know the half of it, poor chap. Certainly it is a quality I have striven to live down to. But I like to think that what he perceived as mere cruelty is actually disregard, or contempt. And God knows there is an awful lot these days to be contemptuous of.

The modern world, I think, is an inadequate place. The standard wages of success are simply not enough. I discard beautiful women, such as my ex-girlfriend and first wife, as if they were candy wrappers. After all, there is always another one around the corner. It is a system, you see. And then at the end of it all one dies--alone, if need be, which they tell me is a bad thing and something to avoid, but I am not so certain. Death is over-rated. Do not misunderstand me. I am very grateful for the kind of life I have been granted. I enjoy it as best I can, which is to say a lot, and what is more I enjoy sharing it with you here. And yet, something is missing.

I am reminded as I often am of the verse I once saw in a copy of the magazine Pflug und Speer when I was a little boy:

Den Kramern lasst ihr Gold
Den Ruhm den Schlächtern
Bekkent Euch zu den Verächtern
Die schwertlos ringen um den Hohen Preis

Leave the gold to the merchants
And glory to the warriors
Become one of the scorners who fight
For the highest prize

What is the prize? And how does one achieve it?

Missing You


17 June 2013

On The Sexes (Generation Identity)

Of all the battles you've fought, your battle against the sexes was the most reprehensible.

Instead of the harmonious union of men and women, you've promoted alliances of queers and transvestites, the union of nothingness.

You've taken the manliness out of men. You've raised them to be feeble teddy bears lacking the power to act, lacking courage, lacking strength--in short, the will to power.

You've convinced women that femininity is outdated and socially constructed. You've told them that it's not necessary to look pretty and healthy, not necessary to have families and children, and that only their careers matter.

So it was that the womanly men and the manly women met, and didn't know what to do.

We won't repeat your mistakes. We shake our heads at your imbecile theories, and want to be masculine men and feminine women. It may appear old-school and outdated to you, but we like it that way.

Women want to be conquered. The longing for the one who can win them over and make them his lies deep in them.

Instead of heroic knights, you send them 'good friends' and feeble cowards.

Men want to win a woman who is worth the effort and the trials they must endure, for whom the leap through the fire and the battle with the dragon are worth it.

Today, instead of the beautiful princess, only a scowling feminist or jutting manjaw awaits the hero at the end.

We've recognised the true nature of the sexes, and we want to live in harmony with it. We want to be real men and real women.

For we are generation identity.

Markus Willinger, Generation Identity: A Declaration of War Against the '68ers (2013)

le voyage dans la lune

15 June 2013

Vans California

Why We Fight


Lord Of The Manor

12 June 2013

11 June 2013

Vichy Days

10 June 2013

Eton Rugby

The Hobbit

The Outlaws

'We marched through the suburbs. Greetings and flowers were showered on us; a great many people stood in the streets and waved; and a few houses were decorated with flags. We realised that life flowed in other channels here and was on a different level of refinement--a refinement that matched ill with our rough boots and dirty hands. We knew that our desires did not extend to the things that were treasured in these places--things that were the result of years of culture--good breeding, personal freedom, pride in one's work, open-mindedness--all these were exposed to the onslaught of a greedy mob; and we were willing to defend them because we knew that their loss would be irreparable.'

Ernst von Salomon, The Outlaws (1930)

If You Really Do (Bic Runga)

German Muscle Car

06 June 2013

Ship Shapes


Reds Don't Surf !

British Falcons & Hawks Club

04 June 2013

Cali Jugend


'There are periods of decline when the pattern fades to which our inmost life must conform. When we enter upon them we sway and lose our balance. From hollow joy we sink to leaden sorrow, and past and future acquire a new charm from our sense of loss. So we wander aimlessly in the irretrievable past or in distant Utopias; but the fleeting moment we cannot grasp.'

'So I swear to myself in the future to fall alone in freedom rather than to accompany the servants on the path to triumph.'

Ernst Jünger, On The Marble Cliffs (1939)

Renaissance Combat

01 June 2013