Solitary Reveries

Twin Boots

Tweed Flat Cap

Hackett in Tassels

Ski Chic

Tweed Double-Breasted

Bolshevik Hypocrisy: Beach Edition

During the holiday season, as you can imagine, I was invited to several parties in the Newport Beach area. I'm always happy to attend these soirées and socialize with interesting people and beautiful women. It's not London or Paris, but it's something.

Some of my acquaintances live on the little islands in Newport Harbor: Newport Island, Balboa Island, Collins Island, Bay Island, Harbor Island, Lido Isle, and Linda Isle. Many of these islands are man-made, created decades ago when the harbor was dredged. As a result they sit rather low in the water. Today they are home to incredible wealth: Old Money, Hollywood celebrities, entrepreneurs, Asian investors, trust fund babies, bachelor yachtsmen, etc. You get the idea.

As you know, I'm neither impressed with nor intimidated by the rich. And I do tend to say what I think. Now, it is unfortunate that some of the residents, I've noticed, are quite extreme in their views, a few of them--all women, mind you--active in radical environmentalist circles and under the influence of global warming hysteria. When discussion turns to more controversial topics, which it invariably does--I think they can sense over time that I'm not really one of them--I respond with:

"Well ____, I suppose you'll be putting your house on the market soon".

"Why would I do that?", they reply.

"Because of rising ocean levels caused by global warming. You'll be underwater, literally. Here's my card. Let me know when you're ready to sell."

Silence. And then change of subject.

Triumph Engineering

New Yorker

New Yorker (Dita)

Tartan Tuesday

Games

I suppose it is a measure of my acute estrangement from pop-society that I had no idea an important American football game took place yesterday.

No wonder the gym was practically empty!

I already must have been asked half-a-dozen times today by complete strangers what I thought about the result, the performance of the quarter-backs, the defence, etc. WTF?! I've no idea what these proles are talking about. Nothing.

Now don't get me wrong. As you know, I'm into fitness, weight-lifting, and competition, and becoming more so. And I've been known to watch the occasional rugby match or tennis tournament. My background in rugby, squash, and rowing at prep school and university levels is documented.

But, as always, I would rather do than watch.

Professional sports are to fitness as porn is to sex.

Beard On

As you may have heard, the beard is back. (No hipster). It's a thick number in blonde, red, and brown, entirely in keeping with my Norse lineage. Beard will out. It's easy to maintain. I simply trim it every 3 weeks or so to keep the bewhiskered awesomeness in check. I have zero tolerance for badly-behaved beards. I'm consistently surprised at the attention it garners from the ladies, which can be blatant. And--as more than one observant girlfriend has remarked to me--from some of the younger smooth-cheeked chaps as well. Chalk it up to beard envy.

Exquisite Tweed

Note the lovely halibutbone Tweed pattern

On Waugh

'In 1930, he had been received into the Roman Catholic Church, and after the war married into a delightful family of that faith, the Herberts. Thenceforth, he settled down to elaborate his impersonation of a crusty old country gentleman, collecting the requisite properties, both personal and household, and occasionally appearing in London in this role. Mr. J. B. Priestley and others have complained about the impersonation on the ground that the writer has been suffocated by the elaborate superstructure it has required. This seems to me absurd for two reasons—firstly, that Mr. Waugh remains an excellent writer, probably the most accomplished today in the English language, and, secondly, that his impersonation of a country gentleman is as integral a part of his writing as was George Orwell’s equally absurd converse impersonation of a down-and-out.'

— Malcolm Muggeridge on Evelyn Waugh

Tweed & Beard

Soup of the Day

Lagartija Nick (Bauhaus)

Fooling Around

I nailed another hot married woman last night. We met up at a local hotel bar for cocktails and a chat. And then, to her room. It was a very satisfying evening.

We've met before. She's a liberal consultant from San Francisco and was in town for a big project. Every few weeks or so she comes down to OC. A spinner with a flat belly, she rates a 8-8.5/10.

Gentlemen, if you're married and your wife travels out-of-state for work, you absolutely must be concerned about her fidelity.

That is, if you give a shit.

Ocean Pacific: OP Relaunch

According to my contacts in the Southern California surfwear industry, the iconic brand Ocean Pacific (OP) is planning a relaunch with a focus on retro OP designs.

It's about bloody time!

My acquaintance with OP goes back to the early 1980s. Visiting family in Los Angeles and Orange County, I picked up loads of OP items: the famous surf polos, surf t-shirts, and corduroy shorts. It helped, of course, that I was an avid swimmer, body-boarder, and surfer.

Vans and Quiksilver were also favourites.

For years I was the only chap in my neighbourhood with this type of clothing. California surfwear was a definite novelty in New York and Connecticut at the time, and acted as a girl-magnet. It blended well with my preppy style. When later I was sent to school in England, I'm sure I was the only chap in the country to own a pair of Vans.

The world headquarters of OP are situated just down the street. Perhaps they will seek me out for consultation? I await the 'phone call.

The Dark Side

Found Out

Just recently I had luncheon with a lady friend in Newport Beach. We sat at a table in the afternoon sun watching tourists and shoppers file by.

Around my own age, she is rich, successful, and divorced with children. She is one of the only women in my circle with whom I discuss the dating scene and relationships in general. I use her as an example to test certain concepts. Sometimes I recommend a book or two. That is, after we fuck.

Over plates of pan-seared Scottish salmon she admitted she had found online an essay by a 'Manosphere' writer describing the thought processes a woman goes through when she files for divorce. It had really hit home, she told me, and made her cry. She recognised herself--and wasn't impressed. What really shocked her, she continued, was that men see this behaviour and understand it.

Gentleman Wolf

Mr. Coward

Anti-Hipster Action

Prep Kit

The Chauffeur (Duran Duran)

When I joined the firm last summer I was introduced to the team. Three of my colleagues at the time were young thirtysomething men: tall, lean, clean cut, well-groomed.

But something about all three struck me as odd. It was their mannerisms and speech that made me assume they were homosexualists. I was surprised, therefore, to discover from other sources that not only were these three young men straight, but that each had a wife and children. I was not surprised to learn, however, that each man's wife was a pushy blonde bitch.

The experience led me to think more about manliness, masculinity, and what it takes to be a real chap. As I've confided in you before, I've been told that I come across to women as a 'manly' man. I've never asked them to define what this means exactly. But I think I've an idea. For me, an important aspect of manliness is a certain reserve in speech and manner. I can not abide chatty, verbose men making exaggerated gestures. Something about it turns me off and raises my hackles.

One of the young women I'm currently banging is from the East Coast and claims all men (apart from yours truly) in California are--in her words--fruity. I don't know about this, as I've met older gents here who are quite masculine. Perhaps she is referring to the younger guys who have been raised in a feminized culture.

It would be interesting to learn how young men in other parts of the country are perceived. Additional research is required.