Following our recent two-event marriage ceremony, the first at a local religious establishment and the other at a beach resort, my new bride and I are off on a honeymoon to the Seychelles, Tanzania, and France for the month of August. 
It is with a modicum of penitence that I announce the number of posts here will start to diminish over the next several weeks. The summer season is proving more energetic than I anticipated. There are other responsibilities demanding attention, such as going to the beach, dining out, renovating the home, surfing, Arabic lessons, and managing new real estate investments. In this kind of market, with fear and panic infecting investors' decision-making processes, the best one can do is wait it out. Preferably in sunny climes. My trad crew and I will be in East Africa and Europe for most of the month of August. I will of course submit new posts now and then, schedules permitting. If you find yourself in the area, do drop me a line. Enjoy the summer.
How often do you polish your brogues? I break out the shoe maintenance kit probably every 6 weeks or so. And this is only for the shoes I wear on a regular basis. Half brogues, full brogues, and tassel loafers. For the others, I provide an occasional wipe with a moist cloth. Only rarely do I apply a moisturiser treatment, to keep the leather strong and supple. Like watering the garden or washing the motor car, shining my brogues is a pleasant activity. I tend to lose myself in fanciful reminiscences. Casual observers may surmise that I am simply admiring the figure of my Asian neighbour's 18-year old daughter, but in reality I am reflecting on my role in the larger scheme of things, philosophically-speaking. In this way we can say that maintaining my brogues to a professional standard is the path to an empyrean consciousness. And that is a good thing, no?
A close-up of my favourite suit, a single-breasted, two-button navy chalk stripe number by Southwick. As you know, I have a thing for Southwick. This is the undarted Plymouth model. I acquired it more than ten years ago at Van Driver, a men's store in Greenwich that sadly is now closed. It is too heavy for all but the coldest months in Southern California. I pair it with shirts with spread collar, foulard ties, and black half brogues or tassel loafers. Deservedly or not, this is the standard by which I measure the other items in my collection.
On these gloomy mornings, when a spot of colour is required, I turn to madras. Pride of place in my portfolio belongs to a pair of Berle flat-front shorts. Easily the most comfortable shorts I own. The rare candid photograph (above) depicts the madras shorts, a pink Brooks Brothers slim-fit OCBD, and a battered pair of Sperry Topsiders. I don't know about you, but I typically do not tuck in my shirt whilst wearing madras shorts; in fact I usually just don a white polo. The weather today should clear up well before lunch time, at which point I should be somewhere in downtown Laguna Beach, FT and G&T in hand, watching the tourists. If you happen to be in the area, do join me for a drink and we can discuss the important matters of the day. Suffice it to say, I do not have any client meetings today.
A photo of a black and white houndstooth Southwick sport jacket from Culwell & Son. I acquired it during a visit to Dallas in 1996 to see a girlfriend studying at the Cox School of Business at Southern Methodist University. The jacket was one of two significant souvenirs from that trip, the other being a wrecked heart that has long since mended. Young love can be capricious and so my affections quickly moved on, yet the jacket remains. Even today, I can not part with it. I wear it rarely, to be frank, and only rediscovered it last year lurking at the back of my closet like a red-headed stepchild. But when I do, I pair it with a white dress shirt, charcoal flannels, and black Alden tassel loafers. I realise this is an unimaginative look, so I am open to suggestions.
In the course of my wanderings around Southern Africa in the late '90s, I met a young man who lived with his family at the foot of the Soutpansberg mountains in the Transvaal in South Africa. Jannie was 21, with long blonde hair, and managed the family farm. Discovering I was from London, he said he wanted to immigrate there for work. He grew up on his uncle's farm. His uncle was an eccentric who liked to hide in the bushes and take pot shots at the black farm workers with a homemade slingshot. The family kept as a pet a tame warthog which they had raised from a piglet. The warthog behaved just like a dog, chewing on an old tire hanging from a tree and swinging from it by its teeth. It also chased cars, the sound of which would cause it to run clickety-clack into the kitchen, its little hooves invariably slipping out from under it as it slid on its back across the smooth wooden floor. It was eventually run over by one of the big 18-wheeler trucks rolling north towards Zimbabwe.
"The average age for a man in the Bronze Age was eighteen. In the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty, he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live."
A snaphot of Gerolf Annemans, an officer of the Vlaams Belang party in Belgium, wearing a bow tie, checked shirt, and navy blazer. Unlike Mr. Annemanns, I am not partial to bow ties; indeed I have been specifically requested not to wear one. Exhibiting a bow tie, one could argue, can be construed as a controversial, even radical, act in today's sartorial environment. However, it is images such as this one that cause me to reconsider.
Whenever I hear the phrase light in the loafers, I can only assume the speaker is referring to my Gucci snaffle-bit loafers. These shoes are a true friend. I have been wearing Gucci loafers in one form or another since I was a very young man. 
The English writer Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) was a devotee of OCBD shirts, which numerous photos can verify. I include just two here, including one featuring him in an OCBD and tick-weave jacket with a 3/2 roll. The other shows him in a white OCBD and boat shoes. A masterful writer and engaging character, he is missed.
Pink is my signature colour. If you consult my family and associates, you will discover I am known for my pink shirts. Brooks Brothers OCBDs, to be exact. I own three in the non-non-iron, slim fit style. In certain circles, these shirts are a veritable icon. For me, they are like a second skin. 
In my closet, pink is not limited to just shirts. I occasionally don a well-worn pair of pink twill shorts from Vineyard Vines. And should you rummage round my wardrobe, you will uncover a pair of pink cashmere socks from Paul Stuart. In addition, I will admit, I also have two pairs of pink boxer shorts, whose colour is a result of a laundry mishap. 
As you know, when the summer season finally arrives, I greet it like a happy puppy. And that means going sockless. Warm weather is a perfect time to de-accessorise. I often can be spotted this time of year going bareback in a pair of horsebit loafers, tassel loafers, Weejuns, or boat shoes. Of course, my feet sometimes attract looks from passersby, but I like to imagine they are admiring my tanned and shapely ankles.
Just recently, during an outing to a neighbourhood dining establishment, I went sockless whilst wearing a pair of black Gucci horsebit loafers and charcoal worsted trousers. I concede, maybe this was a step too far, as my dining companion vigorously chided me over the ommission. But, I simply can not help it. When I slide my naked foot inside a warm loafer, the sensation of leather on skin heats my blood and invokes memories of ivory sands and azure seas.
"You all know the wild grief that besets us when we remember times of happiness. How far beyond recall they are, and we are severed from them by something more pitiless than leagues and miles. In the afterlight, too, the images stand out more enticing than before; we think of them as we do of the body of a dead loved one who rests deep in the earth, and who now in his enhanced and spiritual splendour is like a mirage of the desert before which we must tremble. And constantly in our thirst-haunted dreams we grope for the past in its every detail, in its every line and fold. Then it cannot but seem to us as if we had not had our fill of love and life; yet no regret brings back what has been let slip. Would that this mood might be a lesson to us for each moment of our happiness.
A brief tribute to Ian Fleming, in his centenary year. As a schoolboy I developed an imperishable curiosity about him. I spent hours perusing Fleming first editions in the book shops off Tottenham Court Road in London. I devoted one summer to reading every Bond novel and Fleming biography I could lay my hands on. The Hollywood glitter of the Bond movie franchise failed to impress me.
Fleming was noted for his dark blue suits and bow ties. He was one of those men who settles on one style and sticks with it. On his estate in Jamaica, he wore unusual belted shirt affairs. My favourite Fleming photos show him in Jamaica wearing a plaid shirt and khaki shorts. Of course, for me, it was not his clothing but his life that inspired.
