I couldn't stay away from this one. Knowing I'm only adding to the throng, I'll keep this expeditious:
Never Can Say Goodbye - The Jackson 5
Stevie Wonder's Innervisions and
Sheila Morey's High School Apartment for Pregnant Teens
Sometimes, unfortunately, with genius, come shenanigans.
Sometimes, unfortunately, you never fully realize how significant something or someone was
until you feel compelled to pay tribute.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
What The Hey
I can honestly say I did not know the aversion toward short sleeve shirts was so widespread.
(see the question and answer forum at www.uncrate.com). For me, a cool shirt is a cool shirt short sleeve or otherwise.
But there is also the matter of comfort. I know this sounds unsavory, but in the Summer, I sweat like peeg (thanks Pop) so I need all the breaks I can get.
That's not to say there aren't dweeb-like shirts out there ( I don't own one). The trick here is, don't buy one. For starters try a lightweight, jersey knit polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, Lacoste or J.Crew www.jcrew.com that are denim/chino/office and party friendly.
But at the end of the day, aesthetically, long sleeves rolled up just past the elbow is a much hipper look. You have that "gettin' my hands dirty" kinda vibe and oh boy, do the chicks dig that.
(see the question and answer forum at www.uncrate.com). For me, a cool shirt is a cool shirt short sleeve or otherwise.
But there is also the matter of comfort. I know this sounds unsavory, but in the Summer, I sweat like peeg (thanks Pop) so I need all the breaks I can get.
That's not to say there aren't dweeb-like shirts out there ( I don't own one). The trick here is, don't buy one. For starters try a lightweight, jersey knit polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, Lacoste or J.Crew www.jcrew.com that are denim/chino/office and party friendly.
But at the end of the day, aesthetically, long sleeves rolled up just past the elbow is a much hipper look. You have that "gettin' my hands dirty" kinda vibe and oh boy, do the chicks dig that.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Passion Pit
Imagine climbing on a horse and somebody slaps its ass and you're just hauling non-stop through the woods, down a trail and your heart is shooting out your mouth.
To me, that's often what passion feels like. I wish I could bottle it and put it away for a while.
Passion has not always served me well. Sometimes with passion, come blinders.
These days I earnestly throw in a dash or two of practical or more to taste just to help keep my head out of the sand and my eyes open wide.
Don't get me wrong, passion can be a great thing. You just need to figure out how to pull the reigns back to keep from moving so fast in one direction. Stop altogether if you need to, get off, sit down and think it through.
To me, that's often what passion feels like. I wish I could bottle it and put it away for a while.
Passion has not always served me well. Sometimes with passion, come blinders.
These days I earnestly throw in a dash or two of practical or more to taste just to help keep my head out of the sand and my eyes open wide.
Don't get me wrong, passion can be a great thing. You just need to figure out how to pull the reigns back to keep from moving so fast in one direction. Stop altogether if you need to, get off, sit down and think it through.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Alfred (1911-2000)
It took longer than it should have to hit me that my inclinations and curiosity toward "style" were things I picked up from my Dad.
"Aw Crap", undoubtedly were the words uttered from this 40 year old man when the news broke of my Mother's pregnancy ( this being the late 50's, it's a good bet empathy and nurturing did not play a large part in the cultural fabric). But like somebody once said; "Everybody's gotta be somewhere".
But one tidbit I did pick up on was that my Dad liked to shop-for clothes-a lot. Glen plaid jackets for him, Pendleton suits for Mom and sweaters for me...lots of sweaters.
In 1969, the Age of Aquarius pretty much put the ky-bosh on my sweater clad class pictures but my Dad's sideburns extended by increments.
By 1975, I'd taken casual dress to the extreme and my Dad, he retired, out of his suits and into
L.L. Bean.
Thank you for allowing me this brief homage to my Dad. He'll be popping in from time to time.
To My Dad I say: "Hey Bub"
"Aw Crap", undoubtedly were the words uttered from this 40 year old man when the news broke of my Mother's pregnancy ( this being the late 50's, it's a good bet empathy and nurturing did not play a large part in the cultural fabric). But like somebody once said; "Everybody's gotta be somewhere".
But one tidbit I did pick up on was that my Dad liked to shop-for clothes-a lot. Glen plaid jackets for him, Pendleton suits for Mom and sweaters for me...lots of sweaters.
In 1969, the Age of Aquarius pretty much put the ky-bosh on my sweater clad class pictures but my Dad's sideburns extended by increments.
By 1975, I'd taken casual dress to the extreme and my Dad, he retired, out of his suits and into
L.L. Bean.
Thank you for allowing me this brief homage to my Dad. He'll be popping in from time to time.
To My Dad I say: "Hey Bub"
bandwagon
I've toiled for the last several days trying to come up with my own special take on plaid.
Hoping for something A) prophetic or at least B) innovative, only to come up with C) redundant
and finally D) moronic.
But for those of you who have caught yourselves, however fleetingly, asking what lie ahead?
Well, more plaid. That's okay with me. I'm rather enjoying this plaid/check cycle we're in. I was as sick of stripes as I am cargo pants. Their like the "Bush Years", no matter how much time goes by, they'll never go away.
Anyhoo, I'm anxious to see designers continue to put their spin on vintage classics like tartan and
madras (see: gitmanvintage.com).
For my taste though, even if just for the sake of convenience, J. Crew is as dialed in as anyone. The key here is nuance. The smaller the plaid and the smaller the check, the cooler the detail. And for my money, their $59 Secret Wash Shirts rival some of the best out there.
Hoping for something A) prophetic or at least B) innovative, only to come up with C) redundant
and finally D) moronic.
But for those of you who have caught yourselves, however fleetingly, asking what lie ahead?
Well, more plaid. That's okay with me. I'm rather enjoying this plaid/check cycle we're in. I was as sick of stripes as I am cargo pants. Their like the "Bush Years", no matter how much time goes by, they'll never go away.
Anyhoo, I'm anxious to see designers continue to put their spin on vintage classics like tartan and
madras (see: gitmanvintage.com).
For my taste though, even if just for the sake of convenience, J. Crew is as dialed in as anyone. The key here is nuance. The smaller the plaid and the smaller the check, the cooler the detail. And for my money, their $59 Secret Wash Shirts rival some of the best out there.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
For The Love of Bob
I don't think I'd be vilified by anyone by saying Bob Stinson was often an accident waiting to happen. I think he enjoyed life that way, always straddling the blade. I witnessed this the same evening I was reduced to a dude.
Bob was no where in sight and hadn't been for hours so the remainder of the 'Mats went on as a 3 piece.
A few songs in and still no Bob, Paul Westerberg shouts out "Any guitar players out there"?
My buddy and band mate Jack runs, well, walks with purpose backstage and straps on his guitar.
Paul waves him on as they rip into Color Me Impressed.
A short time later maybe an hour into the set, who's stumbling down one of the main aisles of the theater towards the stage? Bob hoists himself up as Tommy and Paul take copious swigs and welcome Bob with a Heineken shower.
For all the chaos that seemed to surround him, I have a hunch he had a pretty big heart.
Here's to ya!
checkout: theskyway.com or colormeimpressed.com
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Hey Dude
The term dude hasn't always had warm connotations.
In 7th grade I was an attention stealing, trouble making smart ass. I remember being outdoors in the schoolyard when news quickly spread of the new kid. It was 1970 and the looks at the time were handkerchieves around the neck, bright floral print shirts, Nehru collars and a haircut called the Princeton; kind of a conventional Beatles mop.
The new kid, has thick, dark red hair combed straight back and full-on mutton chops. Again this was 7th grade and I was still adding mascara to the fuzz on my upper lip. And to top it off, his name was Rex. Who names their kid Rex? He was not of this world.
So I made it a point to be first in line to give Rex the Fremont Junior High Welcome.
"Hey Dude"...no response..."Hey, Dude"! In one quick move, Rex grabbed the front of my shirt and threw me back against the wall. He was so close to me I could count his freckles.
"I AIN'T NO DUDE"!
Fast forward to 1986 and we're milling around backstage in Ann Arbor's Michigan Theater. We were the opener on a 3 band bill with the Replacements.
We'd been there since 1 o'clock in the afternoon just so we could hang out because, well, it's the Replacements.
It was sometime after 8 and I was adorned in full cowpunk regalia; tight, black Big John jeans tucked into knee high, black cowboy boots, a sleeveless Rockmount western shirt and bolo tie when the stage manager finds us. "10 MINUTES" he barked.
As we make our way down the hall and to the stairs that lead up to the stage, I see someone walking toward us from the other end. As he gets closer I notice it's Tommy Stinson. He kind of saunters by and looks me up and down a bit and drawls, "Hey Dude".
In 7th grade I was an attention stealing, trouble making smart ass. I remember being outdoors in the schoolyard when news quickly spread of the new kid. It was 1970 and the looks at the time were handkerchieves around the neck, bright floral print shirts, Nehru collars and a haircut called the Princeton; kind of a conventional Beatles mop.
The new kid, has thick, dark red hair combed straight back and full-on mutton chops. Again this was 7th grade and I was still adding mascara to the fuzz on my upper lip. And to top it off, his name was Rex. Who names their kid Rex? He was not of this world.
So I made it a point to be first in line to give Rex the Fremont Junior High Welcome.
"Hey Dude"...no response..."Hey, Dude"! In one quick move, Rex grabbed the front of my shirt and threw me back against the wall. He was so close to me I could count his freckles.
"I AIN'T NO DUDE"!
Fast forward to 1986 and we're milling around backstage in Ann Arbor's Michigan Theater. We were the opener on a 3 band bill with the Replacements.
We'd been there since 1 o'clock in the afternoon just so we could hang out because, well, it's the Replacements.
It was sometime after 8 and I was adorned in full cowpunk regalia; tight, black Big John jeans tucked into knee high, black cowboy boots, a sleeveless Rockmount western shirt and bolo tie when the stage manager finds us. "10 MINUTES" he barked.
As we make our way down the hall and to the stairs that lead up to the stage, I see someone walking toward us from the other end. As he gets closer I notice it's Tommy Stinson. He kind of saunters by and looks me up and down a bit and drawls, "Hey Dude".
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