In a conversation about our fathers, Chris Olberding of Gitman Bros. Vintage, shared some funny tidbits about his dad’s style. I asked him to send me an e-mail outlining the keys to his father’s style.
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My father dressed in a style that was a cross between mid-80s sportswear/workwear with a touch of post-hippie throwbacks:
* Helly Hansen Windbreaker, Patagonia Stand-Up Shorts, original New Balance, usually worn with a heavy wool sock
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Before I started this site, there were a handful of folks I looked to for inspiration. James Fox’s 10engines has an element of the personal that few others can match. He’s able to tie the actual in with the aspirational better than just about anyone, and he’s extremely knowledgeable on a number of subjects. Must be in the jeans, er genes.
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Things my father taught me: how to shake a martini (aged 7), milk a cow, drive a tractor, tie a bow tie, sharpen a carving knife, polish shoes, make an omelet (hell, how to build a hen house, raise chicks, pluck feathers, keep a ‘chicken bucket’ under the sink for food scraps, collect the eggs THEN make an omelet).
The guy named his blog The Impossible Cool. Need I say more?
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“He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”
-Clarence Budington Kelland
The salty water swirls around my back. The sun beats down on my already burnt shoulders. I’ve been in this water for close to an hour, which for a 9 year old seems like an eternity. Especially one that, for now, is mildly scared of the backbay that snakes behind Avalon, NJ. I’ve already drunk enough of the briny wash to last a lifetime.
“One more try!” yells my Dad from behind the wheel of his Boston Whaler, the boat that currently has me tethered twelve feet behind it. “You can do it…just stay focused! I’ll start off slow. Wait and let the boat pop you out of the water.”
He gives me the thumbs up and eases the throttle forward. The boat launches ahead. A wave of water engulfs me as the engine screams. I can feel my tired shoulders being pulled up. I am a human cannonball being dragged behind this vessel.
“Just remember to keep knees tucked, knees tucked until it feels like the right time.” I tell myself.
Dad’s words repeat over and over in my head. Stay focused.
Something clicks. I stand up. The old skis plane out below me.
I’m out of the water in one piece…I did it. Dad lets out a heart-felt “YEAH!” and raises his arms in the air. Nothing else in the world matters to me at this second. I am a world champion water-skier.
We cruise around the bay for a while, a huge smile across my face. Dad looks back every once and a while to make sure I didn’t fall off and float out to sea.
We eventually get back to where we started and I drop the rope, gently gliding towards the back of the boat. Once I’m back on board, shivering, Dad tells me with a smirk…
“Next year I’ll teach you how to slalom.”
He stuck to his words. Along with eventually learning to slalom, my Dad would continue to teach me hidden lessons all throughout life. The words he told me that day always lingering behind each one.
“You can do it…Stay focused.”
It’s not until later in life that you begin to realize the gifts your parents give you in your youth. This one has always stuck with me, through ups and downs, no matter the situation.
So thanks Dad.
These knees are tucked…forging ahead…staying focused.
Happy Fathers Day.
Sean
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Sullivan.
In the last few months, this guy has become a close friend. I’m forever impressed at how well-spoken he is and forever more impressed by how effortlessly well-dressed he is. Sometimes, I think they do it better in the south. Mr. Capps, he of Brooklyn by way of Nashville, makes a strong case here.
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First of all, my father will be the first to tell you as far as casual, weekend fashion, there’s not a whole lot to it besides unwavering comfort. Looking through old photographs, the items don’t really change much from the time he was my age to today. A pair of sneakers with denim or trousers topped with a knit polo. However, regarding finer dress, suiting, I learned all I know from my father. Whether it be the basics on ties or the fit of a jacket, he taught me from a very young age how to do it right. Looking back at pictures of his father, you can definitely tell it’s something that my grandfather taught him along the way. Always dressed in a narrow tie, pressed trousers, and crisp white shirt. While I don’t have the means to share a picture of my father, featured are a few photos of my grandfather in his everyday suit. The best part is that it’s damn near the same cut and look of my father’s suit with a bit more hair on top. As I grew older, found my own way, and began to try my hand at throwing on fine-tailored garments, he helped along the way but also allowed me to make some mistakes.
When it comes to life, his lessons are all centered on how to lead a happy and successful one. Hard work, a willingness to take a chance, and the notion that life is too short to take anything too seriously are three things that were instilled in me early on. Whether he and my mother realized it or not, through all my years of not knowing what the hell I was doing, those three things stuck with me. They’ve certainly played a part in where I am today, and I couldn’t give my folks enough thanks for everything.
- Brandon Capps, Drinkin’ and Dronin’
To know these guys is to love them. While I’ve yet to meet the youngest, Stenn, Shea and Raan have told me he’s the true winner of the family. That’s saying something. What I know of Raan and Shea, two-thirds of the operation that is Apolis Activism are kind, funny, long-in-the-tooth gentlemen truly of Southern California stock. They may act and sound laid back or devil-may-care, but these guys are taskmasters, with the growth of their brand to show for it. In less than five years, they’ve become players in the menswear game, and Apolis is as important a brand as anything out there. It’s with honor I let them wax for a while on their dad, Lindsay Allyn Parton.
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Our father Lindsay Allyn Parton, is a man who has passed down values of hard work, generosity, and friendship. He’s always emphasized the importance of friendship and the difference between what is important (people) and urgent (the next task). His trademark style and taste helped us to realize at an early age that there is more to dressing yourself than neon Patagonia Synchillas.
Uncertain if we will be able to match his salt-and-pepper Mafioso pompadour, but his trademark monogram cuffs and his ability to make everything look effortless are key measures of style that we hope to inherit.
KEYWORDS TO LINDSAY ALLYN PARTON’S LOOK
- continental
- timeless
- durable
- versatile: Work/Play; Day/Night
- tailored
- natural
ESSENTIALS
- a 44” regular Canali suit
- a 17” by 35” shirt from The Custom Shop Clothiers in Washington DC
- reversible Montblanc belt
- a size 10.5 suede Gucci loafer
- a Panerai Luminor watch
- some classic Persols
- puffing on an Opus X cigar
- sport: baseball, football, golf, skiing, surfing, tennis
- authors (historical fiction, biography): James Michener, Saharras brothers and father, Dave McClough, Vince Floynn, Ayn Rand
- family vacations are essential
HISTORY
- b. Jan. 16 1953, Shannon Road, Campbell, California on the outskirts of San Jose, 1hr 15min South of San Francisco
- Jacqueline Parton and Stan Parton
- football accident: 15 yrs old, compound dislocation of tibia and fibula, never healed correctly
- in college played baseball, tennis
- 1975, Graduated from Westmont University, Santa Barbara, School of Economics & Business
- personal travel before raising a family: Europe, Mexico, 6 months Middle East / Europe
- Started in a building materials business, Duncan’s Home and Garden Center, role: General Manager
- Parton and Edwards Construction (1982), specializing in custom residential construction and evolving into commercial and institutional construction (1985-on)
- Wed Dec. 15, 1979 to Laura Lee Coulson, happily married for 30 years
- Three Sons: Raan Davis Parton (1981), Shea Michael Parton (1984), Stenn Garrett Parton (1986), Chuparosa Drive, Santa Barbara, California
- Raan, Shea, and Stenn, Apolis Activism
Thanks to early supporters of this blog, Miss Porter and Miss Hollister Hovey, I met Mr. David Coggins of Art in America and Interview Magazine and the blogs Definitive Beards and Exit Lines at speakeasy, Milk & Honey. Since then, I’ve leant on him for advice, many an opinion, and an edit here or there. He has always been very gracious with his time and his talents, and here again, he provides as only he can.
I’ve done my best to represent what was sent as it was sent. Mr. Coggins uses a typewriter, and I imagine he’s formatted Word to best estimate its look and feel. If you click on the image below, you can read what he wrote in its fullest splendor.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Filmmaker and blogger extraordinaire, Jake Davis is attuned to an aesthetic so similar to my own, its remarkable how often I visit his site and think, “Oh, man! Beat me to it.” He’s a hero, hammering out the hits time and again, and he does such a good job of explaining style — something I struggle with daily. I’m so honored to have his words grace the pages of all plaidout.
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I think more than anything my father gave me a level of taste. And as I’ve gotten older and have met a wide range of people from the cool street kid to the uber-celebrity you learn that taste has nothing to do with money. There’s an inherent taste level in all things. And there’s a value in that… Not a price tag but a value.
My father taught me to share that taste with the people. Now, there was never a sit down lesson. It’s just the way he is. So I feel with my music videos, commercials, and films there’s a certain taste level that I try to achieve. It’s not something you can put your finger on. It’s just there. And when I haven’t achieved it. He’s the first person to let me know. Tough love and shit.
There’s an endless influence when you have someone so willing to share themselves with you like that. But if I had to give one example of the lessons he taught me that have had the most resonance it’s the times where he provided me the opportunity to be the person I wanted to be, but always let me know there’s an origin to everything.
“Jake, that Beastie Boys record you love so much samples this Beatles album. And the Beatles were influenced by this album. Check it out.” He was never a hater like most older people are for the new shit. He always made it a point to understand the new shit and provide the necessary information to me to make tasteful decisions.
If at age six he hadn’t bought me that first Public Enemy cassette, gotten my pants tapered and hemmed, and introduced me to David Lynch films I’d be a completely different person. That’s for sure. I was able to understand what I like at a very early age. And for that I will be eternally grateful because some people spend their whole lives trying to figure it out.
So instead of a picture of the old man and me. How about a typical lesson. Here’s a still from my new video for U.S. Royalty featuring my friend lead singer John Thornley. And here is the origin… Martin Sheen as Kit in Badlands. Always do your homework just not necessarily at home.
While on my tours of L.L. Bean and Quoddy Moccasin in Maine this March, Mr. Jay Carroll of Rogues Gallery was sending me text messages from afar. In the midst of preparing last month’s pop-up shop, One Trip Pass, a veritable, vintage dreamland stocked to the brim with his finds from a road trip through the American Southwest, Jay would send me text messages something along the lines of, “Two Lights Lobster Roll. Do it” and “Fore St. or Die.” Whether its his love of food, music, movies, or clothing, Jay Carroll is a kindred spirit, and it’s with great pleasure I share the latest in our epic correspondence.
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Here’s my old man on Cannery Row, 1969. I think I found/noticed this picture when I was about 13, right after my dad had shoved On the Road in my face and subsequently sparked a “my dad is cool again” phase. I remember immediately scouring his closet for that shirt. It was a waffle weave thermal henley.
I still have it somewhere, but I could never pull it off like he did.
- Jay Carroll, Rogues Gallery, PTLDME
Aaron Britt helms The Pocket Square, a weekly column in The San Francisco Chronicle, and he toils away day-to-day as an editor at Dwell Magazine. Suffice to say, he is one of my favorite writers. As you read about his father, Dan, you’ll soon see why.
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If we accept the notion, and teams of advertisers are hoping we do, that our clothes are some direct representation of who we are, then my father is a man unfettered. Bolo ties, multi-hued batiked shorts, a plumed fedora, and of late, even a warm, woolen beret have found their way into his wardrobe. He runs around the Northern California town in which I grew up in clothes I would never wear, stalking the garden in Keens, a tasseled fleece jester hat flapping behind him while snowboarding, the suspenders and 20s-inspired garb he sported at his wedding two years ago.
He didn’t always dress with such abandon, and in the main he still doesn’t. Most of his clothes are those of a small-town carpenter: work boots, dirty jeans, fleece jackets and t-shirts bearing his company’s logo. Growing up, working clothes defined my father’s style of dress—not the work wear now so voraciously embraced by the urban fashion set, work clothes in which you paint a house or set forms, work clothes you mar, then quickly destroy. Anything that was initially to be kept apart from the jobsite—corduroy pants or button-down shirt—invariably came home with flecks of dried concrete or marked with spray paint. He seemed to me a man largely defined by his work, and was at times reluctant to extend beyond that, and he dressed accordingly. Fashion was not his concern. He kept his head down. Little suggested an inconsequential person more than undue flash.
But since my parents’ divorce nearly ten years ago, this inward man has expanded. Suddenly free to break from old routines, root out what was inessential and honestly reckon with what he wanted from the rest of his life, the burdens of a long marriage a glimpse of what might lay in store invigorated him. Bouts of sullenness, or ill-temper, things that I had taken to be essential elements of his personality were revealed as little more than entrenched habit, and were cast off. He became lighter, more open, more accepting and more fun. He had always been a very kind, generous and loving father, and I saw these qualities, those which I take to be his core, renewed. Like many things in his life, his sense of style was in for renaissance.
Now let me reiterate, I’m not terribly sanguine with all his choices, but to see him embrace so many new aspects of his life has been a joy for me. From his wild hats to his Jack Nicholson glasses to his bright yellow shirts, dressing is now one of his pleasures. He’s given himself license to play, to dress for pleasure, and for all the snappy patter in the media about what’s in, what’s out and what’s next, let us–men who give it a second thought when we put on our clothes in the morning–never forget to dress for the sheer fun of it. Perish vanity, perish self-consciousness, perish trends.
For years my dad didn’t allow himself to dress for any reason save keeping out the cold. But of late his whole outlook has changed, and though he remains uninterested in what’s cool, what’s in, he has started asking himself, “What do I like?” In dressing to please only himself, in coming to see his clothes at as another avenue for expression and delight, my father has immensely pleased me. May I one day pass on that idea, that a man can do a thing to please himself without becoming inauthentic or solipsistic, to a son of my own.
I had the good fortune to meet the Bray Brothers of Billykirk recently, and I found their candor, their honesty so refreshing. Two nicer guys you’ll never meet. Billykirk offers a well-curated, well-crafted collection of new twists on classic, rugged men’s accessories that truly are things of beauty. Fashioned of leather and canvas, many of the products are made by a family of leather workers in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. When I told them of my little Father’s Day project, they both jumped at the opportunity to take time to write about their dad, Tom.
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My father, Tom Bray, is a pretty traditional Lands’ End, LL Bean, Bass Weejun type of guy. In the middle class suburbs of Minnesota where I grew up, this was the standard attire. My father was a medical sales rep for 3M for 35 years, and wearing a suit was part of the deal. He used to coach my brother Kirk and my baseball and soccer teams and he would come straight from work in his tan or navy suit trousers and white or chambray Lands’ End button down. He spent $1000’s with Lands’ End throughout the 80s and 90s. He is now retired and spends most of his time in Russell sweatshirts, Nikes and Levi’s.
While we may not have necessarily shared the same fashion tastes, my father was always well groomed and polished. That is the main fashion-related thing I gleaned from him. I remember nearly every night before dinner he would take out his shoe shine kit and clean and polish his loafers for the next day. He was not a lace-up dress shoe guy and I honestly doubt he owned a pair. Tassels or penny loafers. Period. I got my first pair of ‘adult like’ dress shoes when I was around 12. They were stiff-as-boards Bass Weejun penny loafers just like my father’s. I still remember how sore my feet where when I wore them for the first time. I also remember when he taught me how to polish and clean them. He also ironed his own dress shirts each morning. That was another important learning lesson. I remember all the dry cleaners he went through like water. None of them could do it right and all of them broke buttons or over-starched them. So, each morning, there he was in the living room wearing his v-neck, white briefs, and dress socks ironing away.
While my father may not have had any sort of allegiance to a dry cleaner, he did when it came to his barber. His good friend Greg cut and styled his hair every three weeks for over twenty-five years. The style remained essentially the same, though it was a bit bushier in the early 80’s. Sadly, Greg passed a way a few months ago.
My father was also a huge stickler for long unkempt finger nails. His profession called for clean manicured nails and to this day, when my nails get just slightly long, I can hear him telling me to, “cut your damn nails!”
I think most men would agree, when you are a kid you want to look just like your father, then, you become a teenager and want to look nothing like him, then, as the years pass by, you start to look more like him again. I am sure my father’s closet has some old Lands’ End or LL Bean relics I wouldn’t mind having. Not to mention, they were probably bought back when they were still being manufactured in the US.
- Chris Bray, Billykirk, Selectism
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I have borrowed quite a few nuggets from my dad over the years and there are quite a few I never would borrow (insert Mock T’s here), but the one that does stands out for me is all about hair and its importance. My dad’s hair hasn’t changed in over twenty-five years. He’s consistent to a fault. His hair is a modern low profile bouffant and when it’s not at its peak or when he’s fresh from the shower, he looks like a wet puppy. It is a handsome cut though and by no means gaudy. His methods for achieving his ‘do, however, were not borrowed by me. My hair is short at the moment, and besides a clean wash using Kiehl’s sport shampoo, it requires no product most days. My dad’s on the other hand; let’s just say he and the ozone are not too close. In fact, on a recent trip to visit us in Jersey City, he stumbled across his favorite hair spray at a Shoprite and proceeded to buy 8 cans. 8 cans! Apparently they stopped carrying it in Minnesota. You would think after twenty-five years it would stand on its own! My brother and I give him shit about it a lot, but he is one hell of a sport. And who am I to judge? I have had my share fair of bad haircuts over the years. Despite our difference in styling, he did teach me the importance of looking good and having good hygiene.
Happy Father’s Day, Pops!
- Kirk Bray, Billykirk, KirklandBray.com