About once a week, someone sends me an e-mail with the subject heading, “Are you dead?”

No.

As summer drew to a close, I got sick. My blog did, too. A nasty virus left by a fake commenter. With erectile dysfunction. The problem’s been fixed, though I’m sure the commenter remains flaccid. After recovering from my illness, I’ve been playing catch-up with work, trying to make ends meet. These are excuses, and they’re not very good ones. Forgive me.

This post is meant to act as an update of sorts.

Over the course of the next few months, All Plaidout’s going to receive a face lift. It will have many different incarnations as I reconstruct it to best suit my aesthetic. I will be introducing my first full-time employee. I’ll act as Editor-in-Chief, and I’ll still control Twitter and facebook. He’ll be paid, as I am, in the satisfaction of hitting the “publish” button. It’s my hope that as a blog with two contributors, it will improve as we compete with one another to post new and better stories of our discoveries on the highways of life.

Please update your links. http://allplaidout.wordpress.com is no longer.

And don’t forget: in addition to Twitter, and facebook, I have an inspiration page on tumblr where I destroy any and all belief that I have good taste – particularly in music.

Thanks for your patience while I regain my footing, make some much-needed updates and changes, and introduce new content and projects to this plaid, plaid world.

- Max Wastler

Then, I remember he’s actually a dad, and from the sound of things, a pretty great one. The other day, he called me, “Quade’s going through one of those ‘Exactly like dad things.’” He went on to break it down, head-to-toe, from bikes to button downs, the kid is his father’s son. Joe wrote a letter to Quade for Father’s Day. He was kind enough to share it here.

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Dear Quade,

It’s Fathers Day, June 20th, 2010. I’ve always be keen on the idea of capturing a moment in time and preserving it, time capsule style, to be read and shared at a later date. My dad (your Pop) was never one to bog me down with fatherly advice; rather, he let me pass through my youth learning lessons on my own. That’s not to say he didn’t help steer, but he never pushed. In keeping with that I will trust that the boy you are today is a good indication of the man you’ll be in the future. Instead, I want to tell you about who you are…who you are at THIS moment in time. I’m not sure how old you’ll be when you finally stumble across this, but I’m 33 years old as I sit here writing these thoughts to you.

You are 5 going on 6 in a few short weeks. As you met me at the door the other night, you insisted that you want your birthday party this year to be all about “rock and roll”. You meet me with something like this almost every night, and it’s by far the best part of my day. For the party you want me to build you a stage on the deck and move all of our music gear out there so you and your friends can beat and bang, strum and sing. I know already that’s exactly what we will end up doing.

Right now you are obsessed with “The Final Countdown” by Europe. Not sure how exactly it happened, but you can sing almost every lyric. You ask me almost daily to play it for you. Each play lends itself to at least 2 or 3 more demands to “…hear ‘The Final Countdown’ one more time…please?” I can’t wait for you to move to a different song, though I know I’ll miss the boys from Europe once it passes. You just LOVE music…and I love that about you. Not a day goes by that you aren’t strumming a guitar or banging a drum. If I were to wager a guess, I’d say you might have a chance to make a career of it.

You also really love baseball. You’re not the best on your team, but you hold your own out there. I think the fascination with baseball started sometime around the time you first discovered “The Sandlot.” You inscribed (scribbled) Babe Ruth on every ball that passed through your hands. Oftentimes, you’ll pretend that our chocolate lab Cash is the beast dog. He sits confused while you attempt to rescue the ball from his treacherous grasp. He has eaten the cover off many a ball, so maybe you’re not far off with your roll play. You have even asked me if our neighbor on the other side of the fence looks like James Earl Jones’ character. He doesn’t, but it’s fun to pretend he does.

You have the imagination of Jack and The Beanstalk.

You play well by yourself, but fit in easily with friends and strangers alike.

You like to talk to adults and they get a kick out what comes out of your mouth.

You ask good questions and demand good answers.

You are fascinated with the stars and all things outer space.

You are patient with your adorable, but otherwise demanding little sister.

You love to fish, to camp with your Pop, and you swear you’ll be shooting a deer with your little bow on the first day of the season this year.

You are allergic to cats, but it hasn’t deterred you from loving Mr. Kitty with all you have.

You can pop a small wheelie on your bike, stick your foot in the front tire to make the back wheel endo, and I can tell from your smile that my days of building bike ramps is fast returning.

You are tan as a berry by mid June.

You learned to swim last year and have been inseparable from the ocean ever since.

Your favorite cookie is a Snickerdoodle.

You tell me all the time you want to be just like me and that makes me the luckiest Dad in the entire world.

Love you bub.

Dad

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Max-
I have two short ones.
Use one or both (or none, your call).
Thanks for including me.

Kids.
They drive my wife crazy.
They make almost everything more difficult.
They are why we can’t have anything nice.
They test me, and I fail half the time.
They cause me to question my abilities and my intellect.
They make us wonder “Why did we do this again?”

They are why I love breakfast time and why I can’t wait to come home.

——————————————————————-

My son can’t talk.
Check that; he chooses not to.
My daughter can’t shut up.
Wait, there’s that choice thing again.

Betsy and I spend a lot of time trying to get him to speak and her to listen.
Maybe we should worry less about what we aren’t hearing from him and enjoy more of what she has to say.

- Sam Parker, Context Clothing

After returning from lunch with Unabashedly Prep’s Fred, someone in my office asked me how I felt each time I made a new friend thanks to All Plaidout. The kindred spirits that exist, that feeling of familiarity that happens in spite of having never met, it lets me know that I’m not alone. I always worry that marching to my own drum means that I’m doing something wrong. And then someone like Fred comes along, and we speak the same language, and we share a common bond — granted it may have begun as something superficial like a love of oxford cloth button downs — we quickly realize, our bond is formed in something deeper, more meaningful. After listening to Fred talk about leaving a life in banking to follow his passion for photography, I felt better about the path I’ve taken. Fred wrote the following letter to his boys, and in it offers some advice we could all use.

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Dear boys,

Today was special. I watched you sleeping as I lay next to you—like every other weekend we’re together. All too soon you will be too big for me to sleep in between you, hang on my limbs as we play “Monster”, and kiss you whenever I please. I cherish these moments.

Harrison, my firstborn, my strength. Your eyes are a mirror into my childhood—the joys, the disappointments, the adventures, the failures, the triumphs. There is this joy in your
eyes that lights up an entire room…engaging everyone around you.

Jonah, my baby, my heart. Everything I loved about your mother I experience in you. We speak an unspoken language in the hugs, wrestling matches and piggyback rides
we share. I vividly remember the day I found out I was having a second son…they told me I was having a daughter. But you arrived, and have not ceased to amaze me.

Sons, nothing you do will ever change the way I feel about you. Follow these rules when we are apart. And when we are together, make me proud.

• Take lots of pictures.
• The key to good photography is not timing. It’s editing.
• Live in New York City at some point.
• Make sure your clothes fit properly
• Spend time with your mother. She’s cooler than you think.
• Learn to tie a bow tie.
• Never side against your brother in a fight.
• Don’t be afraid to ask out the best-looking girl in the room.
• When shaking hands, grip firmly and look him in the eye.
• Always use your last name when introducing yourself.
• Surprise me at the office. Trust me, whatever I’m doing is not as important as you.

Love,
Your Daddy

After retail experiences with Estee Lauder and Abercrombie & Fitch, borne of a passion grown in the gardens of her grandmother Violet Rose Bredl, Mary Ernst McColgan started Rose Bredl Flowers & Garden. With a bent towards the organic and a rustic American aesthetic, how could I resist her shop?

While most of the antiques in store are discoveries from her travels, she admitted that a few of them were purchased from Anthropologie. “They just do such a great job.”

These tools are from England, made by a now defunct company called The French Jardiniere.

More than anything, what sets Rose Bredl apart from other boutiques, flower shops or not, is McColgan’s abilities as an editor. So often, before I walk into a store, I’m overwhelmed. Claustrophobic. Too much product, and too much of the same product. “I don’t feel like I have to show you everything I have in-stock all the time.” Her space, an old fully brick warehouse with arched windows, lends itself to this notion. She’s fortunate that in the back, in the florists’ workspace, there’s plenty of storage for stock. She’s able to demonstrate the aesthetic with a few pieces and engage the customer from there.

With a wide range of products from the home, from the pottery of Frances Palmer and Campo de’ Fiori, to the textiles and product line from Hable Construction. She even sells vintage Hunter wellies — “They changed the rubber. The new ones get all chalky” — and Blundstone boots.

“Imagine that?” I said. “It took a trip to Columbus to discover products made in my hometown.” K. Hall Designs, a line of soaps and other bath products made in St. Louis, Missouri, do quite well at this flower shop in Columbus, Ohio.

As her store continues to grow, and her foothold on the Short North is fully established, look for Mary Ernst McColgan to become a voice, not just in floral arrangements, but in rustic interior decorating. Like so many of her influences, and to use her words, she “has a really great eye.”

For more photos of my visit to Rose Bredl, visit Flickr.

Joe says “awesome” a lot.

“We should check it out after breakfast.”
“I’m in.”

Stuffed to our gullets, we returned. After months of obsessing, Joe finally picked out a pair of coaches shorts made by Bike. He bought an adjustable baseball belt for his son, Quade, and we both eyed their selection of Nokona gloves. Amid our mourning the peril of the great American-made T-Shirts of our youth, and our admiring the vintage Nike posters tacked all over the first floor, Joe got a hankering for some coaches shoes to go with his new shorts.

That’s when he asked the sales clerk, Ryne, “Hey, you got any Spot-Bilts?”

And that’s when our wrong turn may have become a right one.

“I believe we do. They’re just upstairs. What size?”
“Um, I’m about an eleven?”
“K, I’ll be right back.”
“Do you mind if we come up with ya?” Joe asked.

Sometimes, you gotta push your luck.

Ryne could’ve said “No, I’m not allowed.” He could’ve even been nice about it. He could’ve told us to shove off, but on this particular Saturday, with no one in the store, halfway up the creaky wood staircase, he said, “Yeah. Sure. Come on up.” And we did.

When Joe arrived at the top, he turned around and looked at me wide-eyed. Just beyond the door, at the top of the stairs, were rows and rows of blaze orange vintage Nike boxes.

As we rounded corner after corner, we uncovered the most insane collection of vintage athletic shoes I’ve ever seen in one place.

These shoes are so tough.

Every box. Every case. I’d open it and exclaim, “Whoa! Awesome. Joe, Joe! Look! Kangaroo leather! Cleats! Awesome!”

These red, white, and blue, leather-soled Everlast boxing shoes were stamped, “Made in the Bronx.”

Digging through box after box, we found old dolphin shorts, football half shirts, and I found a box full of umpire’s stirrups.

“Oh, when I was little, I made my grandmother sew me a pair of these the night before my first baseball game!” Joe exclaimed.
“Put ‘em on,” he said.

“You look…”
“Awesome?” I asked.
“You’ve say ‘awesome’ like nine times since you’ve been up here.”

We said “awesome” a lot that day. This place is a relic. For about two hours, we paced the warped floorboards, trying to figure out how to ask if we could help them sell this stuff.

“They have no idea what they have here,” we kept repeating between hushed exclamations of “This. Is. Awesome!”

As we’re still scratching our heads over what to do with all this stuff, and we spend hours thinking about all the sporting goods stores across the country and around the world with new, old stock collecting dust, just waiting for us to come and document them, I can do nothing but remind myself, time and again, the reward is in the journey not the destination. And as I continue to navigate this life, as circuitously as possible, as more wrong turns become right ones, I can do nothing but sit and smile at my good fortune. I think about the people, the places, the things I’ve seen, and it’s awesome to realize: I’m one lucky guy.

Special thanks to Joe Gannon for sharing his photos and for sharing in such a great time — just two guys hangin’ out in the attic of aging sporting goods store. And thank you, too, to Ryne at Nashville Sporting Goods for allowing us to spend an afternoon digging through dirty boxes of smelly old gear, having a ball in the process.

For the first time in five years, I did not spend Memorial Day dolphin diving with friends at the beach. By happenstance, each year on Memorial Day, at the surf shop pit stop, in addition to picking up a bottle of NO-AD SPF15 and a six of Bud Light, I made a tradition of buying a Sailor’s Knot bracelet, also referred to as a Nantucket Bracelet. And I’d wear the thing until it fell off, or until Labor Day reared its narsty head.

Caught, red-handed stealing cookies, The Sailor’s Knot Bandit.

Legend suggests that the bracelets were made by sailors at sea to demonstrate their knot-tying skills, and then given to their sweethearts upon return. I did ask a friend to send me a Sailor’s Knot bracelet this year, and though every year I promise myself that this will be the summer I learn how to make my own, I always manage to forget.

Growing up, the best parts of my summers in Saint Louis were spent swimming and shoving and punching the cuss out of my fellow water-weirdo, water polo jocks (Believe it or not, “The Gateway to the West” is a hotbed of star polo players). Many of my significant firsts — first kiss, first blue ribbon, first serious injury — happened at the pool. All I really need to know I learned playing Sharks & Minnows. And, yet in all those hours spent snagging my suit on the concrete deck floor of the bullpen, one of the most interesting skills I learned — besides, obviously, eggbeater kick — was how to make a mean friendship bracelet. Clipboards, deck chairs, the racerback straps of my girlfriend’s neon splatter graphic suit, anywhere I could clamp down some thread, I went to making lots and lots of totally gnarly knots. About a year ago, I toyed with the idea of combining my knowledge of knotting with my fondness for traditional men’s dress by making a series of diagonal friendship bracelets in colorways that nodded to the regimental stripes typically reserved for neckwear. I still think there’s a market for repp stripe friendship bracelets, and I would love some help making this dream a reality.

Followers of my Twitter account have noticed that I always wear a few friendship bracelets, and I tell them each carries a significant story. Once during a board room meeting, my boss referred to them, suggesting, as with my unshaven face and sockless suit, it was reflective of a generational chasm. Under normal circumstances, I would never go out of my way to buy a bracelet for myself, but upon discovering Michael Saiger’s crazy creations on Facebook, I’ve given it serious consideration.

So crazy are his creations, with their combining of the frippery of a friendship bracelet and the sturdy function of a fish hook, a monkey’s fist, or some other bit of sea paraphernalia, I kept exclaiming to myself, “Cool! So, so cool.” I’m excited by their ability to look at the same time silly and sturdy. Strong and sweet. Twee and tough. Forgive the question, but shouldn’t riding these lines, as his jewelry does, be one of life’s goals? Much like my favorite people, Mr. Saiger’s offerings don’t take themselves too seriously, they’re nice to have around for a laugh, and they are there for you in a jam (I’ve used many a knotted floss to fix a broken shoelace, as a makeshift key chain, and in one case, it kept the wheel of a rollerblade from wobbling too much until we made it home to the Craftsman toolbox. I can already imagine all the nutty stuff I’ll be fixing with his hooks).

If, like me, you love summer, like the occasional reminder of what it’s like to be a girl-crazy ten-year-old, trying, in vain, to impress the lanky, thirteen-year-old junior lifeguards, or even if you just want to have fun, colorful stuff around, Michael Saiger’s bracelets are the way to go this summer. Totes, brotes.

Special thanks to Michael Macko for alerting me to Mr. Saiger’s designs.

For more of my picks from Saiger’s current offerings, visit my Flickr account.

Dude also had some style. He could rock a graphic tee better than anybody this side of Frank Zappa.

On the cover of Pacific Ocean Blue, he’s wearing the highly under-appreciated pocket tee, sized to fit his Wayfarers.

Self-promotion was one of the keys to The Beach Boys success, and once they abandoned their trademark Beach Clown striped button downs, they were often seen wearing their own concert tees onstage.

*As an addendum, Ryan from Homage sent this image of Dennis in a Surf Ohio T-Shirt. Surf Ohio, which spoofed the California myth of surfboards, hot rods, and bikini babes, was the late-seventies brainchild of non-surfer and native Ohioan, Ron Kaplan. On my last trip to Columbus, I picked up one of Ryan’s reprints of the 1985 Olentangy River Masters Surfing Classic at a great shoe store called Sole Classics. I’ve worn it nearly every weekend since.

For more of Dennis, visit Flickr.

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I’m a mix. 50% of the Smartass my Father is and 50% of the Gentleman my Mom always wanted me to be. I say that tongue in cheek. My dad is certainly a gentleman by anyone’s standards, but he is, by all means, a smartass as well. It’s his most endearing quality, and I love it.

Mom grew up in the Midwest. Toledo, Ohio. Maumee, if you actually know Ohio. She spent her entire childhood there and is very much a Midwestern girl. She moved in with family friends for a year just to finish High School in Ohio. The rest of the family moved east to Delaware, when her father was transferred for work. Following a year later, she met Dad while attending junior college in Delaware. She was a Gillon, he a Gannon. They sat next to each other. Now well-adapted to coastal life, most assume she’s a native Delawarean.

Growing up, she’d leave me at a friend’s house with a single phrase, “Joseph, be a Gentleman.” No matter the situation, I was to be a Gentleman. I can remember not knowing what it meant to be a gentleman, but I assumed it meant not being a smartass, saying please and thank you, and putting my napkin in my lap. I think the best thing about her tutelage was that she never instructed me on what exactly it meant to be a gentleman. She let me figure that out on my own.

Mom was an English teacher for more than 25 years. She encouraged me to read the classics and I did my part to ignore that advice. I have worked hard to make up for it ever since. She was successful at impressing upon me the importance of being a well-spoken, competent writer, my grammar corrected at every turn. Term papers were edited by my toughest critic before they even made it to the classroom. I remember a time when mom drove me to a lady’s house to learn origami for a paper in fourth grade. I’d planned to copy what I found in the encyclopedia. She had other plans. She wanted me to experience the topic for myself, to develop my own thoughts on the subject. I can’t thank her enough for her guidance. I’m realizing, only as I crest 33, that while dad may have taught me how to start a fire, mom instilled in me the desire to assign it a series of alliterative adjectives — father feeds the fluorescent flowers of the flame with their fierce heat and ferocious flash. All Gentlemanlike.