A short stroll down the sleepy old alley from the sporting club sits Freemans Restaurant. Any establishment that allows me to shoulder up to an artichoke dip and a glass of Saison DuPont, donning a hand tailored suit and tie from their sutlery, just after receiving a trim and a shave in their adjoining barbershop can only be described as heavenly in my book.
Check out their recently relaunched website when you have a chance.
Screen Shot c/o Freemans
To the sounds of Metallica’s Live Shit, I sat down to a shave and trim at Freemans Sporting Club shortly after noon yesterday.
Joey, my barber, was heading to the Metallica concert that evening, and to prepare, in a scene straight out of High Fidelity, tore out the classical guitar CD we’d been listening to and enjoying, and he kicked a junk pile of metal straight into the crotch of the still slumbering Lower East Side. Clang! Oof! Enter Sandman.
While there, I learned a lot. I learned about mescaline trips in Peru, I learned about a German cannibal who’d posted a want ad on the internet and proceeded to dine on his victim… with his victim, and I learned if I shave with anything more than a Sensor Excel, I’m just destroying my skin. The entire time, I imagined my grandfather, on a similar Sunday, sitting beneath the barber pole, thumbing through a tattered stag magazine, a wood crate of warm Schlitz at his feet, listening to music my grandmother would have called “noise,” and discussing the rigors of making his granddaddy’s bathtub gin.
I’m sure he thought he was pretty cool, too.
Doused with a bouquet of Musgo Real, eucalyptus, and rose water, suffering slight whiplash from all the headbanging, I was ready to greet my day.
Hollister sent this photo of her great-grandfather and his friend “all the way up there, just chillin’ in their tweeds,” Longs Peak, 1915.
I love Longs Peak.
It was their Halloween costumes, a nod to There Will Be Blood, that first brought them to my attention. The sisters Hovey of Williamsburg, Brooklyn have curated an apartment of “taxidermy, militaria, Victorian library do-dads, [and] chesterfield couches” as Hollister laid out in a recent post on her blog.
Many have referred to her obsession with Hemingway, but The New York Times nailed it, calling her aesthetic “decaying WASP-y, Teddy Roosevelt by way of John Derian.” Hollister’s blog speaks to my tweedy, genteel, professorial nature like a sermon on the mount.
Porter, a photographer with a sharp eye for texture has the innate ability to see beauty in the everyday as can be seen in her Polaroid Project: the floor of a bathroom, the leather-covered buttons of a chesterfield, a field of lavender.
In the messy celebration of modernity, it’s nice to take a moment to appreciate a well-made classic. Please take a moment to pay respect to two of them, Hollister and Porter Hovey.
Billy Powell, rest in peace. Powell’s solo begins at 3 minutes.
Photo c/o The New York Times.
Compelled to share this photo because, it pertains to a prior post and it is virtually what I wore to work today.
This look, from the archives of Japanese clothier Nepenthes, perfectly embodies what I meant when I referred to wearing a down sweater vest with a suit jacket. By “less formal occasions,” I meant “sportier” ones.
Scott Sternberg of Band of Outsiders waxes poetic in Details Magazine‘s series “Rules of Style.” I’ve pored over the CFDA Award-winner’s musings a few times now, and my opinion has flipped back and forth so often that I assume he must be brilliant. I’ll say one thing: he’s right about airplane farts. Disgusting. See if you agree.
The half-brains, excuse me, half the brains behind J. Crew’s Tribeca Men’s Store, The Liquor Store, Andy Spade and Anthony Sperduti opened a new store on Great Jones Street this week that perfectly exemplifies my aesthetic. Partners & Spade, their shop of miscellanea curios large and small offers everything from vintage smut (look for Dude Magazine, my favorite) to a collection of toy alligators hitherto unseen. More photos available c/o Urban Daddy.
On heavy rotation in plaidland, Andrew Bird’s latest, Noble Beast, in particular “Masterswarm,” has made the dark days of winter a little brighter. And by the look of his Le Chameau boots, leather is with Mr. Bird as well.Buy Noble Beast at your local record shop. As Nick Hornby will tell you, “Record stores can’t save your life. But they can give you a better one.”
Celebrate the birthday of Jackson Pollock with a Pollock of your own.