The Last Waltz

These old love letters
Well, I just can’t keep
‘Cause like the gambler says
Read ‘em and weep

WW

Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Hook Vent Spotted! (I’m a creep)

You’ll have to forgive my clandestine photography, as I couldn’t help myself. It’s not every day I see a sack jacket in downtown Manhattan, unless I’ve caught my reflection in a store window. But I saw one yesterday on 14th street. It was the hook vent that initially caught my eye.

No pictures from the front. Not seen are the pinpoint button-down and kelly green sweater. I would guess the jacket is a J Press from recent years, on account of the too-voluminous shoulders. Or it could just be the old man slouch giving that effect.

It’s not that sacks are so uncommon in Manhattan. It’s just rare to see them downtown. I’ve always maintained that Manhattan is ironically one of the most provincial cities you can find. Each neighborhood is like a little burg, blissfully unaware of goings-on just a few blocks away. If you hang around the Frick long enough, you’ll see at least a few older guys in sacks and cordovan penny or tassel loafers. But downtown he’s a rara avis.

Thoughts While Driving Home

Was I clever enough?
Was I charming?
Did I make at least one good pun?
Was I disconcerting? Disarming?
Was I wise? Was I wan? Was I fun?
Did I answer that girl with white shoulders
Correctly, or should I have said
(Engagingly), “Kierkegaard smolders,
But Eliot’s ashes are dead”?
And did I, while being a smarty,
Yet some wry reserve slyly keep,
So they murmured, when I’d left the part,
“He’s deep. He’s deep. He’s deep”?

- John Updike

I remember reading this poem in school. It wasn’t in an anthology, but in a friend’s yearbook page. I loved it then and wrote it on a scrap of notebook paper and carried it folded in my wallet for a while. It still seems clever.

Chip and Putt

I’m not a golfer. Never even played a round at a real golf course. But I do like going with a few friends to a par 3 chip and putt style course when the weather and our schedules allow it. It’s 9 holes, all modeled after famous holes  at courses like Sawgrass and Augusta.

Step 1: Hide cheap beer and ice in golf bag. My friend shows how it’s done.

Step 2: Attempt to golf and drink beer. Technically, there is no drinking allowed. But everyone cracks open cans after the first hole. Thin Coors Light cans fit perfectly in the pocket of my BB oxford shirt.

I don’t have any golf shoes.

Golf is a mildly frustrating game if you’re not good at it. Probably even more frustrating if you are good at it. I fall into the first category. But then you get one beautiful drive and you concede that it is all worthwhile and can’t wait for your next round.

My Favorite Polo RIP

Years ago Brooks Brothers created what I consider to be the ne plus ultra polo shirt. This navy polo shirt was a summer staple during my teenage years. Now it is beyond being simply patinated and for the past few years has rested in a forgotten drawer of an old dresser that holds clothing that I once loved but have reached a sorry state of decrepitude. Why can’t we part with these articles that have passed their prime?

Say what you will about colorfastness, but nothing compares to a salt and sun-faded navy blue.

All of my older American-made Brooks polos have developed the same hole at the corner of the placket.

Hard to read the label, but it’s an XL. From a combination of modern vanity sizing and runs through the wash, this fits like a medium compared to current BB offerings and is much more fitted through the body.

Oh, sorry decay!

Even the back of the collar has given up the ghost.

Why save it? It’s highly irrational. Maybe I’m too sentimental. But when I see the shirt, I’m reminded of warm teenage summers at the beach and on the boat, driving around with newly-licensed friends in cars none of us deserved, trying different booze for the first time, girls. What memories a tattered shirt can bring back.

I think Dr. Lecter put it best: “[O]ur scars have the power to remind us that the past was real.”

Face Palm

Just came across this title at the local library.

Are You Missing the Real Estate Boom? The Boom Will Not Bust and Why Property Values Will Continue to Climb Through the End of the Decade- And How to Profit From Them (2005) by David Lereah.

Still available!

No word on a sequel.