Old man sweaters. Cables and big collars and pipes. Something Jimmy Stewart would have slipped on for his martini after work, mid-winter, in his gorgeous Connecticut mansion. That's where my head's been the past week.
I won't say much about the swatch above, except that it's all part of the same conversation. And that it's soft and squishy and I kind of love it. My desk is full of these little cabley squares and ideas right now, and my head is full of Grampa-esque men.
(BIG switch from the porn, huh?)
On the one hand, there's Jimmy Stewart and Clark Gable ( they were pre-grampa at the time) sitting on their gorgeous 1960's era sofas with Whiskey Sours and Martinis, shawl collared cardigans buttoned smartly up. Or Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley, also wearing their cables with a pressed shirt and slacks, while dancing around the city.
Then, on the other hand, there's my actual Grandpa, who keeps shoving Fred and Clark and Jimmy aside in my thoughts.
He was awesome and hilarious, but not so much a style maven. No dancing, no martinis, and no mansion. He was a NYC cab driver from the Bronx named Irving. And he wore his cardigan in his uglychair, with a seltzer. Maybe a bowl of pickles or some chopped liver on Saltines. Same general sweater, just a little pillier and not so buttoned up. He wore it with elastic waist slacks or the bottoms from his velour track suit. (See, the glamour just disappears, doesn't it?)
Oy.! So distracting.
And all this thinking about Grandpa had me going back to the liquor cabinet, where you'll remember I have all his old booze. See that tax stamp? 1957.
I won't say much about the swatch above, except that it's all part of the same conversation. And that it's soft and squishy and I kind of love it. My desk is full of these little cabley squares and ideas right now, and my head is full of Grampa-esque men.
(BIG switch from the porn, huh?)
On the one hand, there's Jimmy Stewart and Clark Gable ( they were pre-grampa at the time) sitting on their gorgeous 1960's era sofas with Whiskey Sours and Martinis, shawl collared cardigans buttoned smartly up. Or Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley, also wearing their cables with a pressed shirt and slacks, while dancing around the city.
Then, on the other hand, there's my actual Grandpa, who keeps shoving Fred and Clark and Jimmy aside in my thoughts.
He was awesome and hilarious, but not so much a style maven. No dancing, no martinis, and no mansion. He was a NYC cab driver from the Bronx named Irving. And he wore his cardigan in his uglychair, with a seltzer. Maybe a bowl of pickles or some chopped liver on Saltines. Same general sweater, just a little pillier and not so buttoned up. He wore it with elastic waist slacks or the bottoms from his velour track suit. (See, the glamour just disappears, doesn't it?)
Oy.! So distracting.
And all this thinking about Grandpa had me going back to the liquor cabinet, where you'll remember I have all his old booze. See that tax stamp? 1957.
We mixed up some Whiskey Sours last night - a little Essence of Grandpa Irving.
He'd be happy to know that his $5 (or whatever this cost in '57) wasn't wasted.
No really, he would be.
No really, he would be.
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