ONCEWEREBACHELORS

Ride of a Lifetime

2012-01-20T14:53:00.008-10:00

My son and I went over to my parents for our weekly dinner together day before yesterday. As we were stepping out of my truck in the driveway of the home I grew up in, my parents’ neighbor, George, roared around the corner in a sparkling blue convertible.

Now I’d heard about this convertible. George, a wildly successful eye surgeon, had a long-standing relationship with a local luxury car dealer. In the past few years we’d seen a parade of fine automobiles roll into his house next door; Maserati, Rolls Royce, Bentley. Cars that stood out even in my parents’ already wealthy neighborhood, where Benzes, Bimmers, and Lexii were the norm. But I had turned my nose up at all of them, until today.

I had heard that George’s Bentley GT Continental was in the shoppe and they’d given him a Ferrari as a loaner. This was it, gaudily rolling up my parents’ hill.

He had obviously spotted my son and me right away. Without hesitation, he skipped the turn into his house and pulled into our driveway, the engine from Maranello howling despite its idle. Equally without hesitation I blurted “I want a ride”, not caring how forward I sounded. I had never ever been in one of these before.

“Of course, Benjie. That’s why I pulled in here!”

And so it happened that I found myself in the passenger seat of the Ferrari California, a 450 hp, retractable hardtop, V8 beauty, with my son sitting in the small backseat behind me. George was resplendent in a loden sport coat, driving mocs, black-framed Ray Ban Aviators, and a Breitling for Bentley watch. The interior was also well appointed in leather, creamy in both color and touch.

The center stack boasted an LCD monitor and no gear lever, given the shift paddles on the steering column. There were cool gauges and switches everywhere, including those on the steering wheel, which reminded one of those found on F1 cars. We roared around the neighborhood, experiencing the motivation of 8 angry cylinders as we charged up to 60 in 6 seconds. He took us to the Waialae Country Club, the site of the recent Sony Open, less than a mile away, just to drive through the porte cochere, so the smart set could catch a glimpse of us.

Not taking his Ray Ban’s off the road, he exclaimed to me over the engine bellow, “You know, Benjie, they tell me I can buy this very car for $ XXX,000.00. What do you think?” He knew me as a serious car enthusiast. I thought, “Well played Mr. Luxury Car Salesman.” Nevertheless, I strongly encouraged him to make the purchase, especially with “I’d let you drive it but I can’t; it’s a loaner” still ringing in my ears. He considered my response and visibly inched perceptibly closer to Ferrari ownership.

Clearly, George was enjoying his time with this car.

Now George is more family than neighbor and I was thrilled to see him in the context of this little episode. Thrilled. He and his family moved in next door to us 25 years ago, and their son, about 10 years younger than me, went to my prep school and then on to Notre Dame, as I had, and later enrolled in law school. Like their son was to me, George and his wife were better than a decade younger than my parents, and had clearly invested all of their best wishes for their son. Augusto was their pride and joy.

So in 2006 when Augusto passed away unexpectedly, the lives of George and his wife completely fell apart. They’ve spent the past five years trying to put it back together. Given their character, faith, and beliefs, they have most certainly succeeded in the reconstruction. But from the perception that comes from daily next-door interaction, we know that it will always be incomplete.

It was nice to see George play with this car and realistically imagine what it would be like to own what for many is the pinnacle of sports motoring. Whether he follows through with the transaction or not, I liked the idea of George considering the possibility. It was not a mood I had seen him in for years.

At one point during the short drive, George turned to my son in back. He was more engrossed in his Harry Potter book than this ride of a lifetime. “Timmy, is this car wild or tame?” George floored the pedal to punctuate the question. My son, 7 y.o. and not yet past such invidious comparisons, smartly answered “WILD!”

And there we were, two forever OnceWereBachelors, wordlessly appreciating life and what we have and what we have lost.

Bottles I've Owned

2012-01-10T13:12:00.011-10:00

When I was a bachelor, I sometimes found myself without someone to celebrate an occasion. Not so tough, that. I've had my share of alone holidays, but when you live in your home town, you're never really alone, especially when you're down with being with your family (which every man should be, by the way). But for meaningful little things, like your first not guilty jury verdict or the day you come home with Steely Dan's first new music after a 20 year recording hiatus, it's nice to have something to mark such an occasion.

I probably bought this bottle for just such a reason, although I don't remember now what it might have been. I probably opened it alone as well. Before I got married, I tended to accumulate these bottles and I have a small platoon of them in different brands and spirits now, left over from that time, emptied to different levels. I cared for them like treasured toys that would never find the Goodwill bin. They moved with me to homes bought and sold.

Mostly for no reason, I still open them and pour some into the appropriate drinking vessel. This bottle is Oban, one of many a single malt whisky I've acquired and enjoyed. A pally I cocktail with mentions the brand here and it is one of my favorites. It gets poured into a heavy rocks glass from a gal I fancy. I won't try to describe it, as my palate is not so refined. They all taste like a caramel of one sort or another to me, which is to say they all taste wonderful. When it runs out - and that may or may not be soon - I am certain to look for another of the same.

OnceWereBachelorPad Christmas

2011-12-12T15:57:00.004-10:00

I had my son and my sister's kids (collectively referred to as "the Cousins") decorate my tree this year. They are seven, seven, and five years old. There's nothing like children to bring back that joy of Christmas.

And there's nothing like a new beginning to bring back optimism. Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year.

Chevrolet: "My Dad's Car"

2011-11-28T15:54:00.007-10:00

Lately, I've been seeing the shorter version of this video aired as a Chevy commercial, especially during this season's NCAA and NFL football broadcasts. I found it compelling but assumed it was a typical dramatization. Perhaps even entirely fictional.

Today, I stumbled on the long version, and was quickly disabused of the idea that these were actors fawning over a Chevy Impala rented from a Hollywood rolling stock lot. In a variety of ways, it reminds me that I shouldn't be so cynical.

Evidently, the footage we are treated to is the actual reunification of owner and car. The owner's family knew what was going on but he was told they were doing a piece on multi-generational families. Thoughts about how Chevy was brought in for such a photo-op and how they had the good fortune to have such an eloquent extemporaneous narrator leave my mind as I wonder what I would do for the ones I love.

North Shore Beach House in the Winter

2011-11-22T15:56:00.004-10:00

"No matter how fabulous your beach house is, you still need to erect a tent on the sand." - Anonymous (2011).

Hip Scenes From the Summer

2011-10-13T13:05:00.012-10:00

We're well into our version of Fall in Honolulu. The leaves are turning, it's getting nippier, and the chimneys are starting to ... oh, who am I kidding. Climatologically speaking, nothing changes here in the tropics. But you no longer have as much free, purposeless time in the Fall. Your sense of adventure drops by a measure. The grim task of heading into the holidays seems to be thrust upon us earlier and is taken up with less gusto each year.

Sooner than one expects, one becomes nostalgic for the days of summer. Here are some of my favorite memories from 2011:

We spent a lot of time camping in tents.

Luckily, not all of them were too far into the wilderness.

I managed to photograph many great cars. Some were at local rallies:

Others I found parked:

And many I snapped on the fly in traffic:

I returned to a fantastic destination for new memories. I hope they last:

I finally got the Mid-Life Crisis safety checked and back on the road:

Saw some great scenes with my son:

In fact, I spent a lot of time watching him grow up, which, like autumn, is thrust upon me way too quickly.

Let's Roll, Kato

2011-10-10T09:56:00.010-10:00

A remake of the Green Hornet was released earlier this year, starring and written by everybody's favorite buffoon, Seth Rogen. With nothing else to do, I finally watched it recently.

The remake served up more than satisfying parts of the Kato character (I barely missed Bruce Lee) and the Black Beauty. In fact, the film (like the original TV show) is unapologetic about its fetishistic preoccupation with what was coolest about the story: the Green Hornet's martial artist manservant and his high tech arsenal on wheels. The wealthy bachelor existence was there, too, as was the absent father routine so omnipresent in superhero yarns. Rogen's script was doltish and aimless, yet I enjoyed it and will probably return to it when my tastes invariably run to the escapist and unchallenging.

I think it's already a matter of record that this OnceABachelor is himself somewhat preoccupied with a search for the times in our lives that are fun, sleek, exciting, cool, dangerous and dark, sexy, unaffected, world-wise, and preposterous, so that we can more easily bear the times when our lives are not.

"The Interceptors" - Great 70s British Detective Series That Never Existed

2011-09-20T10:21:00.005-10:00

I know next to nothing about the Jensen Interceptor that fictitiously inspired this ersatz UK actioner, starring BBC Top Gear's 3 game presenters. But I do know it was styled by Italians and "looked the business" as the Brits liked to say. That it drove like a couch is beside the point.

Miles Davis Quintet in Europe

2011-09-13T16:15:00.002-10:00

I don't like to shill, but sometimes the news just has to spread.

Non-Hipstamatic Hawaii: Waikiki Beach

2011-09-06T16:24:00.010-10:00

With the proliferation of camera equipped smartphones, we see point-and-shoot images go from uninspiring to evocative. Images processed by Instagram at The Trad or in camera through Hipstamatic here take on more character. The images that simulate vintage snaps really catch my attention, and I can no longer look at overlighted, hyper-real pictures -- which we once considered acceptable lo these past 30 years since the advent of cheap photography -- with any amount of satisfaction.

Which is why I thought I'd share a few genuine vintage shots of Honolulu that an historic architect friend of mine recently shared with me.

We have a series of images of the south shore of Oahu. Immediately below is a view looking west towards Waikiki from what is now the Outrigger Canoe Club. In the distance you see the iconic Royal Hawaiian, lovingly called "the Pink Palace".

And a closer view of the same hotel from Waikiki Beach itself. My guess is this beach fronts the Moana Surfrider.

The Royal Hawaiian, the Moana, and the Hilton Hawaiian, the lagoon and original bungalows of which are pictured below, represent some of the most venerable of Old Waikiki luxury tourist accommodations. At these resorts you can experience century old traditions such as high tea, sunset hula, and elegant dining - where, contrary to Waikiki convention, you may still be denied entry without a jacket and tie.

Today as in days past, one can find scenes like this, where tourist girls can pour out of their hotels to receive surfing or paddling lessons from the beach boys of Waikiki.

Not to be confused with the california rock n' roll group of the same name, the Waikiki beach boys have a long standing tradition which continues to this day of serving as ambassadors of beach culture to the visiting Mainland masses. Master swimmers, surfers, paddlers, and fishermen, they epitomized the idea of the Hawaiian waterman. It may sound like a frivolous existence, but on an island which derives much of its livelihood from visitors who flock to places like Waikiki, the role of the beach boy cannot be overstated.

I leave you with a final shot, decidedly un-Hipstamatic, of the legendary beach boys, from an era gone by but not forgotten.

Retrocool: Fitz & the Tantrums' "Moneygrabbers"

2011-08-26T10:48:00.003-10:00

So I just learned the term neosoul. Odd since it turns out I've been enjoying it for a while now, listening to the likes of Corrine Bailey Ray, Janelle Monae, and Mayer Hawthorne. Let's just say that anything that stands the test of time can still probably be improved upon.

Meet Fitz & the Tantrums, the hippest band you haven't heard of yet. The story goes that Michael Fitzpatrick, an L.A. musician, bought an old church organ, wheeled it home and immediately composed a song about love and loss on it. Unfamiliar musicians were introduced to each other, and like Bond inventing the Vesper at the baccarat table, a tight retro soul group was born. Here's their first single. Put on your sharkskin suit, skinny tie, and wayfarers, zip up your ankle boots and enjoy.

A Coupla Bars

2011-08-09T10:12:00.010-10:00

I'm starting to feel somewhat human again as this whole divorce thing winds down. I don't recommend it and it wasn't my idea, but there it is.

Not to steal a pal's thunder over at The Epic, where he occasionally will post Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars but ...

Recently screwing up the nerve to go back out with friends, I hit two of my favorite bars in Honolulu. The first is in Chinatown. The neighborhood has evidently experienced a renaissance in the years I was OnceABachelor and all but absent from the rosters of the bar-hopping. Wonderful martini bars and intriguing lounges have replaced the sailors' dives and pool halls of my underage. There are about a dozen great joints to go tie one on in Chinatown, which all manage to avoid the "nightclub" feel that poorly-executed spots have.

The Dragon Upstairs is a former 2nd floor tattoo parlor. It boasts nightly acoustic jazz of surprisingly authentic quality. If you're gonna drink in Chinatown, it might as well be in a room with red walls, a mural of a giant serpent -- held over from it's inking days -- guarding the entry, and oversize voodoo masks glaring at you.

Across town you will find a rotating restaurant called the Top of Waikiki. I would give their dinner menu a fair-to-middling review if I were so inclined, but their bar -- which rotates around its central pillar of premium liquors -- is something to behold, something akin to a Bond villain's lair. A Sean Connery Bond villain's lair.

A Sean Connery Bond villain's lair complete with pictogram proclaiming "The World is Not Enough". Which is NOT the attitude to take when going through a divorce.

Thirty Years

2010-12-07T21:58:00.006-10:00

In 1980, my neighbor in homeroom -- later destined to become a highly influential and long-time friend -- took a look at me one morning early in the semester and declared, "You probably don't even listen to the Beatles, do you?" Thus began a brief enchantment with the Fab Four, during which I accumulated a small collection of Beatles cassettes and consumed everything I could on their history that was available pre-Internet.

Serendipitously, it was that same year that John Lennon -- everyone's favorite Beatle, if we're honest -- decided to emerge from seclusion to release his "comeback album", Double Fantasy, adorned with a now iconic snapshot of him and Yoko Ono, sharing a tender kiss. It was one of the first vinyl LPs I bought with my own money. The single from that record was "(Just Like) Starting Over", which had the double meaning of being a return to music and also John reuniting with Yoko after what he described as an eighteen month-long lost weekend with another woman. It's a nice song, but I prefer this one.

Well, I don't know what this has to do with OnceWereBachelorhood, really. In fact probably 28 or 29 years have gone by without my giving much thought to December 8, 1980, or it's faint aftermath. You see, I moved on from the Beatles pretty quickly, to much harder stuff. In fact, if you assigned me the task of listening to British Invasion, I'd probably choose anyone else but the Beatles, nowadays.

But I won't ever forget that, at the very summit of my interest in the Beatles, on December 8, 1980, as I was sitting down to a monday night dinner with the TV on, the news reported that John Lennon was shot dead in front of his wife and within steps of his home. That was thirty years ago.

The coda to this is that my homeroom teacher, aware of our love of the Beatles at the time, sewed black arm bands for my buddy and me to wear around school. Perhaps more importantly, my father bought me a second copy of Double Fantasy, which to this day remains wrapped in it's original shrink wrap. He was always thinking of me.

Your Own Personal Batmobile

2010-12-03T14:43:00.005-10:00

The Silver Torpedo of the Nineties and the All-Terrain Urban Assault Vehicle of the Millenium notwithstanding, the Midnight Futura of the Sixties is the Batmobile for me. Now you can have one made for you by these guys here for $ 150,000.00. Small price for wish fulfillment I think. That the brushed aluminum roll-top dash and the in-car Bat-Phone are costly extras peeves me a bit.

She is a Thing of Beauty

2010-10-11T21:04:00.007-10:00

Something immediately struck me about this advertisement when it came on in the middle of my Hawaii Five-O. What may have resonated was that it features one of those fantasy Jetsons' domiciles that I love so much. The mid-century modern furniture wired with automation. In fact the title of this beer commercial is "Apartomatic". The clunky toggle-switched control box commanding the Rube Goldberg contraptions that finish off with the self-pouring beer tap are all exactly what I'd want in my place. As are the concealed fish tanks and cathode ray tube TV monitors. So retro cool. So neato.

But that wasn't really it. I couldn't yet put my finger on what it was that struck a chord with me about the commercial. I searched for it so I could post it here as some sort of Bachelor Pad Redux. Instead, I discovered that the commercial was directed by Wes Anderson, and it all made sense. You know Anderson, the auteur responsible for one of my favorite movies, Rushmore, as well as The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou and The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

What really charmed me about the Stella commercial then, was what charmed me about Anderson's best-conceived and best-received film, The Royal Tennenbaums. It is on display here in one of the Great Movie Opening Sequences, Anderson's ability to craft a complete and engrossing universe, top to bottom, soup to nuts, word and song.

It's All In the Numbers

2010-09-21T09:38:00.003-10:00

Some numbers get spelled out, others put in numerical form. Few words are needed to explain them. 7.3 liter V12 producing 750 bhp. Top speed 220 mph with 0-60 in the 3.5 second range. Thanks to a weight of about 3000 lbs. Price: $ 2,000,000.00.

Name: One-77. Aston Martin's new hypercar.

Summer 2010 Mixtape: The Ladies of U.K. Soul

2010-08-17T13:47:00.010-10:00

This weekend I'm taking my son camping on the beach. Sure, in the heat of the summer sun, we'll be cranking standards like "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Love Shack", but after the kids are asleep in their tents, you can bet that we adults will be sipping cocktails around the fire with these ladies of British Soul filling the cool salty air.

Corinne Bailey Rae is the new face on the scene. Her debut album a few years ago offered a couple of minor hits which deserve repeat listens. I believe she can be described as a singer-songwriter, as well, and the intimacy she must feel with her works adds depth to the music, I think.

I hate to describe her as an historical artifact, because by all estimations, Sade is timeless and transcendent. These songs from the Eighties certainly are. To call her a siren, a chanteuse, or a torch singer would be to minimize her sublime appeal.

Spyder-Man

2010-08-16T16:22:00.003-10:00

There has been some buzz about the 918 Spyder, Porsche's eco-friendly new roadster.

Countdown to Motion: Porsche 918 Spyder Hybrid Drives. from TangentVector on Vimeo.

Reports say it boasts a 3.8 liter hybrid V-8 with 3 electric motors producing 700 hp, capable of zero-to-sixty times in the 3 ticks range. Phew, that's fast. And it supposedly produces more fresh air than it obliterates, simultaneously shrinking the hole in the ozone, and spitting out appleseeds onto the roadside as it goes. Watching the video, I'm ready to believe.

Summer 2010 Mixtape: Cheap Trick Two-Fer

2010-08-05T09:57:00.010-10:00

What are summer nights for but whiling away the moments, hoping it never ends but knowing that inevitably it will. As endless as they may seem, no matter how much you fill them up with fun or adventure or romance or memories, there are only a finite number of them. One day, one night, it won't be summer any more and you'll have to wait for next year. Nevertheless, I'll bet they were each perfect summer moments strung together one after another.

That's how I feel about the next two songs on my Summer 2010 soundtrack. They're strung together back to back, perhaps the best one-two pairing on any record from my youth. Okay, maybe that's hyperbole. I'm sure I'm missing many others, but this one is about as perfect as they come: cuts 2 and 3 from side two of Cheap Trick's earth-shattering Live at Budokan. And when you hear Mr. Bun E. Carlos knock out that punchy double-time beat to "I Want You to Want Me", you know that in six minutes' time and with the last crashing power chords by Rick Nielsen and Tom Petersson on "Surrender", pure pop perfection will, alas, be over like summer moments.

Greatest Movie Opening Sequences: John Frankenheimer's Grand Prix

2010-08-04T13:11:00.012-10:00

It is an article of faith, universally accepted in OnceWereBachelor circles, that Steve McQueen is an icon, perhaps Icon Number One. He is one of few real people whom, as the old saw goes, men want to be and women want to be with. So it may be blasphemy not to select his legendary racing movie Le Mans for veneration in this series. But I have mentioned Mr. McQueen here and here, so I think my opinion of the man is a matter of record.

Le Mans, in fact, is a great movie and perhaps iconic in its own right. The fact that it even exists is testament to the Icon's sheer will. McQueen envisioned it as an artifice-free depiction of the great endurance race, and in watching it one can see that, despite studio involvement, the movie largely delivers that. Very little drama, very much racing - real racing. McQueen's personality, persona, and devotion to the motorsports must have been turned up to eleven, to overcome the Suits who were concerned about the marketability of such a film; one which was really an unadorned depiction of a 24 hour race going round and round, and in which its principal bankable star would do his own driving at race speeds.

So, despite not being blessed with the Greatest Movie Opening Sequence in a Movie About Racing, I present to you, the opening sequence of Le Mans, in which Icon Number One wordlessly tours the early morning roads of France in a 911T of pristine condition and provenance, prior to doing actual battle with hated Ferrari in a Porsche 917 in Gulf livery.

We now move on to the actual subject of this post, Grand Prix, starring James Garner and Eva Marie Saint, and directed by All-Timer, John Frankenheimer. This sequence is the Greatest because it is everything about the event and almost nothing about the man. It captures the details of pre-race preparation, the sliding throttle bodies, the wrenching, the vintage helmets, the roaring engines. And the goggles (we all know how much I love goggles). The lore is that Frankenheimer labored to develop a technique that would portray cars racing in a way never before seen, and I think he's succeeded. It doesn't have the mythology of Le Mans, especially as history passes judgment, but as a technical achievement in its own right, it may be more exciting, more entertaining, more complete a movie. And so, Frankenheimer serves up a better movie of lesser legend, one which begins here in Monaco, and wends its way through Formula 1 Europe circa 1966, stopping at such locales as the Belgian GP circuit, Brands Hatch, and - most dramatically - through the deadly banked turn at Monza.

And this post would not be complete, I think without a goat. And that goat is Sly Stallone and Reny Harlin's Driven, about some palooka named Joe Tanto brought back to the sport to mentor a young buck named Jimmy Bly in IndyCar racing. I would describe this as the racing movie analogue to the stripper flick Showgirls. Actually, the movie does a fair to middling job of referencing the other two movies here, but that's about as good as it gets and arguably its more rip-off than homage. So here, coming in DFL*, is its trailer, wherein much of the car racing is computer generated. Ick.

* In racing parlance, dead f**king last.

Mid-Sixties Europe

2010-07-27T19:53:00.009-10:00

I had promised to revisit my parents old pictures from Europe and here they are. Paris and Amsterdam, obviously. In 1965, Dad trained on jumbo jets with KLM and Mom visited at the tail end of his stay there. They did the Continent before returning home. Dad tells me that the red Karmann Ghia he owned while there was sold, and the guilders they got from its sale were repatriated home to pay for the home they were building in Manila.

Although my Dad's favorite European vacation is to Spain, which they still do annually, he has many fond memories of the Dutch. I think he admired their efficiency. He liked the cleanliness and the quiet way they worshipped in the Protestant churches. And I think he liked the way they dressed. Dad was on extended stay for the airline and by the time Mom got there, I think he was thoroughly Europeanized. Dig the pegged trousers, Florsheims, and Renaud sunglasses. This is how they dressed for a drive in the country in Europe at the time. The more things change, the more things change, no?

Here they are in Paris. Notice how, like everyone else there to bask in the shade of the Eiffel Tower they are dressed for tourism of a different kind than we today are accustomed to. Mom must've gone to the hairdresser every day on that trip.

I'm not going to rant about how the modern style of travel is atrocious, because it's such an uncontroversial truism that to argue the point is banal. I will also not sound a call for a return to this style of travel, simply because I wouldn't want to be walking around in a jacket and tie on vacation. Instead I invite you to appreciate a different time, a different place, and accept my representation that, at one time, before OnceWereBachelorhood had mostly buried the elan and sprezzatura of my Mom and Dad, they indulged some stylish days.

But Then Again ...

2010-07-20T10:30:00.004-10:00

But then again, if I could afford a quarter mill on a new car, I'd probably spend it -- or a tad more -- on an old car. What was that saying about things being not as good as it was, but better than it will be? Case in point, the original Mercedes Benz 300 SL Gullwing. Next to the word "icon" in the finest dictionary in the finest library in this world, you will find a picture of this automobile.

The New Gullwing

2010-07-07T17:20:00.004-10:00

I need a moment here to regain my composure.

Images taken from carscoop.blogspot.com. If you are the owner of these images and you wish to have them removed from this site, please notify me and I will be happy to comply.

Honolulu on V-J Day, August 14, 1945

2010-06-07T08:48:00.008-10:00

VJ Day, Honolulu Hawaii, August 14, 1945 from Richard Sullivan on Vimeo.

Unfortunately, I had nothing for Memorial Day, and serendipity didn't smile on me when this video found its way into my mailbox the day after the Sixth of June. Living in Hawaii the ghosts of the Pacific war haunt us just as tangibly as the Blitz does London, even to those (like me) who are generations removed. Here in Honolulu, we have the Arizona Memorial entombing those who first gave their lives in the the first morning of the conflict. Nearby is the Battleship Missouri, where the armistice was signed by MacArthur. Two icons which bookend the war with Japan. But we also have the ghosts, sometimes friendly, other times more somber, Americans all, who wandered these streets and taverns in khaki and denim before, during, and after. Some watched as others sailed off on hulking warships of grey, or happily piloted aircraft to rendezvous with flattops already out to sea, their last peaceful flight for a long time.

I now know what it looked like here in Honolulu, the day the news reported the end of the war, when these ghosts were still vital and alive, coming home or seeing loved ones coming home. I myself have never seen footage quite like this, and it deserves sharing. One of the streets is Kalakaua Avenue, the "main drag" which cuts through Waikiki, but not Kalakaua as I've ever seen it before. The only recognizable features to my practiced eye are the venerable Moana Hotel, still there today (and worth a stay for you fine hotel stalwarts), the Beach, and Diamond Head. Otherwise, it's another world. If you've ever been to Honolulu, the chances are near-perfect that you've been on this street. But, minus the two-way traffic, minus the rural, single wall cottages adjacent taverns. Minus the men in khaki and denim, and their beautiful women. Minus - regardless of what you were doing here - the level of celebration we see these ghosts enjoying.

About the video: This footage is personal to Richard Sullivan who kindly made it available for embedding on his wonderful website. The scenes were shot by his father, a veteran who evidently was blasted out of his bunk unhurt on Dec. 7, 1941. One comment to his video, I've copied here, to identify some of the landmarks. The commenter uses the handle "hebneh", and sounds like he was present as well, as he compiled the following guide.

":28 - South St. next to the Advertiser building
:38 - Kapiolani Blvd. seen from South St.
1:05 - "Parade" goes from Victoria St. onto King St. with Thomas Square in background (with military buildings in it)
1:26 - Ala Moana Blvd. with HECO plant at back left
1:28 - Kalakaua Ave. nearing Kapiolani Blvd., with Kau Kau Korner at the intersection (later Coco's, now Hard Rock Cafe)
1:40 - Moana Hotel
2:05 - Looking up at viewers on the exterior fire escape stairs of the Moana Hotel

Other than the Moana, all the other Waikiki buildings seen here are long vanished.

There were more local people on the streets that day in downtown Honolulu than in Waikiki, but they were outnumbered everywhere by the military."

Amazing stuff.

Summer 2010 Mixtape

2010-06-03T21:59:00.004-10:00

Let's find some great tunes to play outdoors, from a ghetto blaster, with friends milling about a bucket of cold ones. There will be just a slight hint of them bouncing about to the beat, some movement in the hips and shoulders, as they are absent-mindedly transported to other summers before this one.

Here's the Style Council, doing Walls Come Tumbling Down.

What's great about the mixtape, to me, is the juxtaposition of songs. Preferably, place two songs that have never been adjacent each other, before. Too "on the nose" a pairing, and you're predictable. Of course, too different (say Kurt Cobain and Tony Bennett), and they ... well ... they clash. I'm going to try this one, Rock the Casbah.

That's part of my recipe for a great Summer Mixtape. Tune in again for more.

Skinny Skinny Fat

2010-05-30T06:56:00.008-10:00

A buddy at another blog got me a'thinkin' about Elvis and his Hawaii connection. The King always loved the islands, and for that we here will always have a special place for him in our hearts. My favorite Elvis movie is Blue Hawaii (which beat out Paradise Hawaiian Style, about a helicopter pilot being a bachelor on Kauai, by a country mile, as well as Girls, Girls, Girls, which I've never seen). There's so much that this movie gets WRONG about Honolulu, but the vibe is just SO RIGHT, especially for when summer kicks in and it's a non-stop beach-fest from Memorial to Labor Day.

Here he is driving around the Island, circa 1961. Love the girl (hibiscus in hair). Love the sights (Waikiki, Diamond Head Lighthouse, the Kai'wi Coast, Makapu'u). Love the little red sports car (what is that, a Jag?).

And here's a timeless classic that many may not know first played in this movie.

Time passed, and the Skinny Elvis, the great iconic bachelor, eventually bought lots of Caddilacs, set up shop in Vegas, and maybe shot out a few too many TVs with .357s. But he still had one iconic Hawaii performance left in him before he became Fat Elvis. Ladies, gentlemen, Bachelors and Betties, I give you Mr. Elvis Presley at the Honolulu International Center (know to locals as "H.I.C."), 1973.

A bronze statue of the King was dedicated in 2007 at the very site of this immortal concert. And that's Good Sh*t from Hawaii.

Walking a Tightrope

2010-04-10T05:46:00.008-10:00

Only James Brown can do James Brown. Well except maybe for an 80's era Eddie Murphy (anybody got a link to Eddie's "James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub"?). As a matter of fact, any one else trying to do James Brown had better be joking. Because no one could do it like the Godfather of Soul. Just ask Prince.

That being said, sometimes there is an exception that proves the rule. Ladies and Gentlemen, submitted for your approval: Janelle Monae.

I can't get this song or video out of my head and I don't want to.

Yeah. I wish. The Playboy Townhouse.

2010-02-28T16:45:00.017-10:00

I've been looking at alternatives to the suburban home of late. I wonder if I could swing something like this on a lawyer's booty. Some of us perhaps, but not me. I'm neither dishonest nor excessively lucky. Just a regular, skilled combatant.

Anyway, I know I've posted a bit about this before, but I just realized I had the whole article from Playboy's stylish (i.e. non-gold chain, exposed hairy chest) era. And it bears sharing in full. If I look closely I see my favorite Eames chair, some tulips and Saarinens (a paltry $165), and all the right proportions. Of course , as the author says, a "high-performance gran turismo" in the garage. I've googled "Playboy's Penthouse" (an article from the aforementioned non-tacky era, not a crossover with the magazine's skeevier competitor), "The Playboy Bed" (a sidebar about Hef's rotating bed with built in bar), and other similar artifacts. The Playboy Townhouse was the only one I could find in full, and, luckily for us, it is the best.

Anyway, enjoy.

MacGarrett Redux

2010-02-20T19:44:00.006-10:00

Word on the Street (Ke'eaumoku Street, that is), is that they're going to reboot this.

Good luck. The original ran for a then record 12 seasons and delivered a rum punch of crime, international intrigue, New Frontier-style sex, and Martin Denny exotica. It accurately portrayed the multi-racial world that made Honolulu so ahead of its time in the mid-century. It frankly presented new levels of screen violence hitherto unseen. The phrase "book'em Dan-O" has got to be a top 20 pop-culture catch phrase. You can't often capture lightning in a bottle twice and as far as I'm concerned, Honolulu's already got Jack Lord's Five-O and Magnum PI.

There can't be much more Good Sh*t From Hawaii on the tube, but here's hoping.

Desk Divers

2010-02-20T08:19:00.005-10:00

I've got a lot of watches, some of them qualified to hit a depth of 1000 meters. Or metres. I've never taken them that deep, by a longshot, but I've never done this either.

Thanks to www.oceanictime.blogspot.com for the video. I don't watch the show, but from what I've seen it's funny.

Me.

2010-02-13T22:23:00.005-10:00

But with these chairs.

Otherwise it's just a tacky space to park your Maserati.

Free Nelson Mandela - The Special AKA

2010-02-11T16:38:00.001-10:00

Freed 20 years ago today. What a world we now live in.

LINUS SPEAKS

2009-12-21T15:15:00.002-10:00

Let's face it, Christmas is a Christian holiday about as much as it is a commercial one. Nowadays, you can get chastised for wishing someone a Merry Christmas when you should have wished him (or her) a Happy Chanukah or happy holidays. Not that I want to start fights, but I wish people what I want to wish them, unapologetically.

However, in the spirit of the season I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, a Merry Kwanza, and happy holidays. May you and yours enjoy the blessings of this holiday, be they spiritual or temporal.

For me, it's nice to see something so blatant as Linus' soliloquy, which goes like this:

Me I Want A Hula Hoop

2009-12-18T11:19:00.003-10:00

This is a brutal Christmas season this year for reasons that don't need to be specified. Yet I can still get myself into the right mood by hearing David Seville get after his little rodent pals. What are they? His surrogate "children"? His pets? Is he just their manager, because if so, why do they live with him? Even Ruben Kincaid didn't live with the Partridge Family.

During Christmas, my father always played their whole album for my sister and me when we were kids. 'Tis the Season.

Anyway, here they are singing their trademark song. Simon. Theodore. Alvin. The Chipmunks.

Mid-Sixties Honolulu

2009-11-14T05:52:00.015-10:00

My parents married two years before I was born and I know a bit about their story. After the wedding my parents travelled often. Here are some pictures I have of them in the Honolulu of 1965 or '66.

I wonder what it was like for them before I was born. I imagine in their lines of work, without me to chase around, and at that time in Manila, life was pretty cushy. It shows in their faces, if you know them. Here they are at the Ala Moana Shopping Center, once known as the largest shopping mall in the world.

I love the way Mom is standing in the picture above, still at Ala Moana. Like one of those sixties models. Below, I don't see a bit of the game face that Dad almost always wore around me when I was a kid, nor do I see the stiff "parade rest" that I think was always for my benefit. I also love his trim trousers, Florsheim loafers (always Florsheim. The day he stopped wearing Florsheim, I knew he was mellowing), and the French aviator sunglasses. By the way, the parking lot below later became the location for one of Mom's medical clinics in the Eighties.

I also can't ignore Dad's shirts. Not exactly cheesy, but certainly not traditional either. I imagine those are the same shirts the Mercury 7 were wearing whenever they hit the Cape back then.

Next, they are with another couple in front of the apartment they bought. Pilots used it as a crash pad well into the Eighties, and I remember going there occasionally and finding three or four of them at a time. A new flight crew would move in every few days. After my father left the airline, he kept his interest in the place until the end, although he never used it other than to see old friends. We always referred to it as "The Apartment". We still see the other couple regularly.

The other "star" in the pictures is definitely old Honolulu. The sky seems emptier, more exotic. Today, there would easily be three times as many buildings in the background if you were to stand in the same spot and snap the same image. And this Savings & Loan failed long ago.

If I can steal some from Mom's albums, I'd love to show you some pics of them in Europe. Dad looks like a secret agent and Mom looks like Jeannie Shrimpton.

Porsche Geek Heaven

2009-10-22T21:47:00.005-10:00

The title says it all, so here it is, the advert for the latest from Porsche:

... and here are the behind the scenes vids (special features for a commercial?), just to show that the cars were all there together in one hot, sunny place. I'm no expert but here's what I saw: a host of 356s in Pre-A, B C, and Carrera form, a Speedster, a 901, a red 959, a 917 short-tail in Gulf livery, both a vintage Spyder as well as the modern RS Spyder racer, a Martini Racing 930, a 962, a 917 Can-Am, a red 944 or 924, a 928 GT, a 997 GT3 RS in orange, a Carrera GT, Jerry Seinfeld's blue 993 turbo (the last of its type to roll off the line, the end of a generation), and all manner of 911s in coupe, convertible, and targa styles. The implication is quite clear: "You bet your sweet ass it's a Porsche", as if in anticipation of controversy.

The controversy, of course, is the front-engined, water-cooled sedan laden with every luxury this side of bucket seats front and rear, designed and built by the marque in question. Controversial because it is so far from the roots and intent of the first car that appears in the ad that the Porsche Purist Dicks have the temerity to tell Porsche that it's not a Porsche. I don't like this car, called Panamera, any more than they do but to them I say "Whatever." You can file this under "Not as good as it was, but better than it will be."

Strong Bodies Fight That Weak Bodies May Be Nourished

2009-10-17T19:58:00.004-10:00

I watched My Fighting Irish keep step with the hated Trojans for 59 minutes and 59 seconds of regulation football time, only to see them run out of it in the last moments. They came up a touchdown short, and really it wasn't as close as the score makes it sound, but in the last quarter they sure cozied up to the possibility of an upset win. It was heartbreaking, in a way, but also a triumph. Going in the Trojans were top-five and the Irish were top-nothing.

But if beating USC is the only bright side to the University of Notre Dame, then it would be mighty dark indeed. In fact, if ND football were the only bright side, then it's fairly dim these days. So luckily there's still lots about Notre Dame to be proud of. One of the most fantastic stories out of Notre Dame are the Bengal Bouts. Intramural boxing in which all proceeds from the tournament go to a Holy Cross mission in Bangladesh. It's been going on since the middle of last century, and it is quite a tradition.

Walk around campus on any day and you'll see these determined young men wearing 'Notre Dame Boxing" sweatshirts. You'd think their feet don't touch the ground. These are serious, focused gentlemen who quietly go about their sememsters, probably keeping above-average GPAs to keep themselves on the teams, training intensely in the gym, learning the sweet science, usually for the first time. The Bengal Bouts are their only destination, and their hope is to advance each night to make it to the finals. Now I've seen some bad amateur boxing and this ain't it. In fact, the Bengal Bouts is a ferocious flurry of leather, for very little glory to the participants save the bruises and the sweatshirt. The beneficiaries are the weak bodies in Bangladesh.

With All of Ireland Watching

2009-10-15T05:35:00.005-10:00

With a tip of the cap to him, do ye think the World's Most Interesting Man ever fought a giant octopus?

Good Sh*t From Hawaii: Aloha Shirts for Aloha Friday

2009-10-08T20:07:00.052-10:00

In Honolulu, the alternative to the business casual of denim shirts, is the Aloha Shirt. In fact, it is less an alternative than it is an institution in its own right. For as long as I can remember, long before "I.T." specialists anonymously buzzed the hallways of quiet law firms in their Dockers and jeans shirts, there was the Aloha Shirt, worn daily by bankers, CPAs, and all other professionals. My father wore one to Equitable five days a week. The Aloha Shirt, especially those made by venerable local clothiers have always been acceptable business wear downtown.

I, on the other hand, took a long time to warm up to the idea of colorful patterned shirts as anything other than tacky, even in this Aloha State. Of course, I changed my attitude, especially when I realized that many tasteful patterns could be had. Add to that the comfort of cool short sleeves in our tropical climate and the fact that many of the nicest ones are made right here in Hawaii, and I'm ready to defend the Aloha Shirt against the sniping of any sartorialist.

To the right you find the classic Reyn Spooner, an almost always muted affair, unencumbered of the many garish colors associated with the Aloha Shirt of the cheesy variety. This one was given to me by my sister because it depicted outrigger canoe paddlers, and I love it. Pull this shirt over your head, tuck it into a pair of tropical weight dress pants or, of course, khakis, and you can hit the board room, deposition, or country club without fear of being underattired. Just don't go to court in one, unless it's a settlement conference in chambers. Going on the record is still a suit and tie occasion, as well it should be. But the Reyn Spooner is about as Establishment as they come around here. In the late fifties, Reyn McCullogh, a businessman from Catalina Island, California, saw the potential that jet travel and statehood offered Hawaii. Ruth Spooner was already a master seamstress making the best shirts and surf trunks in Waikiki when Reyn brought his venture here. Like the formation of a law firm, both their names graced the letterhead and Reyn Spooner was born. Now, whether Trad or Prep or modern, and you don't want to swim in a world of cheese, the Reyn Spooner is the Safe Bet of Aloha Shirts, .

To the left is the Kahala*, since 1936 another member of the venerable Battleship Row of Aloha wear. The Reyn Spooner may be a safe bet brand, but there's nothing safer in pattern than blue and white, for sure. Not having any court appearances, I wore mine this past friday, so that I could seamlessly go straight from work to happy hour. Aloha Friday existed long before silicon valley execs could even imagine casual friday. In Honolulu, every friday is casual and to a lesser extent monday through thursday is a sort of friday. Matched with some pegged chinos and my Jolly Roger belt (thanks John) and Weejuns, I like to think I've got that travelling surfer vibe from The Endless Summer going on.

So far two shirts, two brands and I have yet to detect the stink of cheese.

Manuheali'i is the name of a label from the Windward Side of Oahu, in Kailua, a place that some locals still consider the other side of the moon rather than just the other side of the island. Although I've lived here for almost 40 years, I still get lost in Kailua, because I'm from over the mountains. And Kailua is no one horse town, either! Manu is a relatively new brand, so new in fact, that they don't tout their age on their website. My wife seems to love their patterns and has gifted me a trio of their shirts. The one below is my favorite, a pullover (half placket) with tanglefern print. Quietly sprinkled into their design is their script logo. My wife has taken the liberty of gifting the exact same patterns to herself and our son. The two of them are the only people on the planet I would ever wear matching clothes with, and with these Manu prints, I must say it's still not an overload of pattern.

But really, the best reason to wear an Aloha Shirt, in my book, is because you want to "kick back" and relax, maybe have a mai tai at the Halekulani Hotel House Without A Key or enjoy some finger food and stingers with the Jetsons at Honolulu's last rotating restaurant, The Top of Waikiki. If that's the case, don't even worry about business casual. Just do what Honolulu does best: casual casual.

What follows are some of my fun Aloha Shirts, ones I probably wouldn't wear to the office, but ones I'm proud to wear to anything from fancy cocktails to baby lu'au. To the right is my Primo Beer shirt by Go Barefoot, another gift from my wife, this time for Valentine's Day while we were engaged. This shirt usually goes untucked with Duck Head shorts or my Levi's. I've gotten many compliments from locals who remember this Hawaiian beer from the sixties and seventies when it was the choice of everyone from fishermen to politicians.

Next is another favorite of mine, another Reyn Spooner with nifty graphics featuring the Disney superheroes, the Incredibles. Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Dash, and Violet the Invisible Teen are all depicted, as are second-bananas like Frozone and the Edith Head-like "Edna Mode". Man I loved that movie. If you've never seen it (and what OnceABachelor with a kid hasn't?), it's cooler than Mad Men for sure, and an absolute must-see.
Next is a sweet kodachrome-toned job, again by Reyn Spooner, but designed by deified sixties surfer Phil Edwards. This pattern celebrates surfing's early days, with the names of some noted surf spots like Makaha and Waimea Bay printed right on the shirt and mixed in with some classic surf images. This is a tough shirt to pair with anything other than very faded blue jeans, although I can get away wearing fancy linens and a pair of dainty Coach loafers in tan leather with it. No socks, please. Then my wife is putty, but that's another story.

And last but not least is my famous (at least around here) party Aloha Shirt, although it's not made in Hawaii. I bought this orange and green Attitude Adjuster in Bora Bora, when I was accompanying students on an environmental awareness exchange through the islands of Tahiti. This shirt gives new meaning to the term Go To Hell. It really lets the rest of the party-goers know what your intentions are. This shirt is Strong Medicine, and I don't wear it often, but I love it.

I will square off against any clothes horse in its defense, and in defense of all of my beloved Aloha Shirts.

* By the way, all the photographs from the Kahala website were taken by a photographer friend of mine, Joss Descoteaux, who specializes in paddling and surf themed photography.

What I Wore Fifteen Years Ago: the Denim Shirt

2009-10-07T09:36:00.009-10:00

Here’s what I’m copping to: what I wore 15 years ago was a comfy blue denim shirt from Land's End. And one from Polo. And one from J. Crew. And Ruff Hewn. Paired with khaki chinos on a Friday, they were everyone’s idea of “business casual”. What is inapparent to all but the Honoluluan readership is that a denim shirt is way too formal for this city, even when the sleeves are rolled up. You see, the Aloha Shirt, is more than acceptable five days a week here, but I was unwilling to accept that until, oh, 14 years ago. I know you don’t believe me but not all Aloha Shirts are of the laughable variety, either. Now I know better.

If one had to temporarily be someone else, one could do far worse than Alain de Cadenet. Despite the fact that, as far as I can see, all he ever wears – other than racing togs – is a denim shirt and pleated chinos, even to this day (14 years after the fall of the style, in my book). There isn’t much said about Mr. de Cadenet on wikipedia and IMDB. I didn’t even know whether he was a bachelor, a OnceABachelor, or a OnceAOnceABachelor until I looked it up (he’s a OnceAOnceA). But it sure looks like it would be fun to be him for a while.

Here’s what I know about him: former Brit race car driver; collector and flier of vintage aircraft (including a WWII Spitfire); father of Amanda de Cadenet (think a 90s UK Paris Hilton); owner of an Omega Speedmaster; wearer of trad racing goggles. His current gig is to appear on various High-Def TV broadcasts to sing the praises of different classic cars, including broadcasts of the Goodwood Revival vintage car races.

His greatest run is as the host of a series on Speed Channel called Victory by Design, in which Mr. de Cadenet spends a whole season sampling all (yes all) the cars from the world’s great racing marques. Ferrari. Porsche. Maserati. Aston Martin. Lotus. Jaguar. Alfa. Ford. These hour long episodes are automotive pornography, really, featuring Mr. de Cadenet at the wheel of priceless collectible sports cars. Above is the money shot for the Jaguar XK120, sashaying around British country B roads, lovingly filmed, engines roaring. Interspersed with his barely-contained enthusiasm for the subject, and a depth of knowledge steeped in history, engineering, and even styling, this is hardly your typical NASCAR documentary about how moonshining and bootlegging gave way to oval tracking. I have the Porsche and Ferrari episodes on DVD and they are wonderful.

So he may be a decade and a half out of style in his denim shirt and Dockers, even when he’s wearing a leather A-2 and goggles, but Mr. de Cadenet’s definitely got a good gig going.

Oh, and his son's name is Bruiser.

I Hate to Admit This

2009-09-19T09:34:00.004-10:00

Twenty five years ago, I was an arrogant high schooler who thought he knew everything about everything. I knew that nobody over 30 could ever be reasoned with, that nothing good ever came out of my school, and that I would never come back to Honolulu to live. And I knew that quality music was never broadcast over the commercial airwaves. Back then, when I drove a 20 year old Ford Mustang with a factory radio, broadcast was all I could get, because I was loathe to cut into the original dash to install an aftermarket cassette player. I was forced to listen to the local "album-oriented rock" station. I scoffed at most music that I heard. Even this song. Especially this song.

I remember this song playing over and over my senior year and I thought I hated it. But it was the right song for that time in life. And I found it hard to ignore.

Don Henley crafted a perfect song when he wrote and recorded The Boys of Summer, and I was too immature to acknowledge it for over a decade, maybe more. It's a song full of ghosts and loss. The snare is unwilling to let go and the music that drapes around the lyrics is translucent, like lace on a closed coffin. It is adolescent and worldly at the same time.

Now I'm 42, loving life in Honolulu, and I am proud that my kindergartener son has started at my alma mater.Top: My son strolling the same walkways I walked on his first day of kindergarten. He's preppy in the RL Polo, pegged cargoes, blue argyles, and skechers loafers. And Speed Racer backpack.
Bottom: His homeroom, with Ms. G, who was there when I was.

He is in for thirteen years there, and I am just over the moon that he got accepted and wanted to go there. Hopefully, by the time he graduates he's more mature than I was as a senior so he doesn't miss some universal truths that I missed.

Go here for the original video, which can't be embedded out of YouTube.

The Very First Night of September

2009-09-01T21:20:00.004-10:00

On this night not too long ago, but long enough, I treated myself to a birthday present as I often do. I proposed to my girlfriend, she became my fiance, later my wife, and now the mother of my son. That night we played this song over and over again, it's lyrics written on a little piece of paper encircled by a diamond engagement ring. And that's how my bachelorhood ended.

The End of Summer Raid

2009-08-21T20:10:00.013-10:00

August. Even when you live in the land of the Endless Summer, summer is gonna end. Bookended by Memorial Day and Labor Day, for my family it is a glorious stretch of beach outings, barbecues, unscheduled days off, camp outs, and various larks. This season, so far, we had four days at a fabulous beach house on the quiet windward side of the island, a camping trip complete with huge illegal bonfire and meteorite-like marshmallows, numerous evenings at the King Kamehameha Club, lots of surfing, and goodness knows what else.

To do all of that, you've got to have your kit together, ready to bring it, just like the Long Range Desert Group brung it to the Afrika Corps. Swiftly. Confidently. Effectively. Definitively. The Rat Patrol was already on re-run rotation when I discovered it as an eight year old. I have never been more enamored of a television show I rarely saw. This was back in the early '70s, when regularly scheduled programming hardly was. Some afternoons I would turn on the TV, tune the rabbit ears and there it would happen to be. The Rat Patrol. Sgt. Troy, prissy Sgt. Moffitt, Hitch, and Tully, cresting dunes at high speed in the greatest TV vehicles ever broadcast, a pair of G.I. jeeps mounted with .50 cal. belt-fed machine guns, all trained at the halftracks and "panzers" of Capt. Dietrich, the honorable Prussian.

All that pre-teen adrenaline certainly contributed to my choice of family summer vehicle: the crew cab with surf racks, in desert tan. Capable of transporting all the equipment you need to whatever outdoor destination you've chosen for your tribe of family, friends, and law partners.

I got mine mere months after my son was born. Turned in the two door pick-up after my wife rightfully cut my head off for trying to stuff my son's baby-seat into the rear "Xtra Cab". Sideways. I've never looked back (well maybe a little. That old truck would've taken me to hell and back). This crew cab has since dutifully carried my family through five summers, and I fully expect my son to drive it a dozen years from now.

So with roughly two weeks left in August, I've still got hunting coming up, and then beach cabins for the Labor Day weekend. And I still haven't had to mount the fifty cals in the back.

Someday, this summer's gonna end. And when it does, hopefully it ends like this:

Bottom pic: The Crew Cab, laden wih surfboard, pole tent, folding tent, 3 coolers of food and alcohol, Weber grill, beach toys, water guns, barbecue gear, dry goods, 40 lbs. charcoal, and son sitting safely in the backseat.

Good Sh*t from Hawaii: Bathys Watch Co. 100Fathoms Automatic

2009-07-20T21:13:00.029-10:00

I've lived most of my life in Hawaii and, yes it's paradise. I wouldn't live anywhere else, but really, its greatest claims to fame are Don Ho (R.I.P.) and Hawaii Five-O. Hardly illustrious by the standards of polite society but if so moved, I can give polite society such a philodemic bitch-slapping on the merits of both Uncle Don (Tiny Bubbles. 'Nuff said) and H5O (Jack Lord's sharkskin suit, to begin with) it would be ugly. Honestly though, as much as everyone would love to visit the Islands, not everyone truly appreciates all the different amazing things they have to offer.

And so I hereby inaugurate Good Sh*t From Hawaii, beginning with the Little Watch Company That Could, which, as it turns out, comes straight outta Kauai. Bathys is run, almost single-handedly by John Patterson. John, as far as I can tell is nothing if not a fine time manager (no pun intended), who balances scientific endeavors (i.e. his day job) with horological entrepreneurialism, a love of Hawaiian watersports, and an appreciation of vintage automobiles (old Volvos, SLs, and Willys jeeps).

Bathys hit the watch scene only a few years ago as the only watch company from Hawaii to offer Swiss made precision timepieces. The term Swiss Made is jealously protected by, well, the Swiss, to ensure quality and superlative workmanship, so you know you can count on a Bathys. I have one of the original 100 Fathom automatics, actually a 2nd generation Bathys, in stainless steel with a black dial. I bought it on the strength of the Bathys reputation, which grew thanks to the internet, and because of this very evocative photograph (taken from the Bathys Website):

This image, depicting the arm of an eco-adventurer pal of John, spoke to me. It told me the watch was just a bit different but still tasteful, and I just had to have it. As you can see, this watch sits proud of the wrist, a 41mm beautifully brushed silver stainless steel case on a waterproof leather band with contrast stitching, big green numbers and a blood-red sweep second hand. It boasts a slightly curved sapphire crystal that distorts at flat angles (love it or hate it, the former for me) and thunks reassuringly when you tap it with your fingernail. It also has a beautiful chapter ring indexed both in 60 seconds and 24 hours, also in confident red, black, and white. Lastly, the face is marked with one of my favorite words: "Hawaii", and on the case back John has engraved and labeled the main Hawaiian Islands. Here's mine, serial # 6155, on my lanai railing wearing the original leather strap with deployant buckle (enlarge the image, seriously, get a load of the face!):

And here it is, at a waterfall on Kauai, wearing an aftermarket solid-link stainless steel bracelet. John will be coming out with his own bracelet with fitted lugs soon:

And finally, here we are diving on a pod of spinner dolphins on the island of Lanai and sporting a nylon NATO strap:
Because of the absence of a timing bezel, it can't really claim to be a complete dive watch. However, with a 200 meter depth rating, a spirited argument to the contrary can be made. What the watch is, in fact, is a consumate watersports watch that can be surfed, paddled, swum, or worn diving, as I have done many times, without issue. In that way, it is as Hawaiian as can be. Unlike a pure diver, however, it is stylish enough to be worn to court in a suit, as I have done probably weekly. In that way, it is as OnceWereBachelorean as can be.

In a short span, Kauai resident John Patterson, a man after my own soul (and therefore yours too) has taken his little watch company from internet pipsqueak to cult favorite, a three-time (and counting) invitee to the illustrious Basel Watch Fair in, where else, Switzerland. John has expanded his line of watches to include the classic 100F (my favorite), a variety of imposing dive watches called Benthics, to their newest line of lunar phase ladies watches called Wahine (Hawaiian for, well, woman). Alas, Bathys have made the jump from internet sales only to brick and mortar retail at stores on the East Coast and London, but it's still the same great watch, with the same great customer service and approachability.

So the uninitiated may think that Hawaii is all kitsch and tack, but really if you look hard, you can find a lot of Good Shi*t From Hawaii, starting with Bathys.

For more info on Bathys, go to John's website, bathyswatch.com. Do yourself a favor and let the intro play so you can hear a great cover of Bob Marley's "Jammin'" on ukulele. Make sure to turn it up.

John, I hope you don't mind me borrowing pictures off your website. This is, after all, an unsolicited and unpaid-for testimonial for I am no shill. However, if you want me to remove them, let me know and I would be happy to do so immediately.

Grab a Piece of Something That You Think is Gonna Last

2009-06-30T21:27:00.007-10:00

Here's one of my all time favorite bands, doing one of my all time favorite songs.

There's a lot going on under the surface of this video. This marked the beginnings of Steely Dan, and by the end of the decade, the rest of the musicians would be tossed aside by the founders and lead songwriters, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, famously friends from their college days at Bard. They would be sacked in favor of session players. Ironic since lead guitarist Jeff "Skunk" Baxter and drummer Jim Keltner are a pair of very sought after session musicians themselves, and second guitarist Denny Dias was no slouch either. Then Fagen and Becker themselves would stop touring not long after, and ultimately cease to write Steely Dan music altogether for over a decade. Part of the reasoning, they claimed, was to let recording and performance technology catch up to their exacting musical standards.

I'm sure this is true to some extent, because the releases Fagen made solo were benchmarks (especially The Nightfly), and when a new Steely Dan recording finally came out, 2000's Two Against Nature, it raised the bar again and won critical acclaim. Becker and Fagen hadn't missed a beat in almost 20 years time.

But for all their uncompromising standards, Steely Dan will always be a band of the Seventies to me, and that's why this appearance on the Midnight Special (a show I was too young to appreciate, much less be allowed to stay up to watch) has so much going for it. Fagen's voice is incredible, either because of it or - more likely - despite his youth. There's more, though. In addition to their acid-hair look, the performances and showmanship of Baxter and Dias would lead one to believe that these guys are imitators of the Allman Brothers twin guitar attack style. Nothing could be further from true. In less than a couple albums' time, great guitar soloing could still be found on Steely Dan records, but this was no guitar-hero band. Far from it, Steely Dan had more in common with jazz combos in style, performance, and configuration than any other rock n' roll band of the time.

And what of their look? Their grooming standards certainly leave much to be desired, particularly Denny Dias's purple crushed velvet pants (Denny, they're not slimming by a longshot, Denny). These guys don't look too far away from the Partridge Family, but by God, they sure sound light years' distant.

I Told You It Was Red

2009-06-25T22:42:00.005-10:00

Found another picture of my dad's 1955 T-Bird removable hardtop in red. He was always very particular in pointing out to me that the '55, being the first of the breed, was its purest model, without the long rear bumper and ornate spare tire cover of the '56 or the silly and pointless tailfins of the '57. Don't even mention to him the models that came after, which had back seats.

I never saw that car. Dad was 27 then. Already uncompromising. As if he ever wasn't. A few years later I came along, born with a Mustang in the garage, the first of its breed too.

OnceWereBachelors Careers: International Airline Pilot

2009-06-20T11:54:00.029-10:00

When you're a bachelor airline pilot flying international routes, you've literally got the whole planet stretched out before you. Possibilities are endless. Your life is a William Holden movie unfolding. You leave home, go someplace exotic, mingle, and return refreshed. When you get married and have children, as my father eventually did, not much really changes except now you miss home, you return to your wife, and you make sure you've got toys in your flight bag for the kids to rifle through in your den.

Before I was in preschool, my father flew routes between Manila, Honolulu, San Francisco, New York, and London for Philippine Airlines. Back in the late Sixties at PAL, that meant Douglas DC-8s. Flying to the States enabled my father to keep his hot American cars, as well as those of his race-car-driver pals, excellently equipped with Goodyear tires he had loaded in the cargo holds of his planes. Corvettes. T-Birds. Mustangs. PAL would send him to flight training with KLM in Amsterdam. That's where he acquired his French aviator sunglasses, Harris tweeds, pegged pants, and Florsheim shoes. The gold Rolex Day-Date Oyster Perpetual he also acquired while travelling, I believe in Hong Kong.

For the PAL pilots back then, Hawaii was a significant touchstone, a waypoint in more ways than navigation. Investments were made here. Real estate. Life insurance policies. Friendships. And of course it was so very much like Manila. So when airline management got chintzy with the pilots, and a strike they organized collapsed because of scabs who crossed the line, my father resigned from PAL, packed up his whole OnceWereBachelor life, and moved us all to Honolulu. He traded the large Metro Manila home with the den and bar and the maids and houseboy for a small cottage on hospital grounds where my mother became a resident physician, a profession she barely needed to practice while dad flew the endless skies.

My father considered a few options, the least promising of which was American International Airline Pilot. Something about quotas for non-American-trained flyers, despite the fact that KLM training was top of the industry back then. Next least promising was bartender. My father has never been very talkative or hospitable and smoky places make him irritable. Eventually, he settled on life insurance, which he turned into a nearly thirty-year second career. He barely looked back during those three decades. Once I asked him if he regretted ever leaving PAL. Without hesitation he scoffed at the thought and pointed out that if he hadn't he doubted he would have a lawyer son or a surgeon daughter. I tend to agree. Privileged Manila Kid is a dicey upbringing to have, but I digress.

Selling life insurance sure wasn't the same as world travel, hands at the controls, thousands of pounds of thrust at your command. So it is not lost on me that this was one of many, many sacrifices that my father made for the better of our family. In this day and age, where I myself espouse quality of life, insisting that I couldn't work at a job I was unhappy doing, my father's sacrifice is even more remarkable.

This is barely the story of my father, really. I mentioned the maids and houseboy? In this new, non-airline pilot life, dad did most of the feeding and cleaning and grocery shopping and bill paying, while mom built her medical practice. He drove us to and from school. And he sold life insurance with great success.

Dad's in his early seventies now, and thanks to grandchildren, I truly believe he's getting younger and younger. He hasn't worked in years. When they can pry themselves away from our kids my parents travel often, mostly to Madrid and Manila, anywhere we have family. But for the sake of my dad, even though he retired from Equitable Life, I like to think of him as a former airline pilot and I always will.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. There will never be enough of them in my lifetime and yours together for me to be able to express my love and gratitude to you.

Top: My dad in the right seat of a DC-8 cockpit.
Bottom: My dad and his red 1955 T-Bird.

Brilliant!

2009-06-15T15:04:00.004-10:00

Good Lord I love Brit comedy!

Dry humor. Irreverent. Unapologetic. Mildly (or grossly) slapstick. Hardly lowbrow. Clearly alcohol fueled. You can apply those descriptors to any of my favourite Brit shows: Monty Python. Fawlty Towers. The Young Ones. Blackadder. Now add Top Gear to that list, even though it's an automotive show rather than a comedy. Led by alpha male Jeremy Clarkson, who is flanked by his two sidekicks Richard Hammond, playing the part of the twee naif, and James May, playing the proper knob, the show is from beginning to end great entertainment.

He Lives Vicariously Through Himself

2009-06-04T06:09:00.006-10:00

Right at the top of the list of OnceWereBachelor careers is Beer Spokesman. As I've often said, "Love Beer. That is all." But seeing this gentleman, I feel the bar has been raised so high that this is another of those unattainable goals. Meet The Most Interesting Man in the World.

Why do I idolize him so? Well, didn't I just say what I said about beer? Weren't you listening? Besides that, he is Johnny Quest. Mr. Roark. Ponch. Sam Malone. Steve Zissou. 007. Chuck Norris, opening up a Can Of. He dresses well. He is a jai alai master, a friend to animals, and a grand raconteur. He was probably a bachelor once, but most certainly he is something more now.

Shake his hand. It's as soft as brown suede.

He is so interesting that he doesn't limit himself to one beverage. Even though he's a beer spokesman, he doesn't drink just beer. "I don't always drink beer," he says, "but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis." He is a man of variety, then. Moderation perhaps. Standards definitely. By saying "prefers", we know he's not a beer snob who will be boorish about what you put in front of him, and certainly that is more than polite. I wonder what else he drinks. Probably not mojitos or whatever-tinis, unless it's the original. He is a discriminating individual, then. Just listen to his position on rollerblading.

How do I measure up? Not well, really. What follows is a list of seven true statements about me, if marketers were to hire me for this career:

1. He once bit through his own lip.
2. He speaks fluent Russian.
3. He has been to the back room of a morgue, where he saw a corpse with the top of its skull removed like an open pickle jar.
4. He had a knife pulled on him on the London Underground and diffused the situation.
5. While building his own office, he ate a Big Mac that had been sitting in the back of his friend's pick up truck for over 24 hours.
6. He has been handcuffed and arrested.
7. He is currently a white belt in karate, alongside his wife and son.

Stay thirsty my friends.

The Unified Theory of Pop Music

2009-06-03T13:50:00.009-10:00

There’s been a general lack of one of those Unified Theory posts of late. Fancy cars, movie reviews, and the occasional witty bon mot do not a good read make. I suppose this can be attributed to nothing in particular. Or it can be blamed on one specific thing.

On December 18, 2006, I had been married for four years and my son was not quite three years old. We had just taken on a new mortgage and my law firm was just getting its legs. Possibilities stretched out before me, my bachelorhood a distant and uninteresting past. Then the world came crashing down. Tower Records closed its doors worldwide, including the three locations in my town.
This doesn’t have to be an Eighties Nostalgia blog in order to highlight the importance of Tower Records. Tower was born in the Seventies. It grew through the Eighties and Nineties, during which time it saw the transition from record albums to CDs, Beta and VHS tapes to DVDs. When I first started going to the Tower on Keeaumoku Street (pictured above), disco was still a living, breathing, pulsating beast. Aside from Cheap Trick, Devo, and Cars records, I was only ever interested in the hundred or so albums in the “import” bin. Adult contemporary was a vast expanse that I never explored. At the dawn of the MTV era, “imports” disappeared as a category and the more obscure artists that interested me (which included the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Police) found their way into the general population. There was a time that the only place one could find a copy of the Clash’s Sandinista was at a genuine communist bookstore near the University. When it appeared in Tower’s stacks, I knew a new era of pop music had arrived. In the new millennium, there was little evidence that we were seeing Tower’s final years.

No matter where I lived, D.C., London, even northern Indiana, the location of the nearest Tower Records was one of the first navigation points I committed to memory. It was that important.

In 2006, Tower was unceremoniously shelved, its stock unloaded at ever-plummetting discounts. There were many items I acquired cheaply during these final weeks of liquidation before that December 18. Things I wouldn’t otherwise have bought at retail prices. AC/DC. Pink Floyd. Jack Johnson. But there were things I failed to secure only because I was waiting for prices to drop further before the axe fell, but they never fell far enough. I had my eye on them, though. The Heavy Metal movie soundtrack. The updated Criterion Collection boxset of Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (I had already owned the previous edition and wouldn’t justify the repeat expense without deep discounting).

This last ditch flurry of spending at Tower was mostly afterthought, and really, for me an unfitting farewell to an establishment that I used to wander through, often for as long as time would allow. Hours? Maybe. The better part of one for sure. Stack after stack after stack? Definitely. I used to love the unscheduled stop into Tower, when I had nowhere else to be. Maybe I had an inkling that a new CD had been released and I wanted to find it and snap it up quickly, so I could immerse myself in the new music, headphones on and liner notes open. Maybe I had absolutely nothing in mind and I would just let my thumb and forefinger do the searching. That’s how I discovered the Violent Femmes back in 1984, and Pearl Jam in 1991.

The protagonist in one of the books in my canon, High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby – a man as adept at observing the immature male of the species as Britain has ever produced – finds comfort in organizing his record collection not alphabetically but autobiographically ("How did I get from Fleetwood Mac's Rumours to Howlin' Wolf in just seven moves?"). Similarly, I tell you, for example, that I bought Husker Du's Warehouse: Songs and Stories in the Tower in D.C.'s Foggy Bottom neighborhood amidst a lengthy bout of angst.

I find that my acquisition of music is slowing down and more focused. I think in general, once far away from bachelorhood, musical tastes have cemented, and that is probably the biggest cause of this narrowing. But also, when the journey of discovery is no longer tactile, across the stacks at a record store, and more often on a website like Amazon or at a brick and mortar like Best Buy (which is unabashedly set up for the Transaction, and staffed with generalists), something is lost.

The further away I get from December 18, 2006, part of the enjoyment of music is lost. The act of discovery part. Which is a damn shame because then the sharing of music part eventually also diminishes. I used to play music for my wife all the time and once, she had a friend steal my truck so she could have a new stereo installed as a Christmas gift because (a) she knew how important music was to me and (b) my old stereo was really only a radio.

I can’t share music that I’ve already shared, otherwise it becomes a crusade. That would be like a Jehovah’s Witness coming back to knock on the same door twice.

Reflecting on this I realize that, as much as I love my wife and as much as she completely dwells in my heart, I don’t believe I’ve ever made her a mix tape. High Fidelity very nearly fetishizes the mix tape. The mix tape is a proclamation. It is a love letter. It is a seduction. It is an entendre. I’ve been known to make mix tapes in my time, and they’ve always had meaning (it’s like that conversation between Jackson and Travolta in Pulp Fiction: “I’ve given lots of foot massages and every one of them meant something”).

Now, without Tower Records, I’m not sure if I can really make that mix tape for my wife with the meaning it should have.

Trifecta at the Selvedge Yard

2009-05-13T19:07:00.008-10:00

This is a just a quick blurb, free of wit or irony (as if this blog is usually filled with both). Just straight reportage. Head over to the Selvedge Yard (see my list of Blogs I'll Cocktail With). He's knocking 'em out of the park lately (to mix metaphors) with the vintage racing posts. Three in a row, to be accurate, the first about the battle between Carroll Shelby and Enzo Ferrari (incredible video that I wish were available in US DVD format), the second about McQueen coming in 2nd to Andretti at Sebring, and the most recent about drivers in apres-race repose.

Abre Los Ojos (Open Your Eyes)

2009-05-06T17:43:00.011-10:00

Cameron Crowe is one of the more deserving of media darlings. I'll spare you the backstory, just watch the autobiographical Almost Famous. His movies are always more satisfying than the five movies that I watch before or after. Each one is special, even the smash hit from whence he got the money, Jerry Maguire. His other Tom Cruise movie, Vanilla Sky, offers one of the great opening eight minutes in recent memory. Keep in mind that Crowe intended this movie to be one non-stop pop culture allusion from beginning to end.

This is just a cursory list of things Crowe has crammed into the first eight minutes that make it both great and OnceWereBachelorean:

1. New York City from a God's eye view;
2. Central Park;
3. The Dakota;
4. Bachelor Pad;
5. Penelope Cruise's voice in her native tongue;
6. Audrey Hepburn, from Sabrina (and therefore a hint of Humphrey Bogart);
7. Disappearing plasma screen;
8. Mahogany wainscoting;
9. A Bout de Souffle poster;
10. IWC Schaffhausen Spitfire Mk XV pilot watch on leather with deployant buckle;
11. Smashed Gibson SG under glass (could be Pete Townshend's);
12. Ferrari 250 Granturismo Omologato;
13. Times Square, completely empty (I say again: Times Square, completely empty);
14. The mother of all anxiety attacks, amidst the most amazing billboards west of Tokyo (there's a panoply of relevant images that flash at this point, but I'm not going to try);
15. Repeat;
16. Cameron Diaz under the covers;
17. 1967 Ford Mustang 390GT (trust me, I can tell from the V8 burble);
18. R.E.M.; and
19. Cameron Diaz dancing to R.E.M. in leather pants.

It doesn't stop at minute eight, and the whole movie is worth multiple viewings. Just ignore the critics and the box office. And ignore that Tom Cruise is in it.

Mediterranean Sundance or "Everyone Needs a Hobby"

2009-04-30T15:48:00.007-10:00

Let's face it, OnceWereBachelors concerns itself with esoterica. It is essentially a diversion about procrastination. Or an exercise in procrastination that focuses on diversions. When you've got a wife, kid, mortgage, private school tuition, career, you want to think that you can have a sanctuary of interests, activities, collections, a sanctuary of time and place, where your wife, son, colleagues or clients can't get to you. Sometimes it's in the garage. Sometimes it's in a bar. Other times on the ocean, or beneath some expensive headphones, or a cold, dark theater in the afternoon, in front of a movie your wife or son would never watch with you. Whatever, it arguably makes you a better dad, husband, law partner, citizen.

My newest diversion is this:

There is a backstory to this tune and where it fits in my life, but its personal. When I get paid the publisher's advance to do the print version of OnceWereBachelors maybe I'll tell it, but that would be filler. For now, just let the tune speak for itself. Al Di Meola and Paco De Lucia playing "Mediterranean Sundance" at the Warfield Theater on December 5, 1980, recorded for posterity (on vinyl) as Friday Night in San Francisco. A legendary concert featuring jazz picker Di Meola, fingerstyle flamencoist De Lucia, and John MacLaughlin (another jazzbo), playing as a trio, unplugged so to speak.

No, I'm not going to watch it over and over again seeking sanctuary. I'm going to try to learn it. On the floor of my office at home. Legs crossed, Ovation roundback in lap, and beer within reach. Poring over a tablature of the tune I found off the internet at a website called Fretplay, while the CD repeats constantly, or while I study the above clip, or clips like it, on YouTube.

Thus will I repeat a ritual that has changed little (changed due only to technological improvements and disposable income) since I was a wee student. Teach myself guitar. I've done it with Social Distortion. R.E.M. Los Lobos. Stevie Ray Vaughn. This is my first jazz piece. I give myself until September to learn it.

Wish me luck. Or at least time and space.

Two Wheels Good, Redux

2009-04-16T19:41:00.020-10:00

My bicycle is 20 years old this year. In 1989, mountain biking was a fledgling sport done mostly by hippies in Northern California, not the billion dollar industry it is today. One of the cool bikes back then was the all aluminum Cannondale - a fat tubed, light-weight hard charger. Still an elite bike today, in the Eighties they intimidated. They looked purpose built, unlike the other ones manufactured by Specialized, Trek, or Giant. Those were still great bikes, but with the thin chrome-moly tubing, they still looked like paperboy ten speeds. My friend with the Honda Passport had one, and I wanted one too. Problem was they were pricey.Then one day, I was flipping through the latest spring L.L. Bean catalog and noticed they had branded bikes, and their top of the line looked an awful lot like a Cannondale. Turns out it was, and, with slightly downgraded components, it was priced right for this unemployed college senior. Even better, it wasn't badged as a Cannondale but with the familiar L.L. logo. Back then for me, going brand-less - the road less travelled - was my kind of trip. I still haven't seen another like it. It was the largest credit card purchase I made to date and arrived a week later in screaming red, with yellow accents. I assembled it myself in the front room of our rowhouse on Dent Place. First thing that went on it was a bat-signal sticker (before Batman was cool I stress) for its huge down-tube.

I took it everywhere, and unlike my skateboarding, I was pretty fearless with it, both on trails and in D.C. traffic. I took it to law school and enjoyed the quietude of riding through the deep woods on newly fallen Midwestern snow in truly freezing cold. It always lived indoors in those years, enjoying a favored place against a wall either in a dorm room or an apartment. When it got too caked in mud I just threw it into a bathtub and showered it down.

I brought it home to Honolulu and, sadly, I let it sit for many months until the months became years. Once, following a long distance canoe race, I pedaled it halfway around the island alongside a friend. But for the most part it stayed hidden in storage, at my parents' house, receptacle of all things old and mine. It still has the tires I put on it when I was in South Bend.Recently, my five year old was given a great BMX bicycle, also red, by his grandparents. It's great. It's not one of those kiddie-fied pseudo-bikes from Wal-Mart made by Red Chinese for Fisher-Price with pictures of Dora the Explora all over it and hard rubber tires. Toys. It's an honest to goodness machine, scaled down to my son's size, made by Redline in Washington State. It's got real brakes, tube tires, and anodized rims. We ride together now. Mostly at a nearby elementary school, or a park that has a mild hill he likes to pedal up then charge back down. Or he follows me around the big block that his preschool is on. We go 'round and 'round and 'round.So here's to my 20 year old and my 5 year old. What a time I've had and will continue to have. I think I'll go out and get some new tires for the older one, and a bat-signal sticker for the younger one.

A Few Minutes of Your Time: TAG Heuer Museum

2009-04-03T07:50:00.014-10:00

If you don't have the time or money to get to La Chaux de Fonds, in Switzerland, in the next few minutes, click this link to the TAG Heuer Virtual Museum. It's pretty neat, although not intuitively navigable. There are arrows to click and windows to select and a 360 degree virtual view of the museum, which is laid out like, what else, a watch. If you can find the buttons for the windows, they're worth viewing, because they lay out the TAG Heuer history through landmark timepieces, which you can view with a virtual magnifier.

Delete this blog from your bookmarks if I use the word "virtual" again in this post.

Highlights of the tour, for me, are the chronographs closely associated with motor racing. McQueen wore a Monaco at the wheel of the Gulf Porsche 917 in the film Le Mans. The Autavia is said to be modeled after the side-by-side specialty clocks installed in cross-country rally cars. Both feature the tasteful twin-subdial layout that is so key to imparting that vintage vibe I dig so much.

April Food Day

2009-03-31T18:57:00.007-10:00

By any estimation, I've had every advantage in life. Hard working, professional parents who were able to provide. In every way. To the point that I never realized that it could all disappear in a moment. Even as I write this - and my purpose comes into focus for you the reader - the idea of going without is still an intellectual concept to me, nothing more. I'd heard the phrase many times in a variety of contexts. I don't know why, one day, it made sense to me. I don't know why it took 25 or so years to make sense but it did, when I was in cellblock talking to a court-assigned homeless defendant charged with theft. The phrase just popped into my head.

"There but for the grace of God go I."

I'm still hardly a charitable person. Even with a family to feed I can't conceive of not being able to provide. But there but for the grace of God go I. Even that motivation is selfish. One should act out of pure charity, not out of the recognition that it could be you and your family going hungry or without shelter.

But every little bit counts, and I'm sure the people who really need it will take it any way it comes. Give to your food bank or click to www.feedingamerica.org, or www.aprilfoodday.blogspot.com.

Thank you, Lord, for the bounty of my life. Help me to remember and care for those who are less fortunate.

Bombardment Society Founder

2009-03-28T22:39:00.011-10:00

Somehow, this commercial for General Motors' Hummer captured my imagination years ago, back when gasoline was abundant and affordable. I loved its exuberance, and of course, the Who track tugged at my heart and made me chuckle. I saved an episode of Frasier on VHS somewhere, merely because it contained this advertisment.

So when I first watched auteur Wes Anderson's sophomore film Rushmore for the first time on DVD and after the hype died down, the opening montage pulled me in the same direction. The film has become one of my favorites (along with Anderson's The Royal Tennenbaums). The British Invasion music is there, as is the go cart and the whimsy. It is one of the great movie opening sequences because it succinctly introduces the character of Max Fischer, Rushmore Academy's ne'er do well who dances along the edge of expulsion, finally teetering off in a wild fandango.

I think I could do worse than raise my son into a Max Fischer, even though Max Fischer is a failure of sorts and, in a sentence, "one of the worst students we've got" at Rushmore. Come on, he's not the lacrosse captain, but the equipment manager. He founded the Bombardment Society, thereby lending gravitas to the playground game of sham battle. He is only ever seen dressed in his alma mater's crested blazer and, once expelled and stripped of it, he has to struggle to rediscover his own self-image. But he succeeds in that struggle, thus, in my opinion, erasing all his earlier failures.

Except for a brief episode of self-doubt, Max is ever the optimist. He is the high school playwright and director who figures out how to involve pyrotechnics in his productions. He launches a petition to save latin. He is the Boy Who Would Not Bend. I respect that. In fact, contrast him to a pre-Lost in Translation Bill Murray, a self-made, self-loathing millionaire who first makes Max a protege, then competes with him for the heart of a young school teacher. Neither of them win her, that would've been weird, but who wages the more effective fight? Why, Max, of course.

Yes, I'd like my son to be the lacrosse captain, although knowing his old man, he won't be. But I'd like him to be Something Else, and I know he will be that.

But I Don't Wanna Be a Pirate

2009-03-09T21:15:00.011-10:00

When I lived out on the East Coast, most of what I wore came from catalogs, L.L. Bean, J.Crew, Land's End, Orvis. Many an afternoon was spent thumbing through somebody's catalogs. It was better than studying, at least. One catalog I never ordered from, (or ever received for that matter)was from J. Peterman. I may have come across one in someone else's dormroom, but not mine. I remember them, though, images that were barely sketches, sometimes maybe watercolors. And copy describing their wares in some Kiplingesque context, with Peterman as the hero. A bit silly for me. But out of a sense of humor and an allegiance to Seinfeld, I ordered the latest J. Peterman catalog, and it arrived recently.

You know the Seinfeld connection, and the arc of the Elaine character. She starts as a copywriter, tutors a psychotic war veteran on how to write the perfect Peterman ad, rockets to the position of president when J. decides to go on a vision quest to Burma, and comes tumbling down when when she spends all the company's money thinking, as president, she can do what she wants. Along the way is the rough and tumble story of the urban sombrero, the Kennedys' wedding cake, and the attempt to buy Kramer's life story to pass it off as Peterman's own. Rip-snorting stuff, really, and I have now inadvertantly confessed to how I spent the Nineties.

Where was I? Yes, rip-snorting. Certainly all fabricated. Impossibly unbelieveable. Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on the contrary. I give you, Exhibit A, The Great American Shirt:
Described as follows: The original Great American Shirt (pre-Revolutionary days to ca. 1875) was cut extra-long, with extra-full sleeves that had lots of gathers. What you see here is a Civil-War Cavalry issue; you may recall Costner wearing it in Dances With Wolves. It gives a man freedom to move. When he catches sight of himself, he just naturally thinks, hmm, looking good, and so do other people.

Oh really, J? I believe, in Seinfeld circles, we know it as The Puffy Shirt.

You Non-Contributing Zero!

2009-02-26T09:36:00.002-10:00

I am being lazy and this video covers about 75% of what OnceWereBachelors is about. If I just mention that, yesterday, I tried to teach my 4 year old son to do a kick turn on his skateboard and it was not easy, then this would be a complete OWB post. But just watch the video.

Literal Video for A-Ha song "Take On Me"

2009-02-22T15:57:00.006-10:00

Take on Me: Literal Video Version - watch more funny videos

Usually, I try to come up with some kind of hook to the title of these posts. Don't think I didn't this time. In fact, in keeping with the spirit of the re-make for the A-Ha throwaway "Take On Me", which I found on my Facebook "Wall", I think I've hit the nail on the head. Watch the video. You decide. It's at least hilarious.

And what of Facebook? It's an excellent time-waster. It's kind of hokey, what with all the "poking" and "sending gifts" that can go on. Not to mention the fallout one can experience from "ignoring" the wrong "friend requests". It's also potentially malevolent, as it has recently come to light that from a CIA/NSA-spying-on-us point of view, it can be an actual data-mining trove. But in simple terms, it is an extraordinary means to get back in esoteric touch with old friends and acquaintances. I've reconnected with friends from high school, college (both of them) and law school, and I continue to do so on a weekly basis.

And at the risk of incurring the wrath of my beautiful wife (who now knows how to operate a shotgun, I hasten to add), my senior year girlfriend and prom date posted some incredibly sweet pictures from that time. Who wouldn't want to go there after 20 years of real life if not just to be reminded of the possibilities you were looking at from that vantage point, when A-Ha looked like the new U2. And if you can conclude, like I have, that you're still headed in the right direction, the excercise, and the time-wasting, is in fact not so wasteful.

BAND MONTAGE!

Daytona

2009-02-19T21:59:00.012-10:00

DAYTONA:

The Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, worn by race car driver and actor Paul Newman, and generally considered one of the classic chronographs of the horological world.

DAYTONA:

The Ferrari 365GTB/4 "Daytona" V12 coupe, named to commemorate Ferrari's 1-2-3 finish at the 1967 24 Hours of Daytona race. Brock Yates and Dan Gurney clocked the then-fastest New York to Los Angeles time in one in the original Cannonball Run.

DAYTONA!:

The Shelby Daytona Coupe designed by Carroll Shelby and Peter Brock campaigned to many victories in endurance racing. Six chassis were built, this one disappearing from view after 1971 only to turn up in a California storage "barn" (they're all "barns" in automotive stories like this) 30 years later. It belonged to known Southern Cal weirdo Phil Spector.

nb: please excuse the Jay Leno.

The Green Rat

2009-02-02T15:55:00.014-10:00

Drinkin' and Dronin' posted an entry comprised of Life Magazine Steve McQueen candids. One image in particular captured my attention. Mr. McQueen climbing into his 1950s era Jaguar XKSS in BRG (aka British Racing Green), somewhere in Hollywood.

Now, I don't know squat about Brit sports cars other than the usual mythology (they have bad electrical, leak both oil and rain, and are some of the most beautiful rolling stock ever hand-hammered), so I did some research and came up with more background on the King of Cool's car. The XKSS was a street version of Jaguar's D-type racer. When the D-type started to get outclassed in races, no one wanted them, so the Coventry factory took the remaining examples (over 20 of them), and re-specced them for the road, by adding a full-width windscreen, a passenger seat and door, modifying the exhaust, and removing the vertical single tailfin. These modifications not withstanding, the XKSS was essentially a road-going race car. McQueen loved his, chassis #713, so much that he bought it twice. He affectionately named it "the Green Rat".

I found some nice images of the detailing of #713 from Motor Trend magazine, including the custom cubbyhole for McQueen's everpresent Persol sunglasses and the wood and steel vintage racing steering wheel.

Imagine that man and that car at that time in that town. Technically, he was married then (to international model Neile McQueen) and had a son, Chad, but I figure this is about as far from being OnceABachelor as you can be yet still qualify as one.

Greatest Movie Opening Sequences: Raising Arizona

2009-01-29T23:18:00.006-10:00

They say that, in film, the voice over is a tool of the lazy storyteller. I believe that the opening 12 minutes of the Coen Brothers caper farce Raising Arizona is the exception, and that it may even prove the rule. Watch it and pay close attention to the rhythm of the narration weaving in and out of the bluegrass banjo and whistling, the images and the action, the spoken dialogue delivered at least at 3 different sound levels, even the flashbulbs and sirens. It all combines in a visual and sonic symphony done in half time, just under 100bpm.

And that's not even to mention the words themselves, as delivered by H.I. Listen to some of these tidbits: "at first I did not believe it; that this woman who looked as fert-tile as the Tennessee valley could bear no children. But the doctor explained that her insides were a rocky place were my seed could find no purchase. ... Biology and the prejudices of others conspired to keep us childless. Our love for each other was stronger than ever. But I preminisced no return of the Salad Days."

It's virtuoso film making really.

It is like the guitar intro to the Jimi Hendrix masterpiece, Little Wing. A little bit of genius introducing more genius.

Okay then.

Just to Show I'm Not Just About Anarchy and Argyle Skateboards

2009-01-29T20:16:00.008-10:00

You don't need Punk Rock to take you back to '77. Here's one of the greats from the era. Boz Scaggs doing Lido Shuffle. I'd love to say it teleports me to my pre-high school days when my cousin Teresa taught her brother and me to unhook a girl's bra, by placing hers on the back of a chair. But that was Cheap Trick's Live at Budokan. Really, I mostly ignored Boz until I found this album in my wife's collection when we started dating during the heady days of the Afghanistan invasion (by the Americans, not the Soviets).

Of note is the late, great Jeff Porcaro on drums who's got the tempo up above the cut on the record (I love referring to pre-digital music as being on "records").

Apres Victory Lane

2009-01-23T10:45:00.007-10:00

I wandered my way to the website of Otto's Venice today and found this picture of a Porsche 914 celebrating after a race. Otto's is a premier Porsche-only garage where race cars and their engines are fabricated. Although, since 1973, Otto has taken care of all types of Porsches in Porsche-rich Southern California, he seems to have an affinity for the 914-6, the much maligned mid-engined joint venture with Volkswagen. I've referred to "Porsche Purist Dicks" (see this post) before who simply insist that a Porsche isn't a Porsche unless it's air cooled and rear engined, unlike so many 944s (the much maligned joint venture with Audi), Boxsters, Caymans, 928s et cetera. And then there are guys like Otto, who seem to know better. He would much prefer to whip unholy ass on the track in his race-prepped 914-6 named "Rudy" then fill the front boot of his street car with ice and 1970s-era pull-top cans of Bud, and laugh about all the 911s he passed.

What I Wore Twenty Five Years Ago

2009-01-12T16:01:00.008-10:00

A long time ago, in my I Didn’t Know As Much As I Thought I Did days I was a punk rock skateboard kid of the second generation (the first generation being the wiggy hippies from the seventies, and the third being today’s mind-blowing kids with no fear). Most days, I could be found listening to the Adolescents on my Sony Walkman kitted out in skatepunk attire. That would be: plaid shorts and white Hanes t-shirts, which I hand-decorated in black indelible ink with the genre’s logos and bands. Black and white and plaid all over was my leitmotif. Without fail, I was shod in Converse Chuck Taylor hi-tops in a range of colors, from classic black or white to maroon or turquoise (hey it was the Eighties). Those were great shoes, and still are. In fact, I currently have a pair in conservative navy blue. Still goes well with everything casual that I wear, from jeans, cargo shorts, or khakis. I’m eyeing classic whites for my next.

The skateboard and hi-tops marriage is a venerable one, because of the support provided to the ankle. There were my Chucks, for sure, but others wore other basketball shoes including the original Air Jordans, and others still wore the first industry-made skateboarding shoe, Vans. I myself thought Vans were a bit “on the nose” and obvious, but I’ve got a pair now, for irony’s sake.

That’s Natas Kaupas from Venice, CA, sporting a pair of unidentifiable basketball shoes. His performance on a skateboard pretty much convinced me to give it up and helped me admit to myself that I was only ever really faking it all those years.

Insane

2009-01-12T12:50:00.004-10:00

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing that this blog is about. But it is frigging insane, and ultimately, I think that's what everything in life is about. There's a quote from one of these nuts in the video where he basically says "we just started trying to fly as close to the cliffs as possible because just jumping, by itself, was getting boring." Can you imagine fatiguing your nerve endings to the point that the only stimulus it can detect is flying past a craggy wall at sixty unprotected.

We were supposed to spend Christmas with my parents in Mineola ...

2008-12-24T11:43:00.004-10:00

Hands down my favorite band since I was thirteen. Wishing us all a little peace, love, and understanding are the four thugs from Queens. RIP Johnny, Joey, and Dee Dee.

Inside joke: CJay is sporting a Sid Vicious hairdo.

And yes, sadly, I know where Mineola is.

The Big Kahuna

2008-12-14T10:06:00.004-10:00

There is a whole host of surfing on film (and video) out there. This one's not the first. But it is the Best. Robert August and Mike Hynson at Cape St. Francis, South Africa. No "dude". No tongue studs. Not even earings. No tribal tats. Just a couple of clean cut All-American boys travelling the world in seersucker jackets, skinny ties, & flat-front chinos.

Christmas at the Lodge

2008-12-08T22:54:00.040-10:00

Once in a great while the OnceABachelor must drop his offspring with the Grandparents and make a brief escape. With the Christmas season starting, my beautiful wife and I did just that, with a trip to our favorite "resort" hotel: the Lodge at Koele, on the Island of Lanai. My law partner and his wife (both of whom were my closest high school classmates) came along for the good times. It was certainly a quick vacation worthy of the Epic Life we should all try to lead.

The Lodge was where my bride and I had our honeymoon, and it is where my law firm holds its annual retreat with the wives. This Christmas marks the first time I've come back For No Good Reason. We flew in on a small Cessna Caravan in which the two of us were the only passengers, and on the way to Lanai I got a view of Honolulu you rarely ever get on the big jetliners. Contrast the cityscape with the cliffs of Lanai, and you get an idea of what the latter island is all about.

We arrived to find the hotel bedecked in Christmas ornaments, trees, and holly. The only thing missing, of course, was the snow, but the brisk highland air would do. Our room, as always, was cozy but far from small, with a view of the pond and immense banyan trees.

The Lodge is hardly a big resort hotel. Never crowded, it is small enough that its staff know you by name, even before you arrive. The illusion is similar to a ride up in the First Class cabin, where you are given personalized attention. This, combined with the authentic hunting lodge ambiance, make Koele my favorite hoteling experience. The Lodge is a very masculine place, all wood and leather and stone, boasting artifacts ranging from Polynesian to Asian and African.
Aside from the Lodge's great hall and two dining rooms, there are four other rooms of importance. The first is a semi-octagonal game room equipped with billiards, shuffleboard table, chess and backgammon tables. Next is a library, another octagon, with several conversational areas. There is a music room with a grand piano. These rooms all have stone fireplaces that are useful since upcountry Lanai's nighttime temperature often dips into the fifties.
And of course, the Lodge has a small, well stocked bar with excellent wait staff, all of whom, again, know your name. It is quiet and the other guests, all feeling that they are in on the same juicy secret that you are in on, are always friendly. It is a whispering kind of bar, but it is so inviting that we've been known to turn whole afternoons to haziness in there. My libation of choice for the weekend was the Lodge's special Mai Tai. Not always a fan of tart sweet cocktails, this one I felt was appropriate for the Pineapple Isle.

And lest you think the weekend was all about the indoors, the Lodge has a spectacular grounds, too, including a large koi stocked pond, a greenhouse, bamboo forest, an occasional flock of wild turkey (which seemed abundant this year), a 9 hole putting course (not to mention a world class golf course I've never seen (I'm not a golfer, but I'm told it's called the Experience), three croquet pitches and a huge bowling lawn. My wife indulged me a cigar under the eaves of its church (what other hotel has an active Congregational church on its own grounds?). We taught our wives how to shoot shotguns at a nearby sporting clays course. Turns out we married natural born killers. The only thing we didn't do was our traditional midnight cocktail raids to the hot tubs (our numbers were meek).

I really wanted to sing the praises of the Lodge and I feel I have failed to do that sufficiently. All I have done is summarize it. How should I put it. It is a place we truly love. In writing this, I realize that what I love about this place, besides the memories we make, are the spaces it gives us to occupy. It's not a hotel you pass through. It's one you inhabit.

Merry Christmas to all. May you be with your loved ones occupying places close to your heart.

*Click on the painting at the top to visit the website of Lanai artist Mike Carroll, who painted this image of the Lodge.

Holy Shee-ite, this guy IS Batman!

2008-12-07T13:37:00.012-10:00

More custom garage builds. I can't seem to get enough. It really appeals to me to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Alas, those who know me know how poorly that concept describes me.

This fellow has a hidden space behind the regular 2 car garage for his BMW E46 M3. If it wasn't so well lit, it would be the Batcave. Look closely. There's a small seating area with a nice halogen lamp, leather chair and ottoman, and plasma screen. Bose speakers. A non-hot rodder's collection of automotive tool chests. A sleek, European WC. Spotless floor. And the "Steve McQueen" Gulf jacket notwithstanding, this guy's no poseur either, with his covered track tires and HANS helmet rig. It just hits all the right notes.
For those interested in the whole "build process", to use the vernacular of the Garage Junkie sub-culture, it can be found here.

And now, we return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

nb: These images are of a garage belonging to a guy who posts on Garage Journal and goes by the handle "E46M3". I don't have his permission to post it, so if he wants me to remove it all he needs to do is notify me and I will immediately oblige.

OnceWereBachelors Garage

2008-12-02T08:35:00.010-10:00

I stumbled onto a site about custom garage makeovers called Garage Journal . It's pretty incredible. I'm hardly a gearhead, and although I've done some work on the Mid-Life Crisis, as well as on vintage Mustangs my father and I used to own, I've never spent much time in a garage (other than to set up some drums, a PA, and some guitar amps, but that's another story). After seeing some of the amazing garages some people have, a whole new world of possibilities opens up. Maybe I don't need a huge bank of Snap On tool chests or a hydraulic lift, but it sure would be nice to improve my garage. Maybe move all my guns and guitars from the closets inside to the walls out in the garage, change the lighting and ventilation. Put down a nice floor. Leave the Steve Steigman Blown Away poster right where it is. It could go from this:
To this:

I am inspired. Wasn't there a post about Bachelor Pads around here somewhere?

nb: The "after" image is of a garage belonging to a guy who posts on Garage Journal and Rennlist and goes by the handle "Sandoval". I don't have his permission to post it, so if he wants me to remove it all he needs to do is notify me and I will immediately oblige.

"FRA-GEE-LAY"

2008-11-29T21:19:00.005-10:00

It feels like Christmas has come upon us earlier than ever this year. Nevertheless, the sooner I can pop my copy of A Christmas Story into the DVD player the better. It's 25 years old this year.

Trad Movie (Greatest Movie Opening Sequences, Chapter I)

2008-11-19T16:07:00.013-10:00

There are a lot of Trad devotees who visit this blog so I thought I’d inaugurate my list of Greatest Movie Opening Sequences with a very traditional movie, one with an overture meant to be played over a closed theater screen curtain, featuring one of the most revered motorcycles ever (the Brough Superior), and introducing to us the great historical figure and example of British eccentricity and perseverance, T.E. Lawrence, portrayed by Peter O'Toole (also introduced here for the first time). There’s even a cameo from Field Marshall Lord Allenby.

In what was probably one of the greatest Dates With Someone Other Than My Wife, I saw Lawrence of Arabia, restored by Steven Spielberg, at the Uptown Theater on Connecticut Ave., in D.C. in 1988. The Uptown remains one of the last urban stand-alone cinemas, resisting the tide of multiplexes that now dot the landscape, and boasts a crimson lobby and a large screen that defies real estate values. The film was an “event” movie, and we went dressed up and had burgers beforehand at a kitschy art deco diner nearby. Besides the overture, the film had an intermission, during which time we retreated to the lobby where we enjoyed cheesecake and coffee, standing at bar-height café tables. The lobby lights flickered and we went back in for the second half of the movie.

So behold the opening sequence to David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia. The first five minutes are devoted to music only. Your patience is rewarded, though, by perhaps the finest argument in favor of filming in widescreen (it's filmed in Super Panavision). The sequence concludes with Lawrence's gripping final ride through the Dorset countryside before he meets his demise. The coda comes before the main story with a quick illustration of the various misapprehensions of the man. Then, cut to the desert.

Hip To Be Square

2008-11-08T19:33:00.017-10:00

"I have to go return some video tapes."
- Patrick Bateman
American Psycho
1991

Back in the summer of 1991, many of you will remember the brouhaha kicked up by Bret Easton Ellis' novel American Psycho. It's in my canon. In a sentence, the novel was about a Wall Street yuppie obsessed with serial killers, pornographic sex, and Gianni Versace. In a sentence, the brouhaha was about how most people in America didn't get it. They were repulsed by its misogynistic themes and extreme violence, and the novel's detractors vilified Ellis himself as misogynistic and extremely violent.

But here's the thing: I got it. I can't honestly say I figured out, almost 10 years before everyone else, that the novel was satirizing to the extreme the conspicuous consumption and me-first mentality of the yuppie species. But I did believe, back then, that most of its critics - ranging from the liberal lefty feminazis to the right wing moralists - would have found something to agree on with Ellis if they'd only read the book.

Fast forward ten years and an art house satirist (Mary Harron) and a Sarah Lawrence lesbian (Guinevere Turner) joined forces to commit Ellis's once-despised book to film. And thanks to them, everyone got it.

Here's my favorite scene from the movie. Patrick Bateman, the American Psycho, shows off his business card to his so-called friends, only to become bottom man in a game of oneupsmanship. Hilarious.

Following that scene, if I remember correctly, Bateman eviscerates a homeless dude.

And here's the climactic scene that clearly reveals the story's satirical DNA. Perhaps not verbatim, but it mimics perfectly Ellis's juxtaposition of dorkiness, style, and brutality. I hesitate to call it brilliant, but its pretty neat to behold.

And here's the introductory sequence, a meaningless and shallow internal monologue.

When Harron talked about her film in the commentary of the DVD I watched last night, she referred to the triumph of "surface" over "depth". I loved that. But here's my conclusion: there's no need for you to read the book or see the movie after reading this. What I've written here is all you need to know about American Psycho.

Get Blown Away

2008-11-05T17:45:00.003-10:00

I'm trying not to make this an Eighties Nostalgia Blog, but I think I'm failing. Here's a picture that I mostly ignored back then when it hung on every other frat boy's wall, along with the Soloflex guy (couldn't they notice how homoironic that was, even then), the St. Pauli Girl, and the Nagel prints (ditto). This ad for Maxell tapes by Steve Steigman, of the Bauhaus' Peter Murphy seated in a Le Corbusier chair, is near-iconic. I tried to be cool but secretly I wanted one for my very own dorm room. Now I have one. In my garage.

The Modern Jazz Quartet

2008-10-22T13:08:00.008-10:00

I have only a modicum of understanding when it comes to jazz. Call it the common knowledge of any person who has shared an American college dormroom with someone in the intellectual East. Also, being amongst classmates prepping for the Foreign Service Officer Exam, we were reminded that jazz was one of the only originally American artforms, evidently a question that was always asked during the FSO interview.

But beyond that I can tell the difference between the variety of jazz sub-genres, dixieland, cool jazz, bebop, swing, et cetera. I can identify the giants, and spit them out catechism style by single name like the Hipsters do: Miles. Dizz. ‘Trane. Sonny. Bird. Monk. Et cetera. I can even appreciate what guys like Wynton were trying to do by perpetuating the traditional styles versus what guys like Stanley Clarke and Billy Cobham, even Spyro Gyra and Pat Metheny, were doing with jazz fusion. But no, I could not grasp Ornette Coleman. Or Kenny G for that matter.

I would venture to say I’ve got enough jazz schooling to have a reasonably topical discussion with a bunch of aficionados at a smoky club over rye highballs before the house band hits the stage. If I want to, I can even whip out the story about how I got to meet Dave Brubeck backstage in 1998 at the Blaisdell Concert Hall, when a promoter friend asked if my date would like to present him with a lei after his performance. “Would I” exclaimed the attractive classically trained pianist I brought.

But, if I really want to up my cred I’ll mention my favorite jazz artists, the Modern Jazz Quartet. No I don’t have encyclopedic knowledge of their recording or label history, but they’re obscure enough not to be iconic, yet iconic enough not to be obscure (the same can be said for Charlie Mingus, and frankly I could be writing this paragraph as much about him as about MJQ). I first became aware of MJQ when Signet Bank in D.C. ran a series of memorable black and white TV ads profiling time-tested artist-unions of great renown. Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn were featured. I think The Everly Brothers. And these guys, Milt Jackson on vibes, John Lewis on piano, Percy Heath on bass, and Connie Kaye on drums (I had to look that up on wikipedia), talking about creative partnership, dressed in matching black turtlenecks and amidst their instruments. MJQ were confident enough to completely disband in the 70s. They re-formed on a semi-permanent basis in 1981, for the sole reason that they wanted to. In jazz, there is no cashing in for reunion tours a la Van Halen, Black Sabbath, or Quiet Riot.

Listen to their performance of Django. You can’t ignore how unique the vibraphone sounds in context; better for my money than the acclaimed intimacy that Miles Davis’ soft horn offers. It’s the kind of music you listen to because you’ve concluded a long day working late. The wife and son are already asleep but you’re not ready to get in bed yourself. You want to enjoy your darkened home, alone, in solitude.

King Kamehameha Club

2008-10-20T11:49:00.013-10:00

We've spent a princely sum on my son's swimming lessons these past three years, and he's only now feeling comfortable in the water. Money well spent, though. Proof? Here's a cool video of my son doing the armed side-stroke in the pool of the fictional King Kamehameha Club, the same club that retired Navy Seal turned P.I. Thomas Magnum belonged to.

When I was in high school, Magnum fever was everywhere in Honolulu. Their studio was a few blocks from my home in Diamond Head, Tom Selleck lived even closer, and around town we would frequently see the film trucks, T.C.'s helicopter, and occasionally, the red Ferrari 308, sometimes laden with camera scaffolding. Larry Manetti ("Rick") rented videos at the same store I did and Larry Hillerman ("Higgins") lived in a friend's condo. Good times.

We didn't join the "King Kam", as Magnum called it, because he was a member, though. We joined so my son would have a readily accessible pool for his use, with a large sunken bar not five steps away from which dear old dad could keep an eagle eye. They serve everything from Guinness and Sam Adams to above-average trop cocktails (word to the wise: avoid the martini, it ain't that kind of place) and local-style finger food (sashimi, garlic steaks). You can go from cannonballs with your kid to mai tais with the mates as the sun sets and the waves lap at the sea wall nearby.

Life is good when you're a OnceABachelor who belongs to a private club on the beach and a son who can swim laden with weapons.

Two Wheels Good

2008-10-07T15:12:00.014-10:00

So I know next to nothing about motorcycles. With a wife, son, career, mortgage, and the various other accoutrements of OnceWereBachelor obligations, I’ve a feeling I never will know more than I do now. I’d love to own a fancy Ducati café racer, but that ain’t happening any time soon.

The primary thing I know about motorcycles is that they make you cool. After all, riding a motorcycle made Fonzie cool, even when he was jumping sharks on waterskis. There was a pre-teen period in my life when I would’ve given anything to be like him. Especially after each Thursday night broadcast, I really believed that one could make sodas come out of vending machines for free by hitting them just right, or getting girls to swoon with a snap of fingers.

But I digress. Motorcycles.

I don’t think I’ve ever even ridden a motorcycle, and I probably never will. The closest I came was riding my college housemate’s Honda C70 Passport, more a scooter really. I remember one night I had about five minutes to return a video or suffer another night’s rental charge. I borrowed his red and white Passport, donned his helmet and roared down Prospect St. towards the Alpha Video off Wisconsin Ave. Having never learned to drive a stick shift car at that point in my young life I snapped through the gears recklessly, lurching forward each time. Just as I turned a corner I downshifted, accelerating into the bumper of a parked car. The sudden stop sent me over the handlebars, right in front of two dozen Georgetown students eating dinner at Booeymonger’s, a popular sandwich shop. Having some residual Fonzie-wannabe DNA in me, I thought it uncool to strap my housemate’s dorky white helmet on at all, so the sudden impact sent it flying off at 30 mph. I remember hearing a girl I knew from my African Ideas of God class blurt out in fright “Ohmigod, his HEAD came off” as she came rushing out the door to help.

I realize that, although it may not be with motorcycles or leather jackets or magic fingers, I’m still trying to be cool like Fonzie. DNA from those Thursday nights is still there, and at this point in my life, I shouldn’t have to struggle to snap down that dorky white helmet, but I do.

Honda Passport image came from this website. If I am violating your copyright, please notify me and I will immediately remove it. Thank you.

Go Irish

2008-10-06T16:37:00.011-10:00

I read an article long ago that derided that within the first five minutes of meeting one, you will promptly learn that he is (a) a United States Marine or (b) a graduate of the University of Notre Dame. That observation was meant as an insult, so as much as possible, I try to refrain from identifying myself as a Notre Dame alum for at least the first 6 minutes of a new acquaintance. It's been three months and 21 posts and I haven't said anything, but I will now take this opportunity to point out the following:

1. It's college football season, and
2. Unlike the last two years, the Fighting Irish seem to be making a go of it, with a current record of 3-1.

Now I'm not predicting any national championships anytime soon. Touchdown Jesus only knows if they'll ever return to their days as a legitimate contender like they were back when Lou Holtz and I were there, counting every fleet yard Rocket Ismail crossed, or every lineman Chris Zorich reduced to a weeping ninny. But I can savor wins over Michigan, Stanford, Purdue, and San Diego State. No, as much as I'd love to see Notre Dame upset the USC Trojans, I don't see a repeat this season of the Irish upset of then #1 Florida State back in 1993.

I know that, like the New York Yankees, the Fighting Irish can trigger hatred from non-fans. In fact, as many fans as there are, it's probably even more fashionable to root against the Irish than for them. Let's face it, it's just not cool to root for anyone but the Underdog. And with Knute Rockne, the Gipper, Joe Montana, the NBC broadcast contract into perpetuity, and the whole College Football Tradition Thing, the Irish are anything but. Winning record or not, Notre Dame will always be the epitome of the Overdog. But I can tell you that, as uncool as it may be, I am proud to always root for the Fighting Irish, win or lose.

Parla Italiano?

2008-10-02T12:23:00.004-10:00

Here's a OnceABachelor taking his wife for a little spin in the Spanish countryside. Be patient. It's worth watching, and his wife is a big-eyed Italian beauty.

Who's the driver? That's Riccardo Patrese, retired Formula 1 driver, and he's on the racetrack at Jerez. I sure would like to know what his wife is saying, especially when she gives the Italian Salute. I'm pretty sure I recognized at least one word.

Ferrari: The Great Putdown

2008-09-19T14:22:00.011-10:00

Yeah, I like red sports cars, so what?

Here's a clip I just got off of Jalopnik, one of the "non-porn sites that I frequent". It's not quite the legendary guerrilla filmmaking of Rendezvous, which depicts a hood-ornament's view of a Mercedes Benz 6.9 careening through the busying streets of early morning Paris. But that vintage video has passed from cult status into the mainstream (think mallrat: "I looove Rocky Horror Picture Show. No I haven't seen it in a theater but I own it on DVD.") I like this 8mm film, called "The Great Putdown", because it's less premeditated. It portrays two vintage Ferraris -- a California Spyder and GTO coupe, to be precise -- racing irreverently down Mulholland Drive. The narration is pretty good too.

This is from a time before Ferraris were accoutrements for the super-rich, when anybody who appreciated that kind of fun could realistically aspire to own one. Okay, maybe not anybody, but with a bit of focus and luck, you're in rosso corso, baby. From our modern perspective, it's hard to comprehend these two fine automobiles being treated this way when forty years later they would be multi-million dollar collectors items, but here it is for all to see.

For the record, though, I could do without the Steppenwolf. Blech.

Bring Lawyers Guns & Money, the Shit Has Hit the Fan

2008-09-15T21:54:00.024-10:00

If you don't already know, I'm an attorney - a combat attorney, to be precise. It helps that my partners are my most trusted friends, but it also helps to get away to discharge firearms with them. We do this several times a year on the Island of Lanai, where we go after deer or mouflon sheep, which are similar to bighorn. Also after Thanksgiving, we institute what we call the No Fly Zone, a high-spirited bird hunt with game as wide ranging as pheasant, grouse, and pigeon.

This year we changed it up and went to the Kenai Peninsula in southern Alaska for a moose hunt and salmon fish. To put it bluntly, we collectively threw up a brick, shooting no moose and catching no salmon worth keeping. But we sure did achieve our goals: maximum fun far from the nerve-jangling courtrooms. We ranged far and wide for moose, even finagling a hot tip from a local as to where best to find them. The tip proved honest as we spotted lots of moose and caribou, but none that were legal to harvest. We also bent lots of fishing rods and reeled in lots of pink salmon, but this late in the season and that far from salt water, they weren't particularly grill-worthy. We were after the silver salmon, which were very rare indeed but prized for their tasty flesh at this time of season. This OnceABachelor did manage an amazing feat: hooking a 30lb king salmon, also out of season, which I had to return to the fast running river on which our cabin was located.

The cabin itself was the vacation home of an Anchorage attorney who generously loaned it to us for a week, through his aunt, who is married to the friend of one of our party. She gamely stayed with us to act as den mother, doing the cooking and cleaning. This turned out to be a good stroke of luck because she was able to coordinate the emergency tow with heavy equipment when our rental 4-wheel-drive got stuck 12 miles from the main road in a bog. If it wasn't for her, we might have been forced to spend the night in 40 degree weather or walk out in the dark.

Additional thanks go to Clint from Sterling Towing for bringing his impressive flatbed tow vehicle out through the mud and rain and then driving it backwards up two slick hills to tie up to our truck at 1:00 a.m.

And permeating the whole trip was the possible encounter with Alaskan brown bears. Everywhere we went we were grimly reminded by the locals of the increase in bear encounters, sightings, and attacks. The week we arrived in fact, a brown bear found its way into traffic in downtown Anchorage (near the courthouse, ironically) where it was struck by a car. Joggers and hikers have been mauled. Because of this sobering reality, Alaskans more often than not can be found armed. We spotted joggers wearing holsters, and people walking their dogs with rifles slung on their backs. No one looked twice when one of us walked into a Home Depot wearing his .357 on his hip. Luckily, we saw no browns, although I did spot two black bears. My partner even took a shot at one from an impossibly long range on Skyline Trail after a harrowing hike one mile up.

So my son was thrilled to hear about all of the guns we brought along, and peppered me with questions during each phone call home. He was uncontrollably curious when he saw my gun case loaded into the back of mom's vehicle when she picked me up at the airport. Once at home, he insisted that I identify each weapon and describe it in detail. This is Uncle Jeff's 30-06 with variable scope, this is Uncle Rick's magnum, which he calls the Hog (and which we fired in a redneck "holler" out in the woods). And this is daddy's trusty 30-30 lever action, which is not big enough for hunting in Alaska but plenty good for personal protection there. It is black and brown and has a thumb operated hammer, just like the "practice" gun I brought home for you from the Sportsmen's Warehouse in Anchorage. You can imagine how happy he was to be given this gun, especially when I pulled it out of the same gun case that transported all the grown-up weapons. And you can also imagine how much I look forward to teaching him proper firearms safety with it. No joke.

Incidentally, think twice about leaving your wife and son for a 10 day trip. It had better be worth it, because you will miss them uncontrollably.

Images from top to bottom: (1) an Alaskan Amber ale on the back deck of our cabin; (2) moose cow in Soldotna, AK at a popular though undisclosed hunting spot; (3) the same herdlet of caribou we spotted 2 mornings in a row; (4) spincasting psychiatrist on the Russian River (he'd rather be fly casting, but TSA broke that rod); (5) fishing off our own backyard; (6) flatbed towtruck belonging to Sterling Towing, off road on Mystery Creek after midnight; (7) spotting from our truck before hiking in; (8) target practice with the Hog in Soldotna; (9) my son with his new practice gun.

Free Yourself

2008-09-04T19:22:00.005-10:00

Another one from my younger days. The late, the unknown, the Untouchables, from Southern California, knocked around with guys like Fishbone and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Much style. Much hyperactivity. Catchy tune. Hard to find, either on vinyl or in binary code (I was going to say "digitally", but that didn't sound right).

Kenai Peninsula Film Festival

2008-09-02T21:33:00.009-10:00

I am packing for the aforementioned 10-day hunting/fishing trip to the Kenai Peninsula, and along with several knives, Motorola radios, foul-weather gear, and my trusty Winchester 30-30 lever action rifle (for personal protection), I am bringing a short list of DVD watchables for the four of us to enjoy after we've had a bellyful of salmon for dinner. Three of us are 41 year-old law partners, and the fourth is a Harvard-trained psychiatrist of older vintage. I have tried to find common ground as far as movies might go, but it hasn't been easy. This is the list I've come up with:
1. Alien - Ridley Scott's gothic horror tour de force in space.
2. Aliens - James Cameron's metaphor for Vietnam in outer space, with a dash of Eighties anti-establishmentarianism for good measure.
3. A Bridge Too Far - Joseph E. Levine's Seventies folly of a movie about a folly of a World War II campaign.
4. The Outlaw Josey Wales - Nevermind Unforgiven, this is Clint Eastwood's original western masterpiece. If you don't agree, I'll womp you with a knotted plough line.
5. Midnight Run - Robert De Niro's first and best attempt at making fun of himself.
6. The Thing - John Carpenter's Eighties monster movie set in the Antarctic. Appropriate for Alaska, I'm betting.
7. The Deer Hunter - One hit wonder Michael Cimino's meditation on friendship, guns, and suffering.
8. Man on Fire - Denzel Washington's South American revenge trope. His art is death and he's about to create his masterpiece.
9. Saving Private Ryan - Spielberg on war, part deux.
10. Predator - The greatest Arnold Schwarzenegger movie ever created
11. Superbad - Let's see how the psychiatrist from the sixties handles this one.

L.L. Bean 10 inch duck boots

2008-08-24T19:55:00.009-10:00

"You cannot expect success hunting deer or moose if your feet are not properly dressed" wrote Leon Leonwood Bean, founder of the L.L. Bean brand. He designed a rubber boot with leather ankles, to provide the kind of shodding that scoffs at inclement weather. I just bought my first pair, 10" tall and thinsulate lined, this week and had them shipped out to Honolulu.

I don't know what's more astonishing, that they came out to Hawaii or that I haven't owned a pair before. I was such a Bean devotee back in college and I had fully bought into the East Coast preppie aesthetic that I owned just about every icon in the Bean catalogue except the duck boot (as they are called, rather than the "Maine Hunting Shoe" as Leon Leonwood named them). Inexplicable since - the Bean field coat, the Norwegian cardigan, the Baxter State Parka, the blucher, the Hudson Bay blanket notwithstanding -the L.L. Bean duck boot is the sine qua non of the brand.

So although the last time I set foot on the eastern shore was when a democrat was in the white house I bought a pair last week, in anticipation of a moose hunt on the Kenai Penninsula of Alaska in September. I figured it was a good enough excuse.

A Few Minutes of Your Time: Porsche Design Indicator chronograph

2008-08-21T11:03:00.007-10:00

Take a few minutes of your time to watch the video of the Porsche Design Indicator chronograph, reputedly the most sophisticated production wristwatch ever made. That remains to be seen, but it has a unique stopwatch function, a graphic power reserve (to tell you when it needs winding), and some kind of rewind feature. Oh, and it's made of titanium. List price is in the six-figures, but that's almost certainly a marketing ploy, and I expect you can drive one of these babies off the showroom floor for less than twenty large. If I could I would. The video gives you an idea of why it's worth that much. The exploded view assembly is truly incredible.

As a corollary to our OnceWereBachelors motto, if I have to explain it to you, you wouldn't understand.

I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down

2008-08-19T00:01:00.008-10:00

OK, so as any OnceWereBachelor knows, Marriage and Fatherhood, take its toll. You get old and you get busy. You can't log hours in the gym, on the road, or (in my case) in the outrigger canoe quite like you did in your twenties, without hurting yourself both mind and body. One must exercise efficiently. I've turned to two things. The first is Bikram's yoga (the hot room yoga) which is a hell I'll save for another post (it's enough for you to know at this point that it is hell).

The second is stand-up paddle surfing, which can be heaven, once you get the hang of it. Here's some guys who have.

And then there's me. I just bought a board last week (a hard to get Blane Chambers 10'3"), and although I've logged many hours surfing and even more paddling. Neither completely prepares you for stand-up, which is touted as an excellent core and conditioning workout. I'm supposed to experience weight loss and the rock hard abs I never had when I was young enough to both paddle and drink competitively. Right now, though, all I do is float around and fall down.

Which brings me to this great Elvis Costello cover of the old Stax single I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down.

The upshot of all of this, I guess, is care for yourself so that you can have the longevity to see yourself get into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, even after coming into the game as a stone outcast.

Vintage Seiko Bullhead Chronograph

2008-08-15T00:02:00.013-10:00

I like watches. I currently have about a dozen of them. One of my favorites is my brown Seiko 6138-0040 automatic chronograph. As you can see, its winding crown is at the 12 o'clock position, with the stopwatch pushers on either side, reminding one of a bull's horns. It is also asymmetrical, with it's case tapering in thickness from top to bottom. It is meant to be a driving watch, and this taper allows for easier viewing of the dial while your hands are on a steering wheel or shifter. At the time of its release, its chronograph movement, which was developed in house by Seiko, was state of the art. Today it still holds up extraordinarily well. I'm not certain but I believe this model, and its black-dialed sister, were available between the late sixties and mid seventies. It definitely has a vintage vibe, and I love wearing it, of course when I drive the Mid-Life Crisis.

I'm not particularly proud of my fascination with watches. It is quite frivolous, and despite my rationalizations that these automatic, self-winding timepieces are little works of engineering art on my wrist, I realize they're just jewelry. I have a box of jewelry.

Let me repeat for purposes of self-awareness: "I have a box of jewelry".

Hmm, that's not so easy to admit out loud.

*Top photograph was taken from this website. If this is your picture and I am violating your copyright by posting it here, please notify me and I will immediately remove it.

Nighthawks

2008-08-05T10:47:00.009-10:00

One of my great failings in life, to date, is that I have never gone to the Art Institute of Chicago to see my favorite painting, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. Sure every other dorm room in the Eighties might have had a print hanging, but to see it in person, full scale, is something I should have done while I was going to law school not two hours away in South Bend, IN. I have a print in my office, but it's faded from years of sun exposure when it was in my apartment before I got married. I also have it on my favorite coffee mug. I imagine these are not the same as seeing them in situ.

The only "favorite painting", I've seen in person is Pablo Picasso's Guernica, which hangs in it's own room in Madrid's Prado museum. It is huge and imposing and powerful and well worth the price of admission.

Certainly not the same as having it on a mousepad.

The Canon: Guidebooks for Bachelors

2008-07-31T11:09:00.013-10:00

There are many books that help lay out the road map. These are just a few of them.

The Preppy Handbook by Lisa Birnbach - What do I know about being preppy? Not much really, coming from Honolulu, Hawaii. Being educated at an Episcopalian prep school here made no difference, especially once I got out to the East Coast. And certainly, this book, like many of its ilk, is more tongue in cheek than anything else. But it does set standards: eat, drink, be merry, accumulate only fine things and don't discard them, make friends for life. Like any guidebook, humorous or not, some advice can be ignored. It's always best to dress properly, but pink and green is no longer the solution.

The Modern Man's Guide to Life by Various Contributors - I found this book in an Urban Outfitters store on M Street in Georgetown in 1988, and despite containing some dated material now, I'm glad I made the impulse purchase. In fact, this book, coupled with Adm. William Stearman's 1989 farewell address to his seminar class on National Security Decision Making (a subject for future entry here, for sure) certainly informed my young adult life. This book contains everything from how to skin a squirrel, how to grease a maitre'd for a prime table, metric conversion tables, you name it, it's in there. Some knowledge I still use, such as the quick recipe for pasta carbonara.

The Dangerous Book for Boys by The Brothers Iggulden - I just bought this book really, and I've only thumbed through it. Costco had stacks and stacks of them and I couldn't resist it's heft and the urgent tomato red cover. It promises afternoons with my son filled with scheming over toy soldiers, building periscopes, and classifying dead insects. We'll see if it delivers, and if not, it's out of the Canon.

We're Going to Rain Unholy Death On You

2008-07-28T09:33:00.008-10:00

I had alot of time to spend with my four year old this past weekend, as my wife had other commitments. Besides visiting the Pacific Aviation Museum, we steam cleaned the rugs in the Porsche (we're going to be installing re-upholstered seats soon), watched Batman cartoons, climbed trees, and we "fought the witches". Fighting witches is a game of our own invention wherein we arm ourselves to the teeth with guns, knives, and poison, and BRING IT to a brood of imaginary witches that live in his mom's dresser. It begins with taunting: "Ooooh Witches! We're going to rain unholy death on you!" and it ends with orchestrated ordnance from "air support", to whom my son delivers precise fire control instructions. It's a hoot.

Which only remotely reminds me of the original OnceWereBachelor television show which played from 1969 to 1972, The Courtship of Eddie's Father. Now I'm no dyed in the wool fan of this feel good "dramedy", but it occupies a small space in my memory. It's about a six year old son trying to find his widowed dad a new mate while living in Southern California and being cared for by his Japanese nanny, Mrs. Livingston. It's all there. The mid-century modern furniture, the cocktails, go go dancing and go karts, and big chested women with squinty eyes.

Maybe writers like the device of writing out one parent so the relationship with the other parent can be brought into sharp relief. I certainly learn that each weekend that my wife works or has a function to attend, because when it's the three of us, I'm often chopped liver to my boy.

French Toast for Breakfast

2008-07-26T21:12:00.009-10:00

It is important that, by the time you're grown up enough to have your own kitchen at your disposal (not your mommy's kitchen), you know how to make french toast. As a bachelor, isn't it key to be able to offer breakfast to a date? There's something about the caramelization on the outside and the custardization on the inside that will make a lady want to wake up in your apartment again (not that you necessarily want her to, but that's a different issue).

But hey, I'm married so there's most definitely only one woman I want to woo with the promise of breakfast. Lucky for me my son's favorite breakfast on a saturday morning is Dad's French Toast. Done right, he's mine for the whole day.

Ingredients: Ani's Portuguese Sweet Bread, Eggs (or quality egg substitute), milk, honey, vanilla.

Procedure: Slice sweet bread into 2.5 inch thick pieces and place in 200 deg. oven for a few minutes. You are making the bread stale. In a bowl, mix 2 parts beaten egg with 1 part (or less) milk, a capful of vanilla, and a six count of honey (approximately 2 tablespoons worth). Whisk, then set aside to let the froth settle. Coat cast iron skillet (well seasoned, of course), which has been waiting over medium heat, with butter. My trick is to take a paper towel and run it over the butter substitute in a tub until it's good and loaded, then smear it on the hot pan. Soak each piece of sweet bread well and let drain in your fingers, taking care that it doesn't disintegrate under its own weight. Gently place in skillet with a few others, leaving enough room that you can spatula comfortably. When the heat has cooked the piece just a bit, press down with a spatula to facilitate caramelization. Turn over once after the bottom has crusted brown (trial and error is an essential element here). Remove from skillet and return to 200 deg. oven until ready to serve. Repeat process, including an occasional regreasing of the pan. You can dust the toast with cinnamon, but neither my wife nor son care for this, so I have removed this from the recipe. And powdered sugar is just a bit too Martha Stewart, so I eschew this too.

Today, my son and I had our french toast across the table from each other before we paid a visit to the Pacific Aviation Museum. Actually, he requested it the day before, as he often does on fridays. There are many skills I've carried over from college days to fatherhood, but few as indispensible as this.

OnceWereBachelors Careers: High Stakes Thief

2008-07-23T14:25:00.012-10:00

Meet Neil McCauley. No wife. No kids. No Mortgage. So what makes him a OnceABachelor? Well he's got a nice shiny unfurnished home overlooking the bioluminescence of the City of Los Angeles. He's got the "crew", ready to rock and roll, who will do anything for him and vice versa. And he's forgotten more ways to rip off people than many of us will ever know. He knows how to deal from the bottom of the deck, to enter a building through a roof, drill or burn open a safe, and get in and out, on the prowl or strong.

He's got no time for nonsense. He's married to his job and his job is High Stakes Thief. He's ready to do what it takes to take down scores but he's also ready to walk out on everything in 30 seconds flat if he spots the heat around the corner. That's the discipline. But look what happens when he lets a doe-eyed graphic designer with a needy gene into his life.

Yeah, we're talking about the Michael Mann movie Heat, with Robert De Niro playing McCauley. I'm tempted to fail to mention Al Pacino's Vincent Hanna, because I haven't been a Pacino fan since his last good performance in Godfather Part II, but I digress. Watch Heat if you feel you need to be reminded of what it takes to be a man on a mission.

Incidentally, I know that the first embeded hyperlink is to Terry Gilliam's Brazil, with Robert DeNiro portraying Harry Tuttle, not Neil McCauley. But the idea is the same: go anywhere, travel light, get in and out, a man alone, wherever there's trouble

Donald Fagen's New Frontier

2008-07-15T15:45:00.006-10:00

YouTube is a wonderful thing. It is now my go-to site when I need to hear a song I don't have a copy of in digital form and need to find fast. Since I don't have a "record player" I can't play my collection of vinyl. Moreover, there are some music videos that I'd just like to see again after decades have passed and the gossamer days of early MTV have given way to the huge corporate hydrant firehosing the Industry of Cool down our throats. The New Frontier video represents the latter and not the former, as I actually own this song on vinyl, tape, 2 CDs (one for my home and another for my car) and on the iPod. Instead, this video is one of the first to go beyond the cliches of the day, which included girls in red heels, post-apocalyptic Road Warrioriana, and lip-synching in construction sites. Check out the Elvis Costello glasses, the little watusi dance, Atomic Cafe animation, the Brubeck album cover. It has it all.

And the song itself? One of my favorites off my Number One Desert Island Disc. Donald Fagen's The Nightfly came to me as a freshman in college and was a revelation, that pop music could be evocative without being sentimental, could be beautiful without being - well, lame. I listened to it back to back to back often, particularly in the hot summer of 1988 when I slept on a mattress in the kitchen of a basement efficiency studio on S Street, NW in DC. It was my only happiness that didn't involve punk rock music, and was therefore even more special.

Songs that Speak Truth: Once in a Lifetime

2008-07-15T15:27:00.004-10:00

Truer words were never sung:

"Well, how did I get here?"

"Same as it ever was. SAME AS IT EVER WAS."

"How do I work this?"

"This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!"

"MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE"

What I Wore Twenty Years Ago

2008-07-13T00:15:00.005-10:00

What I wore twenty years ago was a pair of Duck Head chinos from Britches Great Outdoors, a Brooks Brothers oxford button down shirt over a turtleneck, no socks, and L.L. Bean footwear, either leather bluchers or dirty bucks. I would hold my pants up with a braided leather belt from Jos. Banks; a belt which I still have but which is now unusable because of both condition and size. If the weather was inclement, I'd wear a Bean Baxter State Parka with a tear in the back from when Rich Matic and I went tumbling through a plate glass door in front of New South Dining Hall. This uniform would work for me for about three and a half seasons in D.C. If it was sunny -- in fact, daylight was the real prerequisite, not brightness -- I'd wear a pair of gold Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, but not the kind that Tom Cruise wore in Top Gun. They were more like the glasses Dennis Quaid wore in the "who's the best pilot you ever saw" scene in the Right Stuff, my all time favorite movie.

Ah yes, the Right Stuff, an incredible movie based on an equally incredible book by chronicler of zeitgeist Tom Wolfe. A movie that was meant to be a western with pilots instead of cowboys. Take stock of the Mercury Seven, portrayed with stylized verisimilitude by Scott Glenn (Alan Sheppard), Ed Harris (John Glenn), Fred Ward (Gus Grissom), and Quaid (Gordo Cooper, the best pilot you ever saw). Throw playwright Sam Shepard in as fastest man alive Chuck Yeager, for good measure. These were men who had public personae thrust upon them, when in fact all most of them (save John Glenn and his twerpy sidekick, Scott Carpenter) wanted to do was to navigate the holy coordinates of the fighter jock: flying and drinking and drinking and driving and screwing. How can you do that when you're expected to be Buck Rogers?

Bachelor Pad

2008-07-12T15:32:00.002-10:00

What self respecting bachelor would fail to find himself a bachelor pad to come home to and entertain in? Perhaps iconic to me were those depictions in Playboy, cutaway watercolor images of a luxe living room or a fabulous den equipped with a round bed which lowered from the ceiling.

It had better have a bar, a place to fix cocktails, and no we're not talking about a place to park the kegerator. It needs to have all kinds of hi-tech, like a hi-fi and a clock radio. It needs a television, and although nowadays large plasma screens are all the rage, howsabout one of those all-picture-tube-no-cabinet jobs that George and Elroy Jetson watched the Space Race on back when the early sixties was all Tomorrow. And while you're at it, make it lower out of the ceiling too. Indoor reflecting pools are in, lap pools are out; nevermind that Mark Spitz was one of the great bachelors of his time. The Bachelor Pad is not the place to exert oneself. In fact, you can also forget about the Bachelor Pad ever being a fixer-upper; I don't think James Bond could pull off the Bob Villa schtick. No home repairs, then.

Which brings me to what I've been doing these past few days while the wife and son were away. I performed some bathroom repairs of a commodal nature. I moved some large items into our small attic, to make room for other items, yet to be acquired by the Mrs. But in a true act of OnceWereBachelorship, brother-in-law Captain Mike, who is flying the LAX-HNL-LAX route this month, showed me how to hang ceiling fans, which we hung in my living room, family room, and the master bedroom. What a guy. Luckily, we didn't have any round beds to dismantle. Good thing we had ribeyes and cigars at DK Steakhouse in Waikiki the night before.

So the next time we have guests over to the suburbs for cocktails and jazz, they can cool off under the whip-fast blades of my brushed-nickel aero-fans.

Bruce Wayne, Fictional Bachelor

2008-07-09T16:58:00.001-10:00

Bruce Wayne is one of my favorite Fictional Bachelors. He is once quoted as saying, in Adam West's quaveringly solemn tone, "I do nothing that any man with unlimited funds, superb physical conditioning, and a keen intellect could not do". You tell 'em, Bruce.

Bruce Wayne throws lavish parties in a huge mansion with a deep, hidden secret. He spends millions on cool gadgets that would be equally at home in the pages of Wired, Jane's Defense Weekly, and Bondage Illustrated. He drives a cool car and dresses well, night or day. Yet, this is all esoterica compared to his strong moral compass: stomp the bejeezus out of the filthy scum who make Gotham City (my city) a world class suck to live in, but don't kill them. He recognizes that criminals are a superstitious cowardly lot and that he needs to strike fear in their hearts by assuming the guise of a bat. Good idea, Bruce. And this is all done in the comfort of his high-ceilinged study, replete with mahogany wainscoting while he wears a fancy ascot. Oh, it's a prep school repp tie. Same difference.

He is urbane but not genteel. He parties hard and uses women. Yeah, he uses women to hide his deep moral uptightedness. His busy social calendar is filled, whether its a tony charity ball or a date with a can of whup ass. Everyone in Gotham City knows OF him, and wants to get to know him, yet, nobody really does. Even his most trusted colleagues are kept at arms length, the better to operate without hindrance. Heck, he scares the crap out of Commissioner Gordon whenever he comes and goes, and he keeps a pocketful o' kryptonite in case the Big Blue Boyscout ever steps out of line.

And what's great is that Bruce makes a great OnceABachelor, too, now that he's settled down with a significant other and a young boy to take care of. Nevermind that they're one and the same person, somebody he calls "Dick" (go ahead, Google "NAMBLA").

So here's to Bruce Wayne, one of the great Fictional Bachelors I've always wanted to be (I think).

Mid-Life Crisis Anyone?

2008-07-03T15:26:00.002-10:00

I turned 40 years old nine months ago and I haven't gotten any crankier than I was before, I haven't begun to get up ten times a night to pee, and I haven't begun to forget people's names (except for the inconsequential many who populate the background of my life). So how do I know I'm deep in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Three words: Little. Red. Porsche.

Yes, I bought a 1984 Porsche 944 sports car with a 150 horsepower, normally aspirated four cylinder engine, allegedly squeezing out a top speed in the 130 mph range. As much as I love my wife, son, and family, I find that this car occupies my waking thoughts quite frequently. I like to think of it as the car I only dreamed of owning back when it was new and I was a senior in high school, the car that Jake Ryan drove in Sixteen Candles, the car that Porsche Purist Dicks love to hate. It's a quick little piece of german engineering, that can turn in on any car and embarrass it in front of the popular girls, even cars twice its price, twice its horsepower, and half its age.

But I also recognize that it's a desperate attempt at bottling youthfulness. It also represents compromise, being cheap and able to transport a young son in an otherwise useless backseat. Moreso, this particular model has the less-desireable 3 dial dash with unattractive yellow gauges using Seventies technology. I have changed them out for better looking ones, but still it's a work in progress. Note the jokey tank commander goggles hanging from the mirror in this image; I'm trying not to take it seriously, yet I love it.

As the inaugural post of OnceWereBachelors, why is my car even here? Perhaps it's because lost bachelorhood is a desperate state of compromises where fatherhood is a work in progress. And you need to wear tank commander goggles to make it through the black smoke with a smile.