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Posts Tagged ‘anchor button’


I remember the night before the Running of the Cats. The sky was some shade of periwinkle, or perhaps it was cerulean. The moonlight flowed down on the treetops like fairy dust, or maybe smoke from a junior high science experiment gone bad. You turned my tea cup over to read the leaves, and pronounced that there were two sides to every story…to which I added under my breath, “more like a dozen, but who’s counting”. Later, we strolled along the stone walkway by the dark river, looking for narrow bridges to cross. I fastened the fouled anchor gold buttons of my navy wool, moth-eaten pea coat, wrapped my 5’ long striped mustard and violet scarf securely about my neck, and nibbled on a piece of spicy stout gingerbread.
“Tu me fais tourner la tête
Mon manège à moi c’est toi
Je suis toujours à la fête
Quand tu m‘prends dans tes bras
Je ferais le tour du monde
Ça ne tourn‘rait pas plus qu’ça
La terre n’est pas assez ronde
Pour m’étourdir autant qu’toi”

(By J. Constantin and N. Glanzberg)

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It is 3 pm on an overcast, breezy Sunday afternoon, and I’m off to meet my favorite trio of international sailors at Stella Pastry and Café in North Beach. I’ve eaten nothing since an early Southern breakfast of Virginia ham sandwiched between two halves of beaten biscuits, peppery scrambled eggs, and a carafe of hot, sweet candy bar coffee to wash all that goodness down. In honor of my nautical crew, I am wearing a navy wool pea-coat with gleaming silver rope-entwined anchor buttons, black leather 13-button sailor pants, a black ribbed pullover, a 5’ long red and white striped muffler, and scuffed black lace-up ankle boots.
“In the navy
Yes, you can sail the seven seas
In the navy
Yes, you can put your mind at ease
In the navy
Come on people, fall an’ make a stand
In the navy, in the navy
Can’t you see we need a hand”

(By those sea-faring folks….The Village People)

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I have decided to take up a sport; I don’t want anything too unseemly and sweaty, and would prefer an activity requiring a uniform, as I’m always interested in a fabulous change of clothing. After a friend invites me to a game of table tennis or “wiff-waff” at the Sunset Recreation Center, I’m decided; any game which has been played with paddles made of cigar box lids and balls made of champagne corks, is my kind of sport! There does not seem to be a standardized outfit, and I am forced by propriety to invent one. I am wearing a dark grey wool beret, a grey and olive green narrowly striped knit top, black heavy cotton knit sailor pants fastened with 13 Italian silver fouled anchor buttons, grey ribbed cotton socks, and black and natural canvass Vivienne Westwood casual shoes with silver side and heel buckles. Whistling “No Strings”, I saunter down the street to meet my friend for a rowdy game of ping-pong.
“I wake up every morning with a smile on my face
Everything in its place as it should be
I start out every morning just as free as the breeze
My cares upon the shelf
Because I find myself with
No strings and no connections
No ties to my affections
I’m fancy free and free for anything fancy”

(By Irving Berlin)

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I’m lazy. Some people call it procrastination, but in my little black heart, I know better. If I had my way, I would spend day after day in my pajamas, with only occasional outdoor forays to ensure that my rudimentary social skills are up to par. Telephones, texting, chat, and email were invented for introverts and loafers like myself. My friends disagree with my hermit ways, so I’m dourly dressing to meet the gang at Alaturca in the Tenderloin. I am wearing a cream cotton button-down shirt, red and mustard foulard bow-tie, red suede waistcoat with silver and gold anchor buttons, an espresso brown lambskin leather jacket, blue denim 501s, red socks, and brown monk strap wingtip shoes with perforated spiral detailing. It is difficult to feel cranky when wearing a bow-tie, and while anticipating the fried goodness of havoc kizartmasi, and lamb Adana kebab with my lovely pals. I leave my apartment, while whistling a Turkish tune.
“Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it’s Turkish delight on a moonlit night
Every gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople
So if you’ve a date in Constantinople
She’ll be waiting in Istanbul”

(By J. Kennedy, N. Simon)

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I am spending the morning sketching. Pauline will not stand still, and Francy frolicking at her hooves is no help whatsoever. Finally I pluck the rambunctious ginger kitten up by her cream-filled belly, and lay her atop of Pauline’s head. Nestled between Pauline’s drooping ears, Francy nods off, her head rolling forward and whiskers twitching in response to kitty dreams of sparrow chases. I’m wearing a navy and white striped singlet, 13-button blue denim sailor pants with black enamel fouled anchor design buttons, and rope sandals. My hamper sits on a tribal kelim beside me; I take a rejuvenating mouthful of scrumptious oven-roasted peaches and cream, and then lean forward, pencil in hand and whistling a sailing tune.
“Come, come, my jolly lads, the wind’s abaft,
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd;
Then bustle, bustle, boys, haul the boat,
The boatswain pipes aloud.
All hands on board, our ship’s unmoored,
The rising gale fills ev’ry sail,
Our ship’s well manned and stored.
Then sling the flowing bowl..
Then sling the flowing bowl…
Fond hopes arise, the girls we prize
Shall bless each jovial soul;
Then the can, boys, bring,
We’ll drink and sing,
While the foaming billows roll.”

(By Sheridan)

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It is a lazy day, perfect for cat walking lessons. Francy is in an unusually placid mood, and for that I am grateful. After breakfast of Italian herring for Francy, and cherry pie and hot coffee for me, we amble down the empty campsite lane. It is quiet now, as everyone else has taken off for complicated hiking expeditions involving mysterious gear such as compasses and trekking poles. Francy’s leash is made of powdery blue striped French silk ribbon, and aside from a brief period of bewildered slinking while cutting her amber eyes at me, she seems to be handling the concept of walking outdoors on a leash with grace and dignity. I am wearing thread worn black corduroy sailor pants adorned with 13 silver sailor buttons, a grey ribbed cotton turtleneck sweater, black harness boots, and a blue raffia straw fedora. With the scattering of white edelweiss across the forest floor, the towering pine trees, and brilliant blue sky, I feel very rustique.
“Teacher’s Pet
I wanna be Teacher’s Pet
I wanna be huddled and cuddled as close to you as I can get
(That’s the lesson we’re guessin’ you’re best in)
Mm, teacher’s pride
I wanna be teacher’s pride
I wanna be dated, paraded, the one most likely at your side
(Ya got a burnin’ yearnin’ to learn)”

(By Joe Lubin)

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