Posts Tagged ‘blazer button’

I’m a gadabout slouching upon a park bench, and wearing a moth-eaten, louche brown wool suit. Three of my waistcoat’s seven, silver starburst buttons are hanging by threads and my oxfords are scuffed at the heels. My hair is disheveled, and my black felt fedora is tipped back. There is a crew of hopeful grey speckled pigeons at my feet, pecking at scattered breadcrumbs, while I smile a goofy grin. It must be love.
Cupid, draw back your bow
And let your arrow go
Straight to my lover’s heart for me, for me
Cupid please hear my cry
And let your arrow fly
Straight to my lover’s heart for me”

(By S. Cooke)


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I need understated elegance. I need the swoosh of dapper gents tap-dancing, glittery moonlight and the sound of you sweetly whispering Tom Lehrer lyrics in my ear. I swiftly tie my taupe and bronze polka-dotted silk ascot as I prepare to step out for the evening. I’m meeting you at the local Persian café for a fine homey repast of Persian khoresh-e ghaymeh. I’m also wearing an espresso brown velveteen three-piece double-breasted suit with lion-embossed copper blazer buttons, a black silk shirt, and crocodile cowboy boots in shades of taupe and brown. Once at the café I order tea, and sip the steaming beverage through a sugar cube clenched between my front teeth.
“Since I still appreciate you,
Let’s find love while we may.
Because I know I’ll hate you
When you are old and grey.
So say you love me here and now,
I’ll make the most of that.”

(By the always brilliant satirist, T. Lehrer)

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I am determined to eat a different type of cake daily for this fine birthday month, so am preparing to bake that most iconic of Southern specialties, a red velvet cake. According to my surly pastry chef pal, the best red food coloring for red velvet cake is red dye #32. Unfortunately, this culinary aid has been banned, and we must depend upon less toxic substitutes. I’m dressing to fetch red food dye from Chinatown, so am wearing massive swaths of wine-colored velvet for my mission. My double-breasted velvet suit features exaggerated lapels, deep cuffs, and fastens with six gold metal double griffin buttons. My dapper finishing touch is red and black pointed-toe cowboy boots and Keren Ann on my iPod.
“He was a sailor
A sailor at sea and a sailor of love
And he thought he could save her
Save her from innocence up and above
’cause he never knew freedom and under the duvet
He stayed for a lifetime without any government
Help or assistance”

(By K. Ann)

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Sometimes the day exists for the clothing, and this is one of those days. The sun is shining valiantly through the fog over Twin Peaks, and I am strutting down Sanchez, twirling my ebony cane in time to music. There is a silvery grey tabby sitting on a windowsill of an Edwardian flat, delicate cream-colored lace curtains framing her furry bulk, and peering at the world sleepily. I’m heading for Samovar Lounge for one of their bracingly delectable Russian snacks consisting of tarragon-marinated beets, smoked whitefish with horseradish, paprika deviled egg with a sprinkle of black caviar, crackers, fruit, a chocolate brownie, and samovar-brewed house-blend black tea tempered with cream and sugar. My deep brown Glenn plaid three-piece suit has a touch of ultramarine blue and ocher woven into it accessorized with brown enamel and gold metal blazer buttons, and I am wearing a crisp white cotton shirt with French cuffs, an ocher silk knit tie, ultramarine blue striped silk hose, black highly shined blüchers, and a brown wool felt bowler hat.
“They seek him here, they seek him there,
His clothes are loud, but never square.
It will make or break him so he’s got to buy the best,
‘Cause he’s a dedicated follower of fashion.
‘Cause he’s a dedicated follower of fashion.”

(By R. Davies)

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I’m sitting on a cold concrete park bench at night, not thinking about much of anything. The moon is out, and shining with a white gleam through the Ginkgo tree branches. The midnight air is sodden with San Francisco dankness – a mixture of salty ocean and fog. I shiver, buttoning the triple crown engraved silver buttons of my vintage black velveteen Nehru jacket, and wrapping my red mohair scarf around my neck thrice to ward off the chill. It is the beautiful night, full of promises and wishes.
If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do
Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing
Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

(By L. Harline and N. Washington)

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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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The airplane carries me forward. If I grew wings, this is how I would fly; slicing through fat, silvery clouds and occasionally swooping, one wing dipping down gracefully while the other wing shoots upwards. I open “Passionate Nomad: The Life of Freya Stark” by J. Geniesse, and find my dog-eared marker. The person snoozing next to me is wearing a cocoa brown herringbone jacket with antique gold metal buttons, and every time they shift, the wool jacket releases the heady, seductive smell of amber and lavender. I remember and sigh, then skip forward to another wistful song.
“Sunday morning and I’m falling
I’ve got a feeling I don’t want to know
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It’s all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Watch out, the world’s behind you
There’s always someone around you who will call
It’s nothing at all”

(By L. Reed and J. Cale)

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