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Posts Tagged ‘horn button’


Can one be a flâneur anywhere? Am I only a foppish melancholic meandering anonymously, looking for clues without asking a question? It is a dismal early morning, and I need inspiration and exercise. I want my body to fall wearily into a café’s metal chair at the end of my travels, my eyes, imagination and heart full of city sights. Kissing Lulu and Francy’s snoozing heads, I leave my apartment wearing clothing suitable for a sidewalk hike and a tryst with the city; black ankle-high walking boots, brown flannel pants, a vintage wool herringbone Norfolk jacket with beautifully variegated deepest brown classic horn buttons, a cream pleated front linen shirt adorned with a burnt orange paisley ascot, and a chocolate brown wool newsboy’s cap. And a tailored jacket pocket crammed with a waxed paper bag of chocolate madeleines.
“In the flâneur`s perceptive eyes, what appeared incoherent and meaningless gains focus and visibility. The flâneur brings alive and invests with significance the fleeting, everyday occurrences of the city that ordinary people failed to notice. The unique relationship between the flâneur and the urban environment was invariably characterized by the metaphor of the city as text and the flâneur as reader.”
(The Flâneur and the Aesthetic Appropriation of Urban Culture in Mid-19th century, Paris, Theory, Culture and Society by M. Gluck)

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You are having your infamous seasonal potluck, and the theme is “raisins”. We have all been painstakingly assigned categories; there is very little better in life than to receive a gilded envelope with a piece of deckled edged handmade paper inside of it, printed in India ink with the three letter word, “PIE”. I have made my Aunt Edmonia’s sour cream raisin pie in a vintage red pottery pie plate. I’ve ground fresh nutmeg on top of the luscious Southern delicacy prior to baking it, and the custard is a rich brown. I fasten the etched black horn buttons my brown and grey herringbone wool coat, wind my hand-knit brown scarf twice around my neck, search for my brown kidskin gloves, and then shoo Francy from her improvised nest and grab my helmet. I am now ready to ride my scooter across town to your place for the mid-winter festivities.
“If you want a lover
I’ll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I’ll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner
Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I’m your man”

(by L. Cohen)

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It was a day of culinary debauchery; the hit of the 10 foot spread was a pecan-topped sweet potato extravaganza containing maple syrup, nutmeg and almost two sticks of butter. It was served in an oblong red vintage pottery casserole dish, barely making it from one end of the table to the other and finally being zealously guarded by a gleeful and bearded gnome of a guest. After the feast, I immersed myself in the outdoor hot-tub and floated in the steamy water under the dark night sky and shining stars, sipping lemon-water and watching soft snowflakes fall gently through the shadowy fir tree branches. Relaxing into a dreamy, drowsy state, I got out at 1 am, wrapped myself in my worn brown corduroy dressing gown with striped horn buttons, and sleepily pad-pad went to my down-covered single bed.
Mister Sandman, bring me a dream
Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen
Give him two lips like roses in clover
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over
Mister Sandman, I’m so alone
Don’t have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mister Sandman, bring me a dream”

(By P. Ballard)

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I confess, it is all about the kitties. Lulu and Francy have ganged up to inundate me with suggestions regarding their food. My apartment is awash in meows and feline chirps; Lulu wants fishies, and Francy wants chicken, Lulu wants it crunchy, and Francy wants it the consistency of mashed potatoes….the complains linger like cheap cigar smoke. I try reading them some poetry to settle their nerves, but they are having none of it. Finally, I throw up my hands, wave the white flag, and prepare to disembark on a grand cat dinner buying spree. Fall has arrived, so I wear my faux fur lined grey and black herringbone wool car coat with stout, carved, two-hole, horn buttons, black 501s, a grey turtleneck, black and green striped socks, and my favorite green Docs.
“The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money.
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are, you are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
‘Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.”

(By Edward Lear)

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My mantra for this week is “no more cake!”…repeated as needed. I am willing to concede to pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap pecan crust, as it is packed that most delicate of proteins, cream cheese. I have decided to visit the park, and sprinkle slices of cheesecake along the pathway from the fall mums to the fading roses. Channeling a persona somewhere between the Pied Piper and Hansel and Gretel, I take off with my wicker hamper of creamy cheesecake. Who can resist a sly seducer in a black suede cloak with black horn toggle buttons, Kelly green elfin shoes, and an armful of goodies?
We’re off to see the Wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
We hear he is a Whiz of a Wiz
If ever a Wiz there was
If ever, oh ever, a Wiz there was
The Wizard of Oz is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things he does
We’re off to see the wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz!”

(By H. Arlen)

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I’ve been feeling like the world’s most boring slacker, my brain as flaccid and interesting as a cold, wet noodle. In my quest for self-betterment, I have enrolled in the Fortune Flag Book making course at the San Francisco Center for the Book. It is 2 am and I’m sifting through my collection of fortunes; my favorite is “You are prefect in every way”, and although I believe they meant “perfect”, I’m not buying it. I toss the less flattering fortunes to the cats, and then disrobe, leaving my navy and wine Liberty paisley pajamas with black etched horn buttons hung over my cherry bedpost. Bubble-baths and hot scones split with melting butter often cure melancholy, and I’m hoping they will do their magic tonight.
“Every cloud must have a silver lining
Wait until the sun shines through
Smile my honey dear, while I kiss away each tear
Or else I shall be melancholy too!”

(By E. Burnett and G. Norton)

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Francy and Lulu are deep in the middle of The Frisky Hour, that time of morning after they have eaten their kitty kibbles and feel driven to chase imaginary creatures about the apartment. I am drinking strong sweet coffee and eating warm chocolate bread pudding in bed, wearing brown tone-on-tone striped pajamas with a stampede of black Scottish Terrier horn buttons up the front, and reading the book review section of the Sunday New York Times. Suddenly the wacked out felines scamper in all wild and gleaming-eyed, and leap onto the bed. Francy misjudges, and falls back with an ungraceful thud. I lift the paper up a few inches so she can’t see me snicker, and hum a tune as if nothing had happened.
“In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking
Now heaven knows, anything goes”

(Who else….Cole Porter)

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