As I prepare for the move next door into my renovated beach bungalow (Project 137), I’ve started getting stuff together, going through the necessary items, and chucking, eBaying or Craigslisting the rest.
As part of the meditation, I came across my version of a time capsule: my wallet from my senior year at Aviation High School, 1979.
I’ve become more specific in the things I like and care about. Call it handcrafted, bespoke, one off—you decide, but I really prefer things that have my personal imprint on them. I’ll powder coat the mundane bicycle crank in an obscure tint, thanks to Bob Barnes, put a patinated polish on a new pair of brogues, thanks Pasquale, and I’ll tweak that which doesn’t really need tweaking. I’ve posted about downsizing and editing, and one of the inherent pleasures in doing so is the chance to choose that one thing, or two, and really make it yours. Read more…
For the last five years I’ve been traveling from LA to Palo Alto in my work for the most exciting company in the world. Hotels in Palo Alto are tough to come by, and expensive during Stanford basketball and football seasons, and in 2005, I was lucky enough to find 225 square foot “mother-in-law” unit in a great mid-century Eichler house in a cool tract of Eichler homes. While my pad up north lacks a kitchen (I get by with a mini-fridge and microwave), I’ve come to realize that less can really be more, and super livable. When Manhattan Beach became “disco” in the old New Economy, and charming beach cottages made way for lot to lot McMansions, my disdain for large and overbuilt increased like beach front square footage, and had me thinking about what you really need if you live in a place you really love.
Sometimes the soul just calls for a good old-fashioned road trip. Having just picked up two Steve McQueen photo/bios (McQueen, and McQueen’s Machines), I was inspired, not just by the details of the amazing cars of the consummate cool cat, but the stories of his impromptu dashes across California in some of Italy and Germany’s finest.
While not as exotic, I channeled my inner-McQueen and felt that the often tweaked 1997 Land Rover Defender 90 that I have owned since new, was now worthy of a trek of it’s own. Having only driven as far as LA-SF-LA in the Defender, what I was about to embark on could have proven to be uncomfortable, daunting, definitely loud, but necessary. I’ve had the Defender apart in so many stages of tweak and undress, that I figured—saving some internal combustion disaster, I could figure out anything that could go wrong, or at least get in touch with someone who could.
As you can probably tell, it’s the introduction to the things that I love that are as important as the things themselves. I love the surf mats, because of the memories that the smell brings, or the feel of my father’s shell cordovan wallet.
As a kid, I was in love with assembly lines. Maybe it was the Cub Scout trip to the Rold Gold pretzel factory in El Segundo, the surfboard shaping and glassing bays of my teen years, or the industrial films that were shown on the rare rainy day recesses at Grandview School, but I love seeing how things I love are made.
I’m a creature of habit in most things I do, from the prescriptive nature of the things I love to where I travel when I have free time. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve spent every Christmas holiday — other than the millennium year — in Honolulu.
Honolulu is a second home for me. And there are the things I do and wear in Honolulu that get me through the six months away, until I can’t stand it anymore and have to go back.
As you can probably tell, it’s the things from my youth that had the greatest impact on me. From sartorial inspiration, my father was a Brooks Brothers Preppy, to 70’s surf style—David Nuuhiwa at Huntington, to the cars that the local heroes drove—why I have a soft spot for 70’s VW square backs—Aviation High School’s board transporter of choice. It’s what the crazed watch collectors call “grail” things. Those Holy Grail items that haunt them; the must haves, the quest.
I have a theory that passion for collecting moves in 25-45 year cycles, we love the things that inspired us, but were unattainable in our youth i.e., in 1972, Bahne skateboards were $29.85 when the Super Surfers were $12.95. And, Cadillac skateboard wheels were $4.95/each—and, hard to come by, while the standard composite wheels were a buck or less. Hermosa surf star, Mike Purpus, drove a 1978 Black Porsche Turbo, which seemed completely exotic to all of us. That’s Mike with the Puka shells in a Jeff Devine photo.
As this all pertains to cars, and me. I became obsessed with the last of the handmade Mercedes and BMW’s. As a kid, a friend’s mom drove a 1970’s Mercedes 280sel 3.5 sedan, and even then we were all moved by the beauty of the burl wood dash, and the physics of the Becker Europa radio—it wasn’t a stereo. The 2002 BMW’s were small, sharp, and cool. In college, the hipsters from Marin County kept the ski racks on year round, always ready for the trip to Tahoe. I was in a 1975 2002 last night, and the indescribable smell of the interior, brought me right back there.
But, I remember the moment in Santa Barbara when I fell in love with the low-grilled 1970 Mercedes 280se convertible. I was in junior high, but in Santa Barbara with the family. I became car obsessed as a 12 year old, and my dad’s passion for all things motorized, cars and Cushman scooters, had me thinking about driving every day from 11 until I turned 16. This particular 280se was parked in front of the Santa Barbara Biltmore, and embodied all that was old school and wonderful about Montecito. It was silver, with a navy top and interior, the owner was a rakish mid-30’s prepster with a hot GF. I was in love, not with the girl, but with the 280se.
Last month I had the opportunity to trade my 20-year project, a 1948 Mercury Woodie, (click for video) for one of the nicest 1970 280se’s that I have ever seen. Restored by Malibu/Calabasas legend, Scott Melnick–Auto Engineering/Classic Mercedes, it came to me through my dear friend Andy Cohen at Beverly Hills Classic Cars. I never thought I’d sell the Woodie, but the siren song of nostalgia, in the form of the 280, was too much for me to withstand. The car came from a great collection, with only a couple of thousand miles since the full restoration. In the last two weeks, I’ve driven it more than I drove the Woodie in the last 4 years.
This era of Mercedes is truly the last of the breed. Build quality that everyone wishes Mercedes still delivered, a super heavy and solid ride, and little touches like seat backs that won’t fold forward when the engines running—for safety, activated by a vacuum switch.
I took my daughters for their first ride in the car last week; I hadn’t realized that they had never been in a convertible before. As we jammed down Vista Del Mar, sun blazing, wind in our faces, my beaming daughter Daisy said she “felt like she was flying…” I know exactly what she meant.
As a kid, we had a “no boring cars” rule in the house. My first car was a 1938 Dodge sedan, light yellow, Earl Scheib 29.95, paint job—no kidding. It was from there to ‘65-’67 Mustangs, lots of Long Beach Junkyard time, and then on to various other projects, and the occasional beauties. Highlights from the long sold, departed, traded repertoire include a 1956 Thunderbird, 1995 Chevrolet Impala SS—weird, but I loved it, a grey market Mercedes G-Wagen—before they were the ride of choice for hipster soccer moms, and current rides; a 1997 Defender 90, 1989 Jeep Grand Wagoneer, and the 1947 Mercury Woodie.
A couple of months ago, I guest blogged at Outblush.com (see link here), and I was given the opportunity to muse on whatever I liked, as long as it was about women’s fashion.
I blogged about authentic women’s riding boots, because I have always loved the amazing construction and patina that comes from clothing as “tools,” taking on a used beauty that only comes from being depended on, loved and worn. But to own and wear a pair of these beauties is: 1. difficult for a man who isn’t an Argentine polo player and 2. an affectation at best and 3. uncomfortable at worst around town.
The purpose of this site is to shine a light on things that that have some substance and in some way matter to me. Keep in mind, that these are mostly going to be things, places, events, stores—not wholly substantive in terms of the real things that matter: balance, life, health and the people we love--but ideas concepts, and yes, things that have more substance than not. Hence the name… As my father used to tell me: “Focus on the donut, not on the hole.” Peace.
