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.

The late 60’s IH Scouts have the same appeal, not because we had one—we didn’t, but because of my relentless and unsuccessful pursuit to get my dad to buy one.  The same can be said of the 1968 Mustang California Special that I really thought my mom should drive, and the near breakdown I had a couple of years later in a Santa Monica Ford Dealer, where I felt I was making progress to get my dad to spring for a 1972 DeTomaso Pantera as his daily driver… I was so close…

The Scout infatuation was really about the dealer experience.  Bob Hansen in Hawthorne, CA, just east of Manhattan Beach.  Hansen was a big game hunter, and the dealership was full of his trophies.  The most impressive of which was a giant polar bear, up on his rear legs in full attack mode.  There were many diversions by Bob Hansen’s to see his latest conquests, and we always found some reason to get our moms/dads to stop by and the way to/from a Cub Scout meeting/outing.

The IH Scouts were our favorites on the dealer lot.  Simple and functional, they reminded me of a more civilized army jeep, or the Revell half track models that I used to build.  I like that they were modular—some were hard tops, others were soft tops, or pickups.  The most romantic version was the topless Scout with the windshield folded forward—the perfect surf wagon.

One day we were driving down Rosecrans and my dad stopped without any whining from me.  On the marquee out front was a notice about the new Subarus that had just arrived.  The Subaru wagon was available for just over $1,500, and my dad bought one on the spot.  While not particularly cool, the fact that it came from the home of Polar Bears and Scouts is what made them okay.

In the last 35 years I’ve gone through different IH phases, looking for IH Travelalls, and always keeping an eye out for a Scout project.  For the last few years, I’ve been eying a rust-free, desert project.  I’ve penciled out what needs to be done, and even began the conversation with Hot Rod builder and Chip Foose alum, Rob Phillips on what it would take.  I talked to the owner, a proud lover of Scouts, and maybe we’ll figure something out.  What I don’t need is another impractical ride, but I’ve got to get one.

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.

On New Year’s Eve morning, 84 year old Fred Kamaka, Sr. was  leading the tour of the Kamaka Ukulele factory—holiday or not.

This is truly nirvana for the uke player, scion of the greatest uke maker, leading a tour of 10 through the small Honolulu factory, talking story, introducing us to his Ohana, all while detailing the amazing story of his father who started the business 93 years ago, and his brother who took over the business with Sam in the 1950’s.

You know by now that I’m an enthusiastic, but not outstanding uke player.  What I may lack in ability, I try to make up for in practice and constant proximity to a uke.  On any trip more than a night, I bring a uke with me, and had one with me last week in Park City for the Sundance Film festival.  Everyone loves picking up the Uke and Vice Magazine’s Eddy Moretti—an accomplished guitar player was hooked.  It’s the easy sound, and comfortable size and weight that makes the uke so cool.  A integral part of Polynesian culture, Tahitian ukes are rare, with a totally different sound and vibe.  Eddy’s partner, Shane Smith and his lovely wife, Tamika,  hauled a beautiful Tahitian uke back for me over the holidays.

The visit to Kamaka was made particularly sweet by Fred’s narrative, and old school toughness.  Clearly this guy was not only a taskmaster, but an ass kicker when it came to, and comes to doing things his way, the right way. Fred clearly knows how he wants things done.  The automation of things like cad/cam cutting of uke necks, are a product of the next generation of Kamakas.  And, while Fred seemed skeptical about the change from a one piece to two piece neck, he was clearly happy to no longer be producing vast amounts of what he calls “the world’s most expensive sawdust,” koa is $30 a linear foot.

The trip to Kamaka was akin to taking my girls to the American Girl store on 5^th Avenue in NYC.  Like Camille and Daisy with their dolls in tow, I had my tweed cased 1969 Kamaka Soprano over my shoulder. I was eager to bring the uke back home and for Fred and Co. to hear the sweet tone of a very special uke.  My ukes aren’t the prettiest, but I only keep the ones that have that sweet tone that I love.  Fred liked my uke, but didn’t gush over it the way a proud father hoped he would.  I was able to sneak off the tour and spend some time with Fred’s nephew Chris, who showed me some of the amazing custom work that only the Kamaka family members work on.  I have a couple of uke projects in the works, but nothing like these Kamaka customs.  After some prodding, I was able to get Chris to acknowledge my uke’s special sound.

It was a special hour on the last day of an amazing year.  Fred’s narrative centered me on the need to focus on the love of family, hard work, attention to detail, and old school appreciation of doing things the right way.  Like my father, who would have been Fred’s age; the islands, family, love, focus, respect and empathy are a big part of what makes Sam and Kamaka special.  They operate Kamaka under a simple motto, “If you make instruments and use the family name, don’t make junk.”

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.

I’m lucky to rent the same house on the beach in Kahala, keep a small quiver of boards there, surf the same spots, and hang with the same friends. Though the neighborhood is super gentrified, my holiday house is a ‘60s throwback with a lava rock wall and pond, a spiral staircase, and white shag carpeting. (I also love the kitsch of a neighbor’s palm tree brace fashioned from car jacks. Classic.)

I don’t wear Aloha shirts much, but it’s all I wear when I’m here. My good friend Steve Rabineau has generously gifted his doubles to me, and I’ve added to my small collection with some select purchases from Bailey’s Antiques in Kapahulu. A god among Japanese collectors, David Bailey has the best vintage aloha shirts, he’s used his expertise to remake classic patterns so that four-figure shirts are affordable. Some of Bailey’s museum-quality collection are in Rin Tanaka’s book My Freedamn! Seven: Vintage Beach Fashions (legendary Hawaiian waterman Dale Hope’s definitive work on Aloha shirts is great, too).

As a kid, my family and I always stayed with friends at The Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Over the two-week holiday, we kids grew up there together — from kindergarten through college. I’m still in touch with some of those kids now, including Leigh Reichley, who’s now a coworker. We all surfed, gossiped, nightclubbed, made out, and hung out. The Royal just had an amazing renovation. It’s great to see the Pink Palace restored to its full glory.

Royal Hawaiian Hotel...Mid-70's..check out those custom Quiksilver boardies

Surfing plays a big part of my time in Honolulu, and I’ve been blessed with great surf on this trip and on an earlier trip here in June. June delivered south swell after south swell, truly epic double-overhead surf that looked more like Sunset than Queens. My local buddy Carnet Williams and I have scored Diamond Head and Queens on this trip, with perfect glassy conditions and head high peaks.

Food-wise, the best poke, boiled peanuts, and pickled Maui onions in Hawaii are at Fort Ruger market, just behind Diamond Head.

I’ve honed my Hawaii quiver down to a couple of boards, a mint 40-year-old 10’0 Surfboards Hawaii Model A, and a 6’0” Christiansen Fish. The first stop on the way into town from the airport is to visit Toru Yamaguchi at Surf Garage, where the Model A hangs out between visits. Toru has one of the coolest surf shops in the world, and provides a great board storage service for me and Japanese nationals who are fed up with $175+ one-way fees — dings provided for free — that the airlines offer. Surf Garage brings back memories of riding my super surfer skateboard from Manhattan Beach to E.T. Surfboards in Hermosa Beach. Shop owner Eddie Talbot always made us groms feel welcome and cool, especially after getting vibed by big shots at other shops.

The Kahala downtime is also a chance to work on my uke skills after listening to AM940’s traditional Hawaiian fare, and seeing great local musicians at the Halekulani Hotel.

Surf, family, great friends, perfect sushi, glassy head-high peaks, and playing the uke in a hammock… This is the fuel that gets me through the time between visits back to paradise.

Aloha.

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.

I feel like I have the current stable is pretty close to perfect, and like with most things, I’m trying to pare down rather than add.

As I have detailed earlier, the 1997 Defender 90 is the daily driver.  I bought it nearly new in 1997, sold it to a friend with the caveat, that if sold, it had to come back to me.  It was gone for 5 years, with only 4,500 miles added, and back to me in 2005. The Defender has really never been off road, unless you consider the dirt lot at San Onofore offroad, and she stays pretty local to SoCal.  With only 75K miles on the odometer, the motor was strong, but starting to show some valve issues, and other, more serious warning signs.  I also wanted to do some clean up work on then interior, as the old carpets were pretty worn, and the headliner saggy.

I enlisted the support of an old friend and true perfectionist, Carlos Alcanterra, to handle the job.  With everything coming out of the interior, Carlos convinced me that Dynomatting the interior would make the aluminum body not only feel more solid, but cut way down on interior noise that made mobile phone conversations often unintelligible.  I was thinking that Carlos was going to do the door panels, and rear floor, but he had other ideas.  With the interior completely disassembled, headliner out, and carpeting going in, Carlos had the entire car covered in Heavy Duty Dynomat.  With the carpet in, headliner replaced, corroded bolts swapped for new, and all new Land Rover rubber mats covering it all, the 1997 Defender 90 interior has been given a new lease on life.  Black carpets in Porsche material replaced the factory grey, and a modern fabric headliner was swapped for the droopy factory vinyl.  While the car was tied up and disassembled, I picked up a full set of factory rims and had them powder coated semi gloss black to match the ARB Brush Guard and side steps.  All of the powder coating was artfully handled by Bob at Verne’s Plating in Inglewood, CA.

While it all felt so much better and quieter, the nagging motor problems needed to be—more like I wanted them to be  addressed.  A little web based research, and consultation with friend, Barry Fein, as well as Neal and Nigel at British Eurotech, led me to the plan to replace the stock 4.0L V8, with an upgraded 4.6L V8; that began it’s life in a bigger and heavier Range Rover.

A quick rebuild with upgraded cylinder sleeves, cam gears, and a reprogrammed ECU now makes the car nothing short of spectacular.  Adding around 60hp doesn’t sound like a lot, but the SOTP (seat of the pants) difference is remarkable.  While the Defender used to be sluggish, slow and loud, it now jams.  Fuel economy has improved 10%-15%, and I couldn’t be happier.

Like most projects, this one took on somewhat of a life of its own.  I had great counsel from Carlos, Barry and the Neal and Nigel at British Eurotech.

Six months ago I was getting the itch for a new project, looking at 1993 Defender 110’s, and even considering an amazing 110 rag top conversion.  Cooler heads prevailed and I made the right decision.  The Defender is back home and better than ever.  I try to tell myself that this project’s complete, but I know that’s never the case.  I’ve got my eye on a Safety Devices full roll cage from East Coast Rover that will turn the Defender 90, into a mini-110.  More on that later.

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.

Three rainy days in NYC last week got me thinking about real-deal Wellingtons. Based on a cavalry boot designed by the Duke of Wellington in the early 1800s, wellies weren’t rubber-made until mid-century. From downtown hipster dudes to impeccably groomed Eastside men and women, the best were shod in khaki green wellies, some guys with pants tucked in, tough to pull off in anything other than denim, and with leggings on the fairer of the species. I’m not talking about the Burberry-printed rubber rain boots favored by the Robertson crowd, or Marc Jacobs $20 throw-aways, I’m talking about English hiking and hunting boots that are rubber because that’s the only way to ensure that your feet are dry.

A little research, impromptu polling and Google made it pretty easy to track down the brands of choice. The top of the line, Le Chameau, aren’t from England but are French made. The story is pretty amazing. It takes nine months of training before a Le Chameau boot maker actually gets his hands on the natural rubber used to make these boots from start to finish, here’s a link to a video on the production process. Natural rubber is the best material as it isn’t prone to cuts or cracking like synthetics. The best part of the top of the line Le Chameau boots is that they are lined with top of the line calf leather to ensure a great fit, and to avoid the clammy feel and heat buildup that is sure to come from a day of pheasant hunting, bog trekking, or Soho shopping. This kind of luxury doesn’t come cheap, but Le Chameau claims that these boots can last for decades. They’re available in the U.S. at Orvis.

There are very few buddies that that appreciate my eccentricities in total. From cars to bikes to ukes, and also wellies, only Puma’s Chief Marketing Officer and 15-year friend, Antonio Bertone, really gets why I dig the stuff I dig. I tracked Tony down—the weird mobile ring gave away his globe-trotting—to tell him about the Le Chameau boots. He listened thoughtfully, and then I quickly realized that he was way ahead of me on this.

Puma’s incubated baby brand Tretorn has been not only a leader in ‘70s tennis gear, but also the wellies of choice for mud hungry Swedes who are much more likely to hike than hunt. Although not available for men in the U.S., the Tretorn Sarek Milleniums are top flight and top choice for Swedes. Although I had trouble translating the page and doing the currency conversion, they look to be about a quarter of the price of Le Chameaus.

As I write this, today would qualify as a summer day in most of the Northern Hemisphere. It’s 72 degrees Fahrenheit at 8 am, not a cloud in the sky, and I’m contemplating a surf, sans wetsuit. While the whole Wellington thing seems a bit extreme, for me, it really is about things that feature substance over mere form. The low-tech and anachronistic Land Rover Defender 90, shell cordovan, Filson bags and Jade yoga mats. Focus on the Donut has become a meditation for me on a theme. Thanks for indulging me, it’s much appreciated.

Peace.

Growing up on the beach in the pre-boogie board era made for interesting wave riding tools. The L.A. County beaches’ black ball flags meant that surfing was forbidden after 11 am on most summer days, so we got creative.

For some years, Paipo bellyboards were the boards of choice, but these mini-surfboards, complete with fins and hard glassed rails, were as dangerous as the surfboards they were modeled after. Remember, this was also the pre-surf leash era—we lost our boards and had to know how to swim.

At a couple of Manhattan Beach spots—the pier, Rosecrans, and Marine Street— snack stands and rental shops rented inflatable surf mats in navy blue canvas with chrome yellow trim. Inflated to rock hardness, these mats got harder as the sun expanded the air within. We got pretty good at riding these mats and by the end of the summer, we were were standing up on them.

Smells of the summers of my youth included zinc oxide—striped across the nose and on the lower lip—, the dusty smell of beach sand sticking to a wet body—laying on towels were for non-locals—, and the smell of vulcanized canvas and rubber surfmats baking in the sun. I can’t remember which summer it was, but L.A. County lifeguards ultimately banned our surfing the inflatables, so the indestructible blue and yellow mats were lumped in with cheap plastic inflatable pool rings, and poof!—the inflatable mats were gone. By 1972, the first Morey Boogie Boards—sold as kits assembled in Manhattan Beach garages by dads and older brothers—were on the scene, immune to the black ball.

A few years ago, I was cleaning out an old garage, and found a dead stock surf mat. I opened a box, and before I saw it, I smelled it: that same summer smell that took me back 30 years. I’ve shown it to old friends, and they all put it to their nose before they unroll it.

In London five years ago, I was shopping at Duffer of St. George in Covent Garden, and while it was completely out of context, I smelled that summer smell. It wasn’t a surfmat, but a Mackintosh raincoat, made in the same impermeable canvas-rubber-canvas sandwich as the old mats were.

Because of their rubberized canvas, Mackintosh coats are as hot to wear as they are dry—especially in a Los Angeles beach town. But Macks have that summer smell, so I had to buy one. In SoCal, I rarely get to wear the Mack, and it’s usually on San Francisco and New York  trips that I relive those summer days between third and sixth grade.

Sandow Birk is a real renaissance man. His exceptional, provocative and socially conscious work has garnered a small but passionate following from the Juxtapoz set, as well as the international art community. Formally trained, Fulbrighted and Guggenheimed, Sandow brings Old-Master talent and an amazing sensibility to all that he does.  In my surf industry days, I was luck enough to meet Sandow, through local Sunset beach surfer, and art patron, Greg Escalante.

Working across all mediums, both public and private, Sandow is a painter, sculptor, muralist, puppeteer, and filmmaker. He is a respected muralist, creating pieces for L.A. County lifeguards, public transportation, and the City of Long Beach. His best known work is his most ironic: “Prisonation,” plein air-like landscapes of California’s state prisons, and “In Smog and Thunder,” oils depicting a contemporary civil war between San Francisco and Los Angeles.

I’m awed by the scope of his creativity and multi-media talent—but naturally, I’m particularly fond of Sandow’s surf pieces. These aren’t the lyrical watercolors of John Severson or Pettibon’s punk aesthetic. Sandow’s surf series take a look at important world events—all from the surfer’s point of view. Connecting surfing to the maritime world, writ large, Sandow believes the surfer’s a kin of sailors: both watch tides, chart storms and share an intimate knowledge of their home ports.  Up until 10 years ago, my taste in surf art was kitsch, garage sale, or an oversized one-sheet from a 60’s Hollywood surf film.

Like his other work, Sandow’s surf paintings nod to the iconic, like Gericault’s “The Raft of Medusa” and Leutze’s “Washington Crossing the Delaware.”

As part of an overall committment to surf art, I saw Sandow’s surf pieces at the Laguna Art Museum, and was inspired by his surfer’s view of history. I was particularly taken by a massive 8’X8’ oil, “The Release of Nelson Mandela from Robben Island Prison, Cape Town, South Africa-March 12, 1989.” Sandow’s painting depicts the historic release of the South African who was to lead his country and become president. As the boat leaves Robben Island, site of one of South Africa’s most notorious prisons, surfers in the foreground ride perfect right handers, oblivious to the internationally newsworthy event nearby.

Heavy? Maybe.

For two years, the painting hung on loan in front of my office door.  I studied it daily, and through some passionate pleading and horsetrading, I acquired Sandow’s “The Release of Nelson Mandela…” four years ago. Its massive scale and social commentary make an interesting juxtaposition between my “found” surf art and Pettibons.

Bitchin’? Absolutely.

Much has been written and blogged about shell cordovan leather—the ultra durable, beautifully hand-crafted, and mostly-tanned-in-America horse hide. A preppy/trad favorite since Brooks Brothers began stocking Alden shoe examples in the ’60s. Named for the shell-shaped hides that come from the rump of a horse, shell takes on a beautiful character through use — think of how dry denim, starting with the early Levi’s 501 shrink-to-fits of my youth and modern examples from R by 45rpm and Sugarcane take your personal imprint. Only shell does it through wear, not washing.

Like most things sartorial, my first introduction to shell cordovan was through my father. Alden shell cordovan saddle shoes matched up with odd blazers from Brooks and Alden plain toe bluchers, also from Brooks, were the shoe of choice with tan suits, gabardine in fall, and cotton poplin in summer. My college salesman days at Westwood’s preppy ground zero, At Ease, put me in touch with Alden shell cordovan on a daily basis. Too expensive for a student budget, we searched Bass Weejun boxes for inexpensive calf skin penny loafers, whose dye most closely matched the unattainable color of Horween leathers shell cordovan color #8, the traditional Alden/Brooks colorway. But, shell cordovan isn’t just about color, it’s about that magical fingerprint that each owner’s polishing and footprint make on each shoe or accessory.

This magic comes through the lengthy tanning process (see this amazing video here) in which shells are impregnated with natural oils that create a one of a kind creasing and a rubbery “hand” that immediately sets shell apart from any other leather. Polishing techniques for shell are as varied as the aficionados who love the skin, but a key success factor — like  most things in life — is that less is more. Polish less frequently—once or twice a year — , use less polish, and brush them occasionally.

But, it’s not just about shoes, it’s about amazing accessories, that take on that delicious rubbery feel. Nick Gabarro of Gabarro Straps–sorry, to the trade only — is known worldwide for his special shell cordovan watch straps that are the bands of choice for enthusiasts and serious collectors like John Mayer, who finds Nick’s pieces at the IWJG watch shows in NY and Las Vegas. Nick also is responsible for the small leather goods now available at Brooks Brothers, and I saw an amazing shell toiletry kit at the NYC Alden store on Madison Avenue. While shell is most seen in the burgundy #8, Nick’s bands and accessories in the brown tones of Whiskey and Cigar are beautiful. I was lucky enough to score a jade green shell cordovan band from Nick at last month’s IWJG show. Alden can be coaxed to make up special order shoes in these less seen colors, and Honolulu-based shoe guru, Tom Park, at Leather Soul Hawaii, has done an amazing job of sourcing the iconic Alden saddle shoes, Indy boots (the kind that Harrison Ford sported in the Indiana Jones films), as well as Chukkas.

The much appreciated, current fascination with all things made in America has shined a light on shell cordovan, and Horween’s Chicago home. But, it was the Japanese love of the hide that brought forth some amazing shoes and products. And while Horween is the gold standard, there is a Tokyo-based tannery apparently turning out decent shell cordovan. On trips to Tokyo years ago, the displays of unique to Japan Aldens, small leather goods and belts, inspired my renewed interest in shell cordovan. Beams in Harajuku always features shell cordovan shoes and accessories.

My personal obsession with shell cordovan isn’t just about shoes. I wear a shell cordovan bracelet daily, carry a shell cordovan glass case, and have an indestructible Gabarro NATO-style shell cordovan strap on a watch that I wear surfing (it only gets better looking, the more it gets wet). My shoe collection includes some of my pairs from At Ease in the early ‘80s, and my original pair of Brooks Brothers, unlined penny loafers, in #8 from the same era. While Alden offers a very reasonably priced restoration service, I haven’t had to use it, but I have seen the results–very impressive. Others include traditional examples of long-wing wingtips in black and #8, Chukkas in cigar, loafers in black and whiskey. And #8 plain-toe bluchers like my dad’s. Ralph Lauren also offers Northampton, England-sourced examples from Crockett and Jones in an amazing rich brown, somewhere between whiskey and cigar. Master shoemaker Silvano Lattanzi is known for his bespoke, fully handmade derbys and bluchers that’ll set you back well into four figures.

I’m not there… yet.

My art-collecting friends have been consistent in the one thing they tell me: “Buy what you love.”

As a collector of many things, as detailed here, I’ve acquired art that has specific meaning to me: a Glen E. Friedman Dog Town-era Tony Alva photo from 1977, a 1960s Laguna Beach oil painting by George Michaud that hung in my house as a kid, and some amazing “found” surf photos and paintings I always discovered while looking for other stuff, mostly vintage furniture and car parts.

So buying what I love came naturally, because I only picked up and kept stuff along the way that I really like.

You may have gotten from earlier posts that I am a bit nostalgic, especially around things surf and South Bay. Growing up in Manhattan Beach in the ’70s was a different time. Manhattan had yet to become the “disco” beach suburb that, I regret to say, it has become. People lived here because they loved the beach, surf, and volleyball. A small-town vibe where teachers, lifeguards and firemen could afford to live in the town where the worked and served their neighbors. Those days are gone.

During the late 1970s and early ‘80s, L.A. boasted a well documented punk music scene, and I was lucky enough to see many great shows at various venue: The Police, 1979, at both the Whisky and Hollywood Park racetrack, all the major ska bands at the Whisky and, a week of Clash shows at the Hollywood Palladium.

The South Bay had its own scene, defined by local bands Black Flag and the Circle Jerks. The Black Flag ethos was defined a relentless beat, Henry Rollins’s vocals and Raymond Pettibon concert flyers and album art. As the brother of Black Flag founder, Mike Ginn, Pettibon’s monochromatic, anti-authoritarian style became synonymous with the band. This recognition allowed Pettibon, who still lives in Hermosa Beach, to begin an art career in earnest–to amazing success. While some of his images and subject matter are provocative, his surf imagery is truly without equal.

While Surfer Magazine founder and artist, John Severson, defined the “wave” aesthetic in the 1960s, Pettibon’s perfect barrels, and use of subtle and not so subtle coloring, has earned him an international following of surfers, museums and serious art collectors. This lead not only to amazing accolades, but a Whitney Biennial exhibition in 2004, along with a Bucksbaum award.

Not all of these are surf images, in fact, most aren’t. But these are the paintings and drawings that I have lusted after. I follow the major auction houses (Phillips, Christies, Sotheby’s) closely, and am always on the hunt for a surf picture that I can afford. There are a couple of non-surf monochromatic pieces in next week’s Phillips contemporary art sale. There are also some great Pettibon books, Plots Laid Thick, is a favorite. Although it sounds weird, there is also a very cool Pettibon beach towel, part of an amazing artists series.

I’ve gotten lucky over the years, and picked up some good examples, at prices I could afford.

With too many interests, and too little time, I’ve had to edit my collections, staying focused, and after years of searching, Pettibon’s have made it into the collection. Buying what I love has been the filter.