I made a choice years ago that even though a suit and tie weren’t always required, they were always preferred.  As you can probably guess I’m an archivist of traditional clothing items that I’ve owned, and many of my favorite ties have survived my selling days on the floor of trad emporium At Ease in Westwood Village.

At the height of prep hysteria, we preferred traditional Talbott repp stripes, narrow as possible, with a Gittman or Brooks Bros. OCBD’s (oxford cloth button down).  We also discovered and embraced the silk (summer) or wool (winter) knit tie as an alternative to fussier patterns.  While the silk are long gone, several thrift-shopped mohair Rooster knits have survived and are still in the rotation decades later.

As I strive to limit the amount of “stuff” I’m hanging onto in general, I seem to being wearing more and more of a uniform.  Suits, shirts, and shoes in multiple versions of pretty much the same thing—so much so, that only I can seem to divine the subtle differences from one shell cordovan “long wing” wingtip form the next.  Sure, some are dead-stock vintage Florsheim Imperials from the ‘60s, while others are contemporary Thom Browne versions aping the vintage examples.  Suits are either vintage Saville Row, Huntsman, Anderson and Sheppard, Henry Poole, contemporary Thom Browne, or Brooks Brothers sack suits updated by the keen eye of T. Browne’s work under the Black Fleece label.

I’ve written about my shirt source, the one and only Freddy Vandecasteele, who has been refining both a straight collar turn back cuffed version of the my white dress shirt, or what I’ve determined is the perfect button down in either a white broadcloth or pique version.

In the search for the simple tie solution, I’m still partial to two color repp stripes, but am really only wearing solids.  The knit tie choice isn’t as simple as it may seem.  They’ve gotta have some heft to them to tie up right.  Too thick and they’re silly, too thin and they’re ridiculous.   I’d heard that the J. Press silk knit was just about perfect, and the word on the street was right.

The J. Press black silk knit tie may be the only tie you need.  I’ve become a zealot on the subject of this tie, and have been proselytizing its virtues to those curious enough to care, those nutty enough to ask.

The tie has even gone pop culture.  In deep conversation with my new buddy Kanye West, we were discussing the aforementioned tie, and he’s made it not only his uniform, but the standard for his friends.  A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to accompany Kanye and company backstage at Madison Square Garden for the Rihanna show, and then at a private show that Kanye had organized with his hometown partner John Legend.  The show was nothing short of amazing, and even at 3:30 am, Kanye’s Rosewood crew were looking damn great in fitted suits and The Tie –the only one they’re wearing now, and the same goes for me.



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.

30+ years later I carry less plastic than I did as a home-based 18 year old, but I defend my vintage plastic with its connection to my spiritual home on Oahu, and an early understanding that establishing credit was a good thing.  Keep I mind, this was the pre-ATM card era.  I’m not sure what the Buffums card was doing there, but I remember the Liberty House card well.  Long since sold and rebranded as Macy’s, Liberty House was a Christmas-in-Honolulu right of passage.  Last-minute holidays gifts or something locally sourced to woo a hotel hottie kept the Liberty House card as my plan B.

While at first blush the Gucci business card feels wannabe status seeker, I remember trying to convince the local Beverly Hills store manager that a UCLA freshman would be the perfect stock boy with designs on the sales floor.  When I couldn’t close that deal, I headed across Wilshire, I proudly peddled Bottega Veneta and Judith Leiber handbags to Beverly Hills doyennes sporting blue- and apricot-tinged hair, just having it “did” upstairs at the salon.

The 1979 prom picture requires a deeper dive and a little more discussion.  While I’m not sure who the dude on far left of the photo is, front and center was my dear friend since Grand View Elementary, Gino Polizzotto.  Gino and I were thrift shopping, garage sale’ing, and trolling Aarrdvark in Hermosa way before it was fashionable.  We were always looking for vintage surf gear, competition jackets, hang-ten boardies, and rayon Aloha shirts (if we still had these Hawaiian shirts, they’d be bringing big bucks from Japanese collectors at Bailey’s in Kaimuki).  Luckily we were all prescient enough to identify black as the only color choice for a $15 tux, although I did own a bitchin’ shawl-collared off-white dinner jacket.  Unfortunately, you can’t see my shoes, which were thrift-shopped English pumps, which required some explaining to other prom goers, but were damn cool.  Gino’s choice of pre-Luxotica Wayfarers also pre-dated Henley’s “Boys of Summer” homage to the de facto Manhattan Beach shades.  Gino made a career of his personal style, first as a Beverly Hills hairdresser, then as an architect/developer.  I do like our unknown buddy’s Cazal–esque goggles, which, while pre-Run DMC, exhibit great élan with the choice of the brown tint.

I wish I could find the pictures with our dates from that night, not sure who Gino took in our white stretch limo, but I was definitely with high school GF, Tammy Heath.

Hot Rod Magazine and it’s sister publications have moved their offices and photo studios to nearby El Segundo, and in showing off their new digs, hosted Von Fink’s car show and pinstripe event right in my backyard. My current cars don’t lend themselves to Kustom, but what a chance to take advantage of having the world’s best artists in my backyard.

After six months of trial and error, I just received a resuscitated vintage Martin Uke that had been abandoned with a crazed finish to prove it. A meticulous friend and luthier, John Kallas, put together the proper mix of lacquer to turn my eBay rescue into the “chosen one”.

Although I had never seen a matte black Uke before, a matte black Martin guitar inspired by Johnny Cash’s favorite displayed at the James Perse store in Malibu inspired me.

Not sure what I would find, I took the Martin and one of my Kamakas to the Von Fink show where Phoenix native Tony Perez, was putting his handwork on a murdered out, matte black motorcycle helmet.

I knew Tony was the man to work on my ukes, and while a bit sheepish to even ask, I did, and the process was incredible, the results amazing. Tony’s a steady handed, cool cat, and with no sketching or planning, he took on the two ukes, gave them completely different looks and, and freaked out most of the onlookers with a fantastic job.

There are a lot of bloggers who’ve done a lot of research on artisans who are doing it the “old way”. American made denim, revivals of old favorites and car/motorcycle builders who are doing it their way, one at a time.

Yesterday’s show was a chance to look at the coolest rat rods, backyard projects, and million dollar “trailer queens”. I used to be the guy who wanted to figure out how to garage just one more car, but in a new found desire to edit, Tony gave me the chance to put a little Kustom Kulture in my trunk, in a couple of uke cases.

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.

I’m renovating a 1920s beach bungalow with these thoughts in mind—more on that in another post—, but I’ve tried to take the concept of physical domicile downsizing to heart in many ways.  I’m far from austere and my posts on the love of things tells that my soul is one of a collector.  But what separates a collector from a hoarder is curating.  And besides, editing is good for the soul.

I’ve been lucky enough to deal with Japanese uber-collectors of midcentury modern furniture and vintage workwear.  While acquisitive to be sure, their collecting style is a highly edited one, dictated by urban space constraints of home and closet.  Rather than owning four mediocre pairs of vintage denim, or multiple variations of the Eames shell chair, Japanese collectors search for the best examples, and stretch for that one great piece.  It’s hard for a hunter/gatherer like me to say this, but I see the wisdom in their ways, and am taking it to heart.

I’ve always over-indulged—or been sloppy with—my choice of luggage.  I always go for the best stuff (i.e. Filson), but I go large. Too large.  Same with the Dopp kit I lugged around—it was so big, it would only leave my bathroom counter as I headed outta town.  This is unnecessary.  While carry-on luggage is the badge of honor of road warriors, I’ve never lost a piece of super-sized rolling luggage that I’ve always been proud to check.

But last month I took a different tack.  I’ve always been intrigued by aluminum luggage, and went through the Zero Haliburton phase, when Sonny Crockett was chasing Colombians through the streets of Miami with Haliburton cases, chock o’ block with blow, and cash.  The real deal isn’t the American-made stuff, but Germany’s finest—Rimowa.  Created for trips to the tropics, the water- and humidity-proof Rimowa was adopted by Japanese jetsetters who prefer their pieces beat up, true to the Rimowa tagline that “every piece tells a story.”  There’s even vintage, tag-covered piece on display high above the new pieces at Rimowa’s outpost on Kalakaua Avenue in Waikiki.

To do this right, I bought the 22” carry-on Rimowa from Tom Park at Leather Soul Hawaii , and I’m amazed how much I can fit inside.  The luxury of packing multiple pairs of shoes is gone, but editing my travel needs is cool.  My new smaller case called for a smaller Dopp kit as well, in effect downsizing from a desktop to a netbook.  I discovered the GoToob travel containers, and am “rolling my own” , packaging my favorite smell goods and Kiehl’s products.  I picked a tiny Eagle River waterproof bag to put it all in, and instead of using one set of toiletries at home and away, “mini-me” stays in the Rimowa between trips.

While this may not seem like a big deal, and my partners in crime have always “carried on,” this is pretty new to me, and I like it.

It’s a good meditation on how I want to live my life, focusing on the stuff—literal and figurative—that matter and make the important things easier to achieve.

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.

Recent updates have included the addition of a new 4.6L LR motor, built by Nigel at British Eurotech, the fiendishly complicated installation of a Safety Devices full external roll cage by Rob Phillips, and the already detailed full Dynamat and carpet treatment of 2009.

The plan was to head from LA to Sedona, AZ in day one, explore Sedona, then head to the Grand Canyon, and from there, to Vegas and home.

With two Pelican cases grafted to the Garvin basket on the roof, the trip to Sedona started off easy, without the increased wind noise I was expecting.  Taking Hwy 40, mirroring Route 66 as much as possible, things got heavy after dinner as I left Kingman, AZ.  Light snow got heavy around Williams, AZ and by 11pm, it was nearly full white out conditions, complete with jackknifed big rigs, unplowed interstate, and 40 MPH top speed.  Like many urban Defender owners, I hadn’t ever locked the Diff on the Defender, and with a solid clunk I was moving as the only vehicle for 50+ miles of snowy roadway.  I have newfound respect for the Defender, as we cruised down a very twisty Hwy 89A into Sedona, arriving after 330am.

With the Defender now thoroughly coated in mud, salt and grime, street cred was high as we explored some of the knee high mud bogs on some of Sedona’s famous jeep trails, we tried Soldier Pass.  With “fear of breaking something” the only thing holding me back, I continued to be impressed by the Defender’s nimble footing in pretty hairy conditions.   The dirt parking lot at San Onofre State Beach is as far off road as the Defender had previously been.

From there it was a bit of a backtrack, under clear skies this time, heading to the Grand Canyon from Sedona.  With lots of snow and ice in and around the canyon, hiking was as gnarly as the ride to Sedona, but the clear skies and single digit temps made for beautiful vistas.  After two days at the Canyon, with the Defender unmoved, and the El Tovar Hotel as base camp, it was time to head to Vegas, via the Hoover Dam and the Skywalk—a glass shelf that you can walk on out over the canyon—close to Hoover Dam than the South Rim where we were.

As I loaded the roof back up, and got in to leave, the beast wouldn’t start, and what I guessed was a faulty ignition, with no Land Rover dealer within 250 miles.  With a degree of indignity, I had the Defender towed back to Williams, where I found Alfredo at Sandoval Auto Repair, who within 2 hours, was able to jump fuses and get the Defender back on the road, headed to Vegas.

The tow, and Williams detour meant that the Skywalk was an impossibility on this trip, and while the Defender is quirky and prone to issues, that’s what a road trip is all about.  If I had done this in a modern sedan, I wouldn’t have made it to Sedona, wouldn’t have mud bogged there, met Alfredo, eaten at The Pine Country Restaurant, or had the respect of the 4X4 crowd as I rolled into Vegas.

Family road trips were LA-SF-LA when I was a kid, and in the McQueen book, there’s a shot of SM in Carmel in front of the same little Italian deli where we would always pick up sourdough bread, cheese, salami, and pine nuts to eat in the car on the way up/back.

My trip was as cathartic as I had hoped.

Clear head, great views, and without a radio from Williams back to LA, time to think creatively about the figurative road that lies ahead.

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.