We Needed Some Irish Luck

Over my Spring Break and on St. Patrick's Day I thought it would be fun to take my daughter to the much hyped Ancient Order of Hibernians' Parade in Dogtown in St. Louis. The Ancient Order of Hibernians in America was organized in the U.S. in the 19th century in New York City by Irish immigrants who joined together to protect the Catholic Church. In Ireland it was founded in the late 17th century not only to protect the Catholic Church, but to also preserve the Catholic clergy who's lives were threatened under the penal laws. "Hibernia" is Latin for "Ireland". Only practicing Catholic men over the age of 16, and who are Irish by birth or descent, may join. By many it is said to be the real Patty's Day parade, above and beyond the popular one in downtown. I was fearful now, however, that Alex and I were preparing to go watch old men with green beanies on their heads and loaded 16 to a float pulled by a tractor and waving to a crowd of their wives. Either way, it was going to be the first Irish parade ever for the both of us, and we were ready to green up and get out of the house. Alex was looking most forward to getting candy, and in fact we have a jar full of candy that dates back to soon after her birth four years ago. But it's the idea of getting new candy thrown to her, like an unwrapped, unregulated Christmas in March, and aren't we all like that? Of course for our first Irish parade we had to wear green, and it was set to be the hottest day of the year thus far--a balmy near-80 degree day, with the parade starting at 11:30. I was able to get Alex to wear a green summer dress that my parents picked up for her in Mexico while on a cruise, explaining that we had to wear green that day, that it was Ancient Hibernian Law, and this was the only thing that would be cool enough....like, weather cool. People who know Alex couldn't believe the pictures when they saw them, because she would sooner try to walk around as a green Leprechaun than wear a dress, but she didn't think about that one, and now that I do, that would have been kind of fun. I of course had to wear my green men's vintage pants (also see The Garden To My Flowers)--I believe they really were made for that day. My wife thinks that the only reason I wanted to go to the parade in the first place was so that I could wear the green machine, but I insist this is only partly true :) I paired them with a modern white with green stripes polo style shirt, knowing that the flowered shirt I wore them with last time would just be too hot....like, weather hot. I grabbed my bag chair and Alex's Diego folding chair, and we were on our way. I had heard parking would be tough, so I illegally parked in a familiar Walgreen's parking lot about what I estimated to be a mile away from the parade, and we began hoofing it. About five minutes in we were hot and Alex was already asking me when we would be there, and I started noticing some legal parking places. I could have kicked myself for not driving in a little further, and told her we'd have to remember those for next year. I ended up letting my left arm, right arm, and Alex's legs take turns in transporting her to our final destination about a mile and a half later. The hills were brutal, the sidewalks in shambles, and the streets tight with parked cars, but we followed the crowd to the first sighting of what looked like was the parade. There were people all over the lawns, all over the rooftops, all over the backs of trucks, and all over the streets, blocking our view. All I could really see were strands of beads flying in the air, as if we were at Mardi Gras, which I thought was strange. A copy-cat parade with beads? This, paired with many foul-mouthed drunk twenty-somethings, and I was getting a little nervous. Alex didn't need to keep drilling the fact into my head that she wanted candy for me to make the decision that it was about time to go. I put her on my shoulders for a little bit so that she could see the tops of old white heads, but after 20 minutes and a bribe to Walgreen's candy aisle, we decided to make the trek back to the car. On our hilly route back, my arms + Alex got more of a work out than the first time, not to mention juggling the chairs, realizing early on that I was the only dufus carrying them. The highlight for me was seeing a man carrying a blitzed and near-passed out woman, cradling her like a baby as he stumbled down the sidewalk, partly from being inebriated and partly from the weight of this 140 pound woman, with her friend close behind looking concerned. It was funny, thinking of the hills he had to climb with her, but also that they were going towards the parade! Now that is dedication to the Hibernians! Alex did not see this, but I was prepared to answer, "That man is carrying her because she's tired of walking, just like you!" After much stopping and crying that she couldn't go on, Alex and I finished our mile and a half walk back, sweaty and tired, with an empty and air-conditioned Walgreens a welcome sight. I was hoping Alex would go for the chocolate, taking the opportunity after missing out on getting cheap Dum-Dums thrown to her, but instead she picked some flavored wafers that reminded me of the cheap candy I would have picked out as a kid. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree as they say. So this is just my advice for those handful of people who consider going to the Ancient Order of Hibernians Parade, if that's really what it was. If you are going with a friend or two and want to drink the day away and don't mind climbing hills and carrying your friend around whilst you hack up your breakfast on the way to a parade of old Catholic guys that you won't be able to see anyway, then this may be the time of your life. But if you don't fit into this category and you really want to see this parade, then you might have better luck finding Irish in your ancestry, becoming Catholic, becoming a man, and getting on a float with the other 16 farts, in that order, than actually seeing the parade. I may do the former one day, but will never ever do the latter again.

We're Not Meant To Be A Museum

With bated breath Dave and I headed south to get our new funksauce booth ready at The Factory on Friday (see last post). I was both nervous and excited, and had the new minivan, the one that I've not been overly excited about (two posts ago), but the same one that I had to use to get my stuff to Farmington. Could I have gotten it all in the Maxima? Probably, but I must say that it was a whole lot easier this way, so now begins my reluctant acceptance and appreciation for the convenience of the Oddysey. Once there it took us about four hours to set up. I happened to bring along some vintage pink butterfly curtains, which worked for draping over a box shelf to make a make-shift women's section for hats and shoes. David hung up picture collages he put together of old Volkswagen buses and disco balls. The amount of racks and clothing and accessories we brought seemed to work out perfectly. Though a touch cramped, there is enough room for customers to walk around and browse comfortably. We thought what we had here was a pretty cool store, and we weren't even done--we had more things we wanted to do on a return trip a few days later. Dave made plans to go back on Monday to put on the final touches and to check our sales. Over the weekend I picked up a $5 chair that I thought we could put back into the corner of the booth, a corner that we can't really utilize at this point. It was a good deal for its purpose, and could be used for people to try on shoes or take a load off. At the same sale I found an older wooden game board that I thought would go great on top of our circular rack that we could put stuff on, and would give off a little nostalgia as opposed to an empty hole, and it would create more shelving. For its purpose, it was another sweet deal at $3. David had the idea of hanging record album covers on the bare walls that we couldn't use for anything else, and we learned from our across-the-way booth buddy, Ginnese, that we could get a store sign poster made at Office Max for $15. Our shop was set to be the hippest freakin' shop in the whole three story building. We were at the peak of our game. We were going to set this joint afire. On Monday David went down and finished setting up shop and checked the sales log. He emailed me to say that we had sold a whopping.......zero. That's right, the big, fat, ugly. Oh, people had tousled through our stuff. Was it that Farmingtonites are lacking moxy? Are our prices too high? Is our stuff not yet up to snuff, or too snuffy? But just like with the website that's been in the red, we're ok with this for the time being. Vintage clothing our hobby, our love, our kitty-cat on a cold rainy day. But please understand that we are not a museum, even though we've got the baddest looking shop in the whole place. We meant for it to be look, touch, and and take home.

Crazy Maybe, But Like a Fox

Well, we've done it again. Two years ago my brother David and I took a big leap by starting funksauce.com. Since that time, I'll be honest, we've lost some money on it. But we didn't start funksauce to make money, necessarily. We started it because we love vintage clothing, wanted to learn more, and wanted to spread fun to everyone. It really has been an enjoyable hobby for us. Some people go in the hole on their hobbies, so we're okay with that fact. You might, however, think we would stop while we're behind. Maybe we have an addiction, because we've taken another plunge. We are opening up shop in Farmington, Missouri. And when I say shop, I mean booth. A pretty cheap booth actually, which helped our decision. It's a little triangle-shaped booth at The Factory, which as of today has been the home of Ginnese's Pieces (pics at left). It's in a good location, visible from the front entrance, and down from purses, swimsuits, and second-hand gowns. We'll now be catty-corner from Ginnese's. "The Factory is a 75-year-old former garment industry that has been totally renovated and developed into a visitor destination in historic downtown Farmington. Located two blocks behind City Hall, it includes a 45,000-square-foot climate controlled indoor mall." It looks kind of like an old brick school building. What I really like about it is that it's not an antique mall or a flea market. There's a restaurant, a banquet center, an artist studio, beauty salons, a massage therapist, a tourist information center, a ballet studio, a conference center, office suites, the Farmington History Museum, and a walking track, along with several other small businesses, thereby being very eclectic and bringing in a variety of people. There are many other positives as well, but being that the place is about 70 minutes from St. Louis, the deal maker or breaker was the fact that we can choose how much we want to be there. There is a main check-out for all of the businesses, so we can leave our shop to the elements for as long as we want and check on it as little as we want. Sold! Obviously then, the only problem will be the kind of demand vintage will have in this growing population of 15, 870 (as of July 2007, a change of +11.6% since 2000). Mineral Area College is only ten minutes away, which could be a huge factor. We're committing ourselves to the rest of this year, and hopefully longer. We will be setting up shop on Friday in time for the weekend. I'll post the progress of our set-up along with pics next week....

Turn That Frown Upside Down

There are a lot of people I know who aren't really into the whole vintage thing. In fact, no one I know, other than my brother David, is into it really. Most of my friends sort of make fun of the vintage I wear, and probably would never be caught dead in the same. The other night I had my brother, best friend, and brother-in-law over for table tennis and drinks. David had been talking to me about this vintage JC Penney jogging suit that he had picked up, so he brought it over me to look at. When he walked through the door my eyes lit up like a lava lamp. The suit was an exact match for my retro Nike running shoes (see the Post-Pre blog). I didn't think I would ever come across anything that would match those red, blue, and white beauties. The only thing that stood in the way of me and that suit was that it was made for a woman. If you know me even a little by now, you would guess that I wore it anyway, and you would be right. I put it on with my shoes and it was fantastic. The waist band was a little stretched in the elastic, but the pants fit fine, and the jacket was a little short, but it worked. I played some of my worst ping pong ever in it, losing several games, probably because some of my attention was diverted to it. Would I wear it to the St. Patty's Day run coming up? Would I wear it to work? Or would I simply leave it on a hanger waiting for that special moment? I wore it the rest of the night, and I think it inspired a couple of naysayers with me. The other two guys in the group have never put on a piece of vintage. They dress very casual--tennis shoes on a night out on the town, for example. The next thing I know, though, my clothing racks start getting pillaged. Notice what happens in the order of the pictures--it's like one of those flip books with the moving animals or whatever. What I love about this is that it reminds me of one of the best television shows ever created in the 1970's--Starsky and Hutch. All of us grew up with it, but nobody mentioned it. In the first picture the guy on the left looking a little unsure of where things are headed is Mike B., my brother-in-law, and the guy on the right, also not quite knowing what to do with himself is Mike C., my best friend. In the second picture, however, you'll notice Starsky jump into a vintage corduroy suit jacket, and then in the following picture Hutch has joined the fray in a caramel-colored faux fur collared leather coat. Compare their faces from the first pic to the second and third pic--regular old smiles to totally different attitudes. Mike C. is now beginning to get change-happy, and puts on a golf jacket. He's not following my made-up theme here. Why he picked a golf jacket of all things I have no clue--but at least he's getting into the fun. My brother becomes Huggy Bear, and the trio is complete. Finally, Mike B. brings things down to a calmer level, slipping into a vintage trench. I, on the other hand, couldn't leave the jogging suit. My reason for this blog, however, is not to point out how my unsuspecting friends dressed up like Starsky and Hutch. It is instead to show that people can have fun in vintage. Kids love to play dress up, and I dare say that adults, maybe at the least just flashing back to childhood, can have fun and feel good in vintage clothing that they normally would be "embarrassed" by. I think more people like my friends here need to give vintage a chance, even if it's only in the privacy of their own homes. Otherwise, my friends would never have lived out their subconscious dreams to be Starsky and Hutch, or whoever it was they had running around in their brains wanting to jump out.

The Old Man and the Minivan

That's it. It's over. This must be what life comes to when you get old and have children. I am now the semi-proud owner of a 2004 Honda Odyssey. Dark, sparkly blue. Butter soft gray leather interior. Side doors that smoothly slide open by the push of a little remote button. Heated seats that give my bottom a frighteningly tingly feeling. A flip-down DVD player for the 4 year-old....or me. 37,000 measly miles. Room enough for a circus of clowns. A minivan. Gone is cruising up and down St. Louis streets in my 1997 Nissan Maxima, blasting Rage Against the Machine for all my people to hear and feel with me on the first days of Spring. Dull gold-brick gold. Gray cloth interior that would harbor the smell of the last thing I ate or did for days. A mismatched, discolored bumper with a dent in the side the size of a grapefruit. A moon roof or sun roof--I never knew the difference--that I would look up through to find stars, or birds, or airplanes, or clouds shaped like fruit, usually when driving. An inch of dust on the dash and Cheerios and Kleenex strewn about that said, "This is me." Gone is the excuse to others that I could never drive in a car pool because it was too smooshed in the back with the kid's car seat. Gone is getting to know the baby's names and favorite jellies of my mechanics. My experience and knowledge of packing the trunk on trips like a puzzled tuna can...all for naught. No more "www.funksauce.com" sticker and funksauce logo trucker hat in the back window to let people know that they just drove by that funksauce dude in the cool gold Maxima again. It was me and my Maxima, amigos, buddies, pals, and it has....had....character. Now it will be washed, and vacuumed, and dusted, and air-purified, just to be sold off after all of its time as my comforter, my confidant, my companion. My car. Stripped of its character for some pimply-faced crackly voiced just-turned 16 year-old kid to muck it all up. I should know, because I ruined a classic '69 Volkswagen Beetle at that age, and I'll never forgive myself. Is that fair for me and my car to do that to some ignorant and lazy mama's boy? But what's done is done. I can't save my old friend now. Memories are all I will have left. The time we had electrical problems late at night on the highway and had to pull over. The creak of the steering wheel or rubbing of the brakes as we would back out of the garage every morning. The countless trips where we barely safely arrived to our destination. The glove box within an easy reach where we hid all of our secrets. We supported each other. I could step out of my Maxima in an 80's terry cloth shirt and say, "Thanks for the vote of confidence buddy", and I'd go on knowing my partner would be there waiting when I got back, because, well, frankly no one would steal her. But I will somehow go on with this new, strange beast. It will probably look the other way when I rappel down out of it in a men's vintage shirt with a butterfly collar. And it will say that the funksauce stickers and hats and license plates don't fit, because a minivan's not like them, too good for them, for us. Too classy. I'll tell it it's spoiled and has been pampered too much and is too big for it's britches. I'll sulk. And as I'm lumbering down the road, running over curbs and small dogs, I'll think of her. My golden beauty, probably crying tears of oil. And I may cry too, down my polyester, and into the seats of this new minivan, where I now must lay all of my trust out on the line. But in my heart my Maxima will never be replaced. Unless, of course, I got a 1970's Corvette or something similar.