My fellow G.A., Mr Gregory Bass, is a connoisseur of steampunk style and design, and, while I’ve not delved into that particular subculture as deeply as he, Greg has inspired me to enjoy the odd steampunk fashion spread or art project. So when I saw a review of Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society’s new album “Infernal Machines” in which Mr. Argue was quoted describing his group as a “steampunk big band,” I figured that I owed it a listen. I can safely say that it is the best jazz record of the year, and probably my favorite jazz album since Brad Mehldau’s “Largo” from 2002 – possibly even including that fine record. It has a great, unified sense of mood, and, unlike so many recent jazz albums, it’s fun to listen to – all without sacrificing its boundary-pushing jazz estotericness. This is certainly music to adventure by, though I leave it to Greg to say whether there’s anything “steampunk” about it besides the graphic design.
In this second discussion on the subject of drinking, the Gents explore the intricacies and minutiae of the consumption and enjoyment of alcoholic beverages.
On the Agenda:
I was walking in San Diego recently when, as I waited at a crosswalk, I noticed that the nearby “Pedestrian Crossing” sign had been defaced. Someone had rather crudely drawn a big pair of googlie eyes on the poor chap trying to cross the street on the sign. This turned out to be a moment of inspiration for me and upon returning home, I sat down and sketched out this piece.
There are so many signs trying to call attention to so many things. It became clear to me that something people will want to watch for in the future will undoubtedly be a proper Gentleman Adventuring…
“There are people who would perhaps call me a dilettante, because it looks like I’m having too much fun. I have never been convinced there’s anything inherently wrong in having fun.”
- George Plimpton (1927-2003)
Born with blue blood bursting out of his veins, George Plimpton decided not just to live a life of gentlemanly leisure, but to thoroughly embrace adventure – specifically, somewhat ridiculous adventure. As a sports writer, he could not be satisfied with simply telling his gentle readers what he saw, he had to invent an entirely new form of journalism – the kind where you get blood punched out of your nose by light heavyweight boxing titan Archie Moore.
Every list of Plimpton’s achievements is long and absurd, but woefully incomplete. He simply did too much. Plimpton drove a tank in the war; drank cocktails with Norman Mailer and Ernest Hemingway; pitched to Willie Mays in an all-star game; edited the Paris Review; threw legendary parties; dabbled in trapeze; snapped photos for Playboy; wrote about the witch doctors of Zaire who helped Ali destroy Foreman; and was expelled from Exeter for aiming a Revolutionary musket at the football coach. Oh, and he wrestled the pistol out of the hands of Sirhan Sirhan after the assassination of Bobby Kennedy.
In 2003, at the Brook Club, Plimpton stood up to have a broken drink repaired at the bar. Then, he collapsed and cracked his skull on the table. The paramedics, who recognized him, began slapping his cheeks and desperately saying, “George, wake up!” The maitre d’ simply would not tolerate this kind of behavior and declared, “At the Brook Club, sir, we refer to him as Mr. Plimpton.”
