BOARDWALK BEACH CLUB

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I can remember hearing my brother talk about it with his friends when he was home from college for the summer. The Boardwalk Beach Club was the best bar in Houston, and all the cool kids were going there to hang out. Further evidence was found in the kitchen sink every Saturday and Sunday morning as we’d find a couple yellow plastic to-go cups with a green logo of ocean waves, a palm tree and a big moon over the water that came straight from the bar - a collection of these cups would grow considerably over the next few weeks. It was a madras and seersucker summer as I saw these two fabrics rotated out among my older siblings and their friends, along with Bermuda shorts, Lacoste polos, and Polo oxford button-downs. On their feet you’d see Tretorns, K-Swiss, Kaepas, Polo loafers and Sperry Topsiders all without socks of course. This was a time when preppy was the style, and the Boardwalk Beach Club was as preppy as it gets.

In the very early 80s in Houston, I was too young to go to bars, but I kept tabs on all the places the older kids were going – Strawberry Patch, Birraporetti’s on West Gray, Kay’s Lounge, the Hofbrau, the Cadillac Bar and of course the Boardwalk Beach Club. The Boardwalk opened on Washington Avenue in the summer of 1982 at 4216 Washington Avenue in a small classic 1936 somewhat art deco-style retail building, originally built as a small grocery store. For the past 30 years, people in Houston have known Washington as a thoroughfare filled with bars and restaurants that come and go every few years. But in 1982, it was relatively quiet at night except on this particular block that quickly began to fill with cars parking all over the place, kids running across the street, and the Four Tops’ music pumping out the front door. It was a room with a long bar on one side, and a deejay booth on the other – and I have a fuzzy memory of bamboo throughout the place. All around the bar, and out on the back patio, is where all the fun was happening while Sam Cooke, the Drifters, the Supremes, the Platters, Otis Redding and of course the Animal House soundtrack could be heard all over the place. All the cool prep school graduates were there from Strake Jesuit, St. Thomas, St. John’s, Kinkaid and St. Agnes, drinking cocktails and beer out of the large yellow plastic cups.

After the summer came to an end, I entered my sophomore year – a time when some of my friends were getting their drivers licenses. And when they got their parents’ cars, we hit the town – trying to do whatever the older kids were doing. And for those of us with older siblings, we knew we had to go to the Boardwalk Beach Club. Life was different in the early 80s back when the drinking age was 18. It was still a time when the doormen and bartenders didn’t worry too much about how old you were, as long as you looked like you belonged there. If you were shaving, then you easily looked like you could be 18 – and if you weren’t shaving by then, you stayed out of the light and kept your head down. Fortunately for us, my best friend’s older brother was the bartender at the Boardwalk – so we got in without any hassle. The bar ebbed and flowed in popularity while I was in high school, peeking during my senior year. By that time, Washington Avenue’s bar scene was expanding beyond this singular block, and the days of doormen and bartenders looking the other way at underage drinkers had come to an end.

The Boardwalk Beach Club expanded its brand as they opened bars in Austin and Dallas, but by 1986 the music stopped, and the Houston bar closed for good. To this day, there’s always been a bar in the original Boardwalk space – but I’ve never set foot in there. It remains a memory of the 80s for me, and whenever I hear Sam Cooke, particularly the song Twistin’ the Night Away, I think of summer, madras and seersucker, yellow to-go cups and the Boardwalk Beach Club.  PJC

THE UNFORGETTABLE FIRE

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

It doesn’t take a lot of effort to make the case that the 80s were the greatest decade of modern music. The 70s is a very close second, but if you’re walking into restaurants, bars, clubs, shops or even grocery stores these days, you’re hearing 80s music playing in the background. And there’s a reason for this – everybody loves it. What the 70s took from the music of the 60s, the 80s took and then stylized it and made it camera-ready. Rock music was still rock but with big hair and sometimes make-up, punk rock became post-punk with songs that had real production value by musicians who could really play their instruments, and the British who invaded America in the 60s, launched a new wave attack that created some of the most memorable music that we’re still playing over and over again today. Then there was Ireland, which contributed with Van Morrison and Thin Lizzy. That is, until a foursome out of Dublin arrived on the scene in 1980 and gave the world what it was waiting for – music with raw emotion.

U2’s The Unforgettable Fire was a pivotal moment for the band in 1984. Coming off their albums Boy, October and War, they were primarily a post-punk rock band peppered with social commentary and idealism that had a seemingly Irish bent to it. Staring at a cross roads, they knew they had to find a new direction – one that would open them up to the world, and one that would open the world up to them. And with the help of producers Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois, they found themselves recording in Slane Castle in Ireland, forging a mix of instrumental expansions and lyrical explorations that wove a tapestry of emotion, power and most importantly, an intimate connection to their massively expanding fanbase, which was both a good and a bad thing. Good because The Unforgettable Fire went everywhere musically I thought this band could go, validating my discovery of them from the moment I heard their Boy album. But bad because they were one album away from becoming mainstream, and as a rebellious teenager, I absolutely loathed mainstream. Throughout the album, song after song, you can hear the Edge hone the guitar echos that would come to identify the band’s signature sound. From the melodic A Sort of Homecoming, to the driving guitar power of Wire, to the introspective and emotional Bad - never again would a guitar sound strike us as both fierce and haunting at the same time. Fire also marks the last time Larry Mullen Jr.’s drums would be an important and impactful signature of U2’s music, dare I say as equal as the Edge’s guitar sound. From his early explosive drumming of Boy’s I Will Follow and October’s Gloria, to his militaristic beat in War’s Sunday Bloody Sunday, to Fire’s Indian Summer Sky, Mullen Jr.’s drums were more of a statement than just one-half of the rhythm section with Adam Clayton. To fully understand what I’m saying, just listen to Like A Song… from their War album. The post-Fire future of U2 would regrettably see a departure from Mullen Jr.’s dominating and powerful drumming that seemed to inspire a call to action instead of a tapping of our feet to the beat. To borrow a quote from Frost, nothing gold can stay - and inevitably U2 would continue to evolve into the band they are today. But we can still remember that undoubtedly something special happened with The Unforgettable Fire, and it was felt by everyone who loved the band. For me, it was a coming of age album at a moment when I was, well, coming of age. And it spoke to me more than any album U2 would ever produce.

The Unforgettable Fire is a constant in my music rotation in my office. Whether I’m sitting down to write or just knocking out office stuff, it creates an ambiance of calmness and introspection along with nostalgia, and it still offers me the same inspiration I felt when I was a kid. If you haven’t listened to it in a while, or if you’ve never listened to it before, I encourage you to play the album in its entirety, from the beginning to the end. You’ll be glad you did.  PJC

RAW SELVEDGE

#75 Okayama Standard from Gustin  Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I’ve always thought the idea of raw selvedge denim was the epitome of cool and style, but mostly cool. My dad’s generation wore them all the time because they didn’t really have options. If they wanted jeans, or dungarees as they were often called, they most likely had to wear Levi’s raw selvedge denim. By the time I was in high school, we had nothing but options. We bought our jeans at the Gap most of the time, and they had a wall of different styles developed to create a softer, faded, worn or vintage look by using different washing techniques, like stone wash or acid wash. Fashion designers followed suit and the world of denim went from being the uniform of the cool middle class to high-end fashion completely absent of raw selvedge denim, and it only took one generation for this to happen. But while this was going on in America, something extraordinary was happening in Japan.

The Japanese youth became obsessed with American culture - but not the American culture of the 70s and 80s, but rather the cool style of a post-World War II America, when jeans were worn by the working class or American GIs who lived in them on the weekends. They began to embrace the James Dean look of selvedge denim, white t-shirts and Baracuta jackets. Throw in Coca-Cola and rock-n-roll, and you’ve got a movement on your hands – and that’s exactly what happened (remember, the Japanese discovered Cheap Trick before America did). But it wasn’t enough for the Japanese to embrace a style lifted entirely from American culture. To copy something and regurgitate it wasn’t and isn’t the Japanese way (that’s more of the Chinese way) - they had too much natural sense of creativity and innate style to do that. Rather, their way was to deconstruct and re-design until things become something of their own invention, and that’s what they did with raw selvedge denim.

The Okayama prefecture of Japan is where you’ll find the best raw selvedge denim in the world. It was in 1972, on the Toyodo Model G Automatic loom, that Kurabo Mills created the first selvedge denim in Japan. Since this first production, Japan has become the global leader of manufacturing premium raw selvedge denim by using sophisticated tighter, denser weaves of natural indigo dyed threads with the iconic red stripe along the edge of the fabric. It was and is as close to perfection (with plenty of awesome imperfections) as you can get. Incidentally, Toyodo is the same corporation we know today as Toyota.

If you’re interested in trying raw selvedge denim jeans, there are some things you need to know. Wearing raw selvedge is something of a cultural thing among enthusiasts who are passionate about their jeans. To wear selvedge is to be committed to a process that takes some time getting used to. Depending on the weight of your fabric, your jeans will be quite stiff and require some serious break-in time, which can make them seem a bit uncomfortable at first. They’ll also be a little tight, because you’ll be ordering a size smaller than your traditional waist size to account for stretching over time (this doesn’t take long). Which leads to the next phase which is wearing them as often as you can. The selvedge-wearing community is adamant that you never wash your jeans. EVER. Truth be told, you should wear them at least 100 times before washing them if you decide to wash them. This will create the natural fades that are referred to as “whiskers” from the crotch across the thighs. You’ll also get fades from wearing a wallet, an iPhone, a money clip and even keys in your pockets, creating unique and specific characteristics of your personal denim jeans. And when you finally decide to wash your jeans, you’ll see the fades come alive.

For me personally, I struggled with wearing this style of denim jean whenever I tried it. It wasn’t that I was unable to commit to the process of wearing them often and never washing them, but rather it was more about finding an overall fit that was perfect for me while I went through the uncomfortable phase of breaking them in. Over the years, I tried Levi’s 501 selvedge, but I didn’t care for the quality. Then I tried RRL and thought they were a terrible fit. Seriously, what man needs a low-rise jean? A.P.C had strange shallow pockets and were too skinny. I also tried Iron Heart, an expensive and popular Japanese brand, that offered cuts that didn’t make sense to me and were way too expensive to not love the jeans. Then I discovered a company in San Francisco making and selling raw selvedge denim jeans in a radically new way. Gustin designed jeans cut to perfection – straight, slim or skinny with a medium rise – using premium raw selvedge from mills in Okayama, and also deadstock raw selvedge denim from the historic Cone Mills of North Carolina. Everything is manufactured in Los Angeles. And all of it at around one-third of the price of all the premium selvedge brands around the world. The catch is that they use crowdsourcing to line up supply and demand. As their website says, “crowdsourcing is the mechanism we use to let you tell us what to make. Without inventory piling up in a warehouse.” This means that the jeans you order don’t go into production until they sell enough for it to make sense to their business model. Sometimes you have to wait several weeks – but it’s worth it. They’re selling premium high-end-retailer quality at wholesale prices – which means you can try incredible raw selvedge denim jeans for around a hundred bucks. I recommend beginning with the #75 Okayama Standard, which might be the best made pair of selvedge jeans on the planet. Then go for #172 The 1968 which uses deadstock from the Cone Mills White Oak Plant, the last great American selvedge denim mill. And then finally, the #454 Japan Classic Stretch selvedge is an absolute must. After 20 wears, these will be the most comfortable jeans you’ll ever own. www.weargustin.com    PJC

REMEMBERING WORLD WAR II

B-17 Flying Fortress   Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I’ve always been fascinated by World War II. It’s an era of heroes, of a call to duty, and a level of patriotism the world has never known before or seen since. Though I wasn’t alive during this period, I always get the feeling it was America at its absolute best – when common people came together for the singular purpose of defeating evil, no matter the sacrifice. It was a time when people did what was right because they had to, and they wanted to. When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the battles, the soldiers, and the machinery. I played with army men (you can still buy the originals today), and I built plenty of models of the fighter planes and bombers, battleships and aircraft carriers. I also loved going to army surplus stores and found them to be the best source for all-cotton khaki trousers and shorts, along with fatigues, field jackets and navy peacoats. Our go-to store was Colonel Bubbies in Galveston, which was the ultimate military surplus store – filled with hundreds of surplus all-cotton military clothing from World War II and the war in Viet Nam. They had boxes upon boxes of clothes that were warehoused after the war ended in 1945 – all protected with copious amounts of moth balls.  As a kid going to prep school in the 1980s, being able to walk into Colonel Bubbies and buy khaki military-issued trousers for school that were stitched together in the 1940s was incredible not only because of the connection to World War II, but also because they were only 10 bucks. Colonel Bubbies didn’t carry just American DOD clothes, they also had surplus from the British, French and other allied nations. I perpetually owned Gurkha shorts made in the 1940s and wore them out over and over again – and still own a pair today. What remains in my wardrobe are vintage trousers from the Greek military, Bundeswher undershirts (yes, they’re from Germany), and what might be the last remaining pair of Gurkha shorts from Colonel Bubbies since the store closed several years ago.

I’m reminded of all of this because of a father-son fishing trip I took recently to a fishing lodge in the Mississippi delta area south of New Orleans. After our stay at the lodge, my son and I drove to New Orleans and visited the National World War II Museum. We only had a few hours to tour the museum, but it was enough time to be filled with the same nostalgic feelings I had when I was a kid, and it reminded me of the connection I had to this era through Colonel Bubbies. As I walked through the museum and experienced all the aircraft, the guns and equipment and all the stories of the battles that took place throughout Europe and the South Pacific, I was reminded of all the fathers and grandfathers I’ve known throughout my life who served in this war. They’re known as the greatest generation, and they were heroes – every single one of them. If you have the opportunity, a visit to this museum will have an amazing effect on you – and a trip to New Orleans just for this purpose is worth it. Other World War II museums I’d recommend are the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas – birthplace of Admiral Chester Nimitz, and the Palm Springs World War II Air Museum located next to the Palm Springs airport in Palm Springs, California. All the aircraft at this museum are operable, and they still roll them onto the runway and fly them. And if you happen to be in Japan, I highly recommend a trip to Hiroshima to visit the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, ground zero of the detonation of the atomic bomb. I still find myself thinking about what I saw in this museum – a truly profound and moving experience.  PJC

MARTINIS AT THE DUKES HOTEL BAR

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

The first time I visited the Dukes Hotel Bar in London was before social media existed. I had friends from L.A. who shared my love of martinis – and we happened to be in London at the same time. It was my friends who suggested we meet at the Dukes Hotel Bar, which was unfamiliar to me, and I’m thankful we did. That first visit was the beginning of my tradition of visiting the hotel bar whilst in London for what I deem the world’s best martini.

There’s been a trend throughout the world during the past several years to create speakeasy-style bars, with the variable being just how creative you can be when it comes to hiding the entrance to a more-or-less upscale cocktail bar. But nothing compares to the Dukes Hotel discreetly tucked away in a dead-end almost invisible alley called St. James Place. You’re not going to find this place unless you’re looking for it, which Londoners have been doing since 1908. But thanks to social media and the influencers who love style and all things hand-crafted, martini lovers have discovered the Dukes Hotel Bar and their talented white-jacketed, white-gloved servers who never fail at crafting the perfect martini, giving this iconic bar the recognition it so richly deserves.

The barroom itself is not a large place. It’s essentially a couple of rooms beautifully decorated comfortably in traditional London club-room style with dark blue velvet club chairs and mahogany tables. The actual bar is maybe 8 feet long – and it’s not meant for seating guests, instead it’s more of a prep station for the bar carts that make their rounds from table to table. There’s nothing particularly ornate about the bar carts – just classic mahogany carts with three shelves, on wheels.  On top you’ll find frozen bottles of gin and vodka, a bowl of citrus fruits, and bar essentials for the craftsmen to do their work.

Though I don’t know for certain, if I were sitting next to Ian Fleming back in the late 1950s, I’d imagine the Dukes Hotel Bar would look relatively the same as it does today. And one could assume the bartenders crafted their drinks tableside the same way throughout the decades – rhythmically pouring the vermouth and gin into a martini glass, and then carving a peel from a fresh lemon, perfectly squeezing it on the surface of the drink and around the rim, and then gently sliding it into the martini. Knowing Fleming frequented the Dukes Hotel Bar to enjoy their vesper martini, it’s no wonder the experience profoundly influenced the intricate details of his brilliant character James Bond. And the world owes the Dukes Hotel Bar a debt of gratitude for it. Cheers. PJC

THE VINTAGE CARS OF MONTECITO

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

On the southern border of Santa Barbara lies the enclave of Montecito – a beautiful and relatively quiet place where you can find some of the most pristine vintage cars in Southern California. Everyone knows that moisture and vintage steel don’t mix, so the dry airy climate is perfect for preserving old cars – particularly if they’re being driven like the cars of Montecito. And because this enclave is home to those of a higher tax bracket, and the climate is optimal, over the years it has created the perfect confluence of vintage cars and those who love them.

 Every Sunday morning, there’s a standing cars and coffee event at Manning Park where everyone is welcomed. The event started in the Upper Village of Montecito, but recently moved to the park on San Ysidro Road – and though there are no longer shops nearby, croissants and sweet baked goods and, of course coffee are still available for everyone. And just because affluence is evident in this enclave doesn’t mean you’ll be looking at vintage Ferraris and Porches all over the place. Yes, they’re out there – but you’ll find an equal mix of muscle cars, hot rods, old Beetles, trucks, and sedans. Over the years, I’ve made friends at these events, and I feel welcomed whenever I pop into town and stroll into the park with my kids to look at cars.

One of the most gratifying things about vintage cars and those who love them is seeing them driven throughout town. In most parts of the country, it’s rare to see an old Porsche 356 or a vintage Mercedes diesel sedan – but in Montecito, it’s just another day of driving through town on your way to the grocery store. They’re everywhere. And it’s such a welcomed sight to behold.  PJC

HAVE MERCY

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I first met Billy Gibbons at my house in Palm Springs when we bonded over a mutual love for Molina’s Jose’s Dip. My friend and neighbor Bob Merlis told Billy I was heating up a quart in my kitchen and they were at my house before it was hot. Anyone from Houston who loves queso knows Molina’s has the best, so I wasn’t entirely surprised Billy’s reaction led him to my kitchen so quickly. For the record, there’s simply no better way to connect with a rock star than doing it with Jose’s Dip drizzling off a tortilla chip. From there, our conversation turned to comparing notes on the best tamales in the Coachella Valley, the best tacos and burritos in Los Angeles, and why we should bring Houston Tex-Mex to the west coast. When you’re from Houston, particularly in Billy’s case, you’re constantly searching for Mexican food that brings you closer to home – and for Billy, closer to home was anything that remotely compared to Leo’s Mexican Restaurant. Leo’s closed its Shepherd Drive location years ago but its enchilada plate has been immortalized on the inside of ZZ Top’s groundbreaking Tres Hombres album. Over the next couple of years, I’d meet up with Billy and friends at gallery openings, a Palm Springs Walk of Fame dedication to our friend Bob, trips to Boot Star on Sunset, and memorable nights out at the Whiskey Bar at the Sunset Marquis. At the Whiskey, we enjoyed ice cold Corona beer while we’d throw dice, which Billy always carried in his pocket. After I moved to Houston, my wife and I spent time with him backstage at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo before a ZZ Top show in front of 75,000 fans – and in our usual way, we talked about the current state of Tex-Mex in our great city (by the way, our current state is good but not great), which always leads to a brief mourning of the closing of Leo’s restaurant and how desperately this institution needs to be revived.

 From my personal experience, I can attest to just how cool Billy truly is – and how deep his love of Texas goes. So it’s no wonder to me that Billy and his bandmates joined forces with Balcones to produce a unique and highly coveted whiskey. Tres Hombres is named after ZZ Top’s 1973 record and it represents the special style in which the whiskey is made using roasted blue corn, malted barley and rye. Three distinct whiskey flavors blended into a slightly sweet, almost nutty, sophisticated whiskey that’s as cool as the members of the band. And based on the scarcity of Tres Hombres (you can’t find it available anywhere), I’d say that little ol’ distillery in Waco nailed it. PJC

CONTEMPORARY ART

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I’ve always felt a connection to contemporary art. Maybe it’s because there seems to be no rules, or definable boundaries, when it comes to creating it – and perhaps that speaks to my creative style more than anything else I might put on my walls. This connection goes as far back as I can remember, and it culminated in my 20s when I lived in New York City. During those years, I strolled through the city’s museums regularly – often visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney. And although I spent a great deal of time in the Met with my sketch book, it was in the MOMA that I felt the most inspiration. To this day, I will look at a Jean-Michel Basquiat work and shake my head at how acrylic, oil sticks, crayons and charcoal pencil can be thrown together like graffiti – yet draw millions of visitors to the museum just to stare at it. I’m not sure anyone can fully appreciate it unless you’re standing there, taking it in among the crowds. You can look at Jackson Pollack’s drizzled paints, Mark Rothko’s blending of colors, or Andy Warhol’s silkscreens and have similar reactions, often times visceral. There’s a connection that somehow draws you in if you take the time to behold the works. And I’ll bet many visitors leave the experience and head to their art store to buy a canvas just to try their hand at creating their own piece. And yes, that comes from personal experience. Perhaps the thunderous hammer from the Sotheby’s gavel will yield an inspired new artist inexplicable millions for their artwork as well, like we’ve seen in the contemporary art world over the past 20 years.

When I moved to Houston, I discovered a powerhouse contemporary art community, with world class museums such as the phenomenal Menil Collection, and the world class Museum of Fine Arts and the Contemporary Arts Museum that house icons like the ones mentioned above, as well as masters like Pablo Picasso, Rene Magritte, Franz Kline, Robert Motherwell, Willem de Kooning, Cy Twombly, Jasper Johns, Ed Ruscha, Robert Rauschenberg, Donald Judd and Dan Flavin. The Menil Collection even owns a Philip Johnson midcentury architectural masterpiece home that sits empty in River Oaks most of the time. The city’s art patrons, and there are many, have long supported local artists like contemporary art giant Angelbert Metoyer, who began his meteoric ascent at the Project Row Houses.

With Houston as the cornerstone of the contemporary art movement in Texas, you’ll find a satellite art destination way-out west in the little town of Marfa. Not much has changed from the days when Warner Bros. arrived in 1955 to make a movie called Giant -- it’s still a two-highway town without a working traffic light, peppered with old adobe houses and buildings, and the friendliest people in West Texas. Minimalist artist Donald Judd moved out there from New York in 1971 and planted the seeds for what would become a thriving art community, anchored by the Chinati Foundation, which provides support for contemporary artists from all over the world. And if you venture 38 miles outside of town, you’ll find the permanent modernist sculpture Prada Marfa, created by Elmgreen and Dragset in 2005. Originally meant to degrade over the years, the freestanding art installation sits in pristine condition, isolated in the Chihuahuan desert along Highway 90.

If you’re looking to take a deep dive into the contemporary art world, I recommend Sophy Burnham’s 1973 book The Art Crowd. Though decades old, the book provides an excellent overview of how art, artists, galleries and patrons drive the lucrative market that thrives to this day. You can find a hardcover copy on Ebay or Amazon.  PJC

IAN FLEMING’S JAMES BOND

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

The very first novel and film character I can remember knowing is Ian Fleming’s James Bond. My dad loved James Bond, and when ABC aired a Bond film on Sunday nights, it was a big event in our house. My family would gather around the television, watching movies like Thunderball, The Man with the Golden Gun and Live and Let Die from beginning to end, cheering for our favorite British spy. We made chocolate milkshakes (stirred not shaken), and my mom made popcorn the old school way with kernels, oil and a big pot with a lid. I remember thinking the exploding kernels sounded like gunfire from 007’s Wather PPK. And when he used the electro-magnet on his Rolex Submariner to unzip Madeline Smith’s dress, I could count on my older sister to cover my eyes. I’ve got so many great memories from the early years of James Bond, and they’ve always given me a connection to my dad - something I’ll always cherish.

My Dad grew up in Miami, and as a young man, he read Ian Fleming’s paperback novels, eventually collecting all thirteen of the James Bond stories – which were written almost annually, beginning with Casino Royale in 1953. When I was quite young, I found the paperbacks in my dad’s bookcase – and I was always intrigued by them. The books were small, and the very midcentury covers featured artwork depicting elements from the stories, like a woman on a Vespa (The Spy Who Loved Me), a rocket (Moonraker), sports cars (Goldfinger), and a frogman with a knife (Thunderball). I particularly winced at the image of the tethered floating skull that ran through the cover of You Only Live Twice, which was made less fearsome by my mom’s grocery list handwritten along the side of the cover. After my dad passed away last year, I decided to find the original James Bond paperbacks, and then read them all in the order Fleming wrote them. And thanks to Ebay, I now have all thirteen.

After reading the books, I found something consistently fascinating about Fleming’s writing and the stories he was telling. They were simple. And because they were simple, they were elegant. He took his spy, gave him an assignment, and then the assignment put him in peril against a masterful villain. Within the assignment, a beautiful woman was introduced – and whether she was an ally or enemy was often the enigma of the situation. And just as Bond’s survival was against all odds, he manages to overcome the danger and defeat the villain. And more times than not, the beautiful woman was with him in the end. The films made from Fleming’s novels follow this same structure, but with enormous creative license taken in the screenplays – and for the most part, these films were quite good. But as I read the books, it occurred to me just how far Bond has drifted from Ian Fleming’s beloved character. The past several films have become Marvel-esque, with Bond’s superpower being his ability to stay alive amidst all the nonstop explosions, crashes, stunts and gunfire. That is, until No Time to Die, which left me disappointed to say the least and hoping this would finally be the final Bond film. 

But that doesn’t have to be the end of 007. It’d be great to see James Bond brought back to life in the vein of the show Mad Men – through a period-based television series telling his story according to the novels, beginning in 1953 and going all the way to 1965. Imagine meeting James Bond all over again in period-correct sets, featuring the sartorial aspects of the characters with all the accoutrements, the vintage automobiles that play an important part of the stories, and the overall styling of the Bond world as if it all took place in a series of Slim Aarons photos. We could call it Ian Fleming’s James Bond. Now that would be worth gathering around the television again.  PJC

TRADITIONS

Photo by Peter J. Cooper

I love traditions. They’re the perfect blend of sentiment, nostalgia and foundation to which we can anchor so many of our life’s experiences. It gives us a beautiful way to connect the past to the present, and at the same time gives us excitement for familiar and hopeful things to come. Whether it’s annually returning to the same restaurant where we had a first date with the love of our life or watching the same movies at Christmas time – they give us a warmth and peace we all need. Traditions also give us stories to tell over and over again. So I’ve chosen to begin the Superhawk journal by sharing with you the genesis of one of my favorite traditions.

 I had just arrived at A.O.C. on West 3rd Street in Los Angeles when my dear friend George Folsey Jr. joined me at the bar. It was a busy early evening at the restaurant and our table wasn’t quite prepared, so naturally the bar was the best place to spend the time. Shall we have a negroni? As it is with all things, there must be a beginning – and this was the very beginning of my friendship with George, having met while he was editing a film I had recently produced. A little to my embarrassment, I admitted I wasn’t familiar with this particular cocktail. Without missing a beat, George summoned the bartender by name and ordered two negronis, and thus began my introduction to this special drink that seems to be more of a way of life than just another concoction. Gin, Campari and sweet vermouth in the same measurement, poured over ice with an orange slice. I loved it. But I loved even more his passion for negronis, which connected me to the drink in a nostalgic way immediately – and a tradition was born.

 Many years have passed and to this day, when George and I dine together, the evening always begins with the same question. Shall we have a negroni? Naturally, the answer is always yes. I’ve introduced friends from California to Texas to New York to negronis and have started new traditions with them. It’s a great way to begin an evening, to take a breath, and to settle into conversation before viewing the wine list and dinner menu. I highly recommend it. PJC