We had a fire in the hills this past weekend and the road in and out was essentially closed. Oh, there was an alternate route in the wrong direction up the coast but that way turns a thirty minute trip to my studio into nearly two hours. And what is a man marooned at home to wear but pajamas? At least until he manages to pull on a tee and some gym shorts to go for his afternoon hike...
Pajamas are necessary garb in a full house, particularly when there are guests wandering around at all hours. Mine are all Italian linen these days, made as you know by Joe Hemrajani. They provide the required modesty, wear cool on the rare nights when it is warm on the coast and, paired with a dressing gown when necessary, keep me warm enough to work with the windows open to the fog the rest of the time. Much softer than cotton (linen boxers have the same advantage), they can be cold water washed, unlike silk which has to be sent out at a non-trivial cost when a pair is worn daily.
Two days after the first smoke, Cal Fire had the situation under control and we were able to leave normally. It was time to re-supply anyway.
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5 comments:
Will, this blog has become X rated!
;-)
Mark
Modal, being much softer than either linen or cotton, is ideal for underwear, pyjamas and socks.
In the old days, when Dad and I traveled the Super Chief between New York and Hollywood, serious jams--and elegant dressing gowns--were de rigeur for travelers of means.
Dad, of course, had his man at Sulka (the old Sulka, not those pale imitators who bought a great name for a few measly shekels), a wonderfully wizened Hungarian named Gregor Pazsty, the last word on bedroom attire:
"What one wears in the bedchamber should be of the same quality as a fine suit or dinner jacket," Gregor advised customers.
"Remember, there may be ladies present."
And since my father was anything but a fanatic when it came to marriage--my stepmothers could fill an issue of Photoplay--his nocturnal trainwear was the best money could buy and Sulka could fashion.
All of which leads to recalling a long-ago night rolling through Kansas or Missouri or any farmbelt outpost with Dad in his compartment and me strolling back from the club car with an ice cream sandwich.
Knocking on Dad's door, I got a big whiff of something Chanel. He turned the knob and opened up just a hair.
"Not a good time, old son," Dad intoned. "Not a good time at all.
"Later, my boy, and we will have some pinochle before drifting off."
Strangely, queerly, Dad wasn't in his splendid Sulka PJs. He wore a Stanley Kowalski undershirt and it confused the hell out of me.
Years later, I reminded him of that night and he explained, calmly, he'd been entertaining some young thing from the train who recognized him from pictures; she wanted to experience a little celebrity before heading back to Omaha or some other grain-fed destination.
"And, kid, can you believe it, she took one look at my dressing gown, at my whole outfit, and said she could never think of bespoiling such beautiful togs in the messy business of lovemaking.
"So she asked and I changed and for one night--and one night only--I started to make love in the attire of a longshoreman.
"After all," Dad finished, "I'm not an actor for nothing."
Mr. Wilding: your prose is simply extraordinary!
Thanks for making this happen, Will! Great post.
Cute! Snuggle-y times in bed are always wonderful!
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