With the recent snap of cool weather in Cowtown, I've been able to dust off one of my classic short-brim fedoras. If I'm to believe the tag under the brim, my little beauty was brought to life in Guelph through the loving handicraft of Jim Miln--thanks to you, sir.
Dashing around town, fedora perching on my head with a jaunty tilt, I learned quickly how to shorten the life of a compliment:
A- "Say, that's a really nice hat!"
B- "Thanks! It's beaver."
A- ". . . what?"
B- "The hat. . . it's beaver."
A- "What do you mean 'beaver'?"
B- "I mean, the brown fur my hat is made out of was formerly a beaver."
A- ". . . ."
A- "That's gross, man. Beaver?"
B- ". . . I suppose that you don't want to see my rabbit foot keychain, huh?"
A- (leaves for greener conversation pastures)
B- (calling after)"You do realise that beavers are nasty little fuckers, don't you? Fine. . . go back to your C.U.C.U.M.B.E.R. Club reality, where beavers are friendly and dress like roller disco heros!"
Yes. My beaver fedora is hung on a deer hoof gun rack, which I currently use to support my flashiest bottle of scotch.
Yes. I am the biggest monster I know--both from a design and style position, and from a "Mills-McCartney" perspective.