Sundays - 90 Day Essay Continues

Sundays. Every culture views Sundays differently. When I lived in Japan back in the early 90s, you could shop on Sundays, but you could not take money out of a bank ATM. When Wendy and I moved to Portugal you could do very little except go to church, or a restaurant. Once the "Hyper-Mercado" opened, then suddenly you could not only shop, but see a movie on Sunday as well. When we moved to Finland, Sunday was still very much a day for doing pretty much nothing. The only store that might be open was the Kioski (literally, kiosk). You could get some soft drinks, newspapers, magazines, some snacks, etc. Things began to change, and I seem to recall that by the time we moved to Helsinki you could actually shop at Stockman's (big, fancy department store) on a Sunday.

This Sunday morning we discovered that one of our dressers had given up the ghost and it was time to saddle up and look for a replacement. The US does not tend to have the same sort of "Sunday Hours" that a lot of other countries have. And truth be told, I am not 100% sure how I feel about it. There is something to be said for a day that NOBODY works, but in this day and age, I am afraid those days might be long gone.

Our luck was in as Manzel was open, and we found just the piece for us. Manzel offers furniture ethically sourced and crafted from reclaimed teak. And as anyone who has seen my rather bright and electric collection of watches (and blazers, ties and trousers) will affirm - Wendy and I walk to our beat in terms of aesthetics. 

Now ordinarily, you go to buy some furniture somewhere off the highway, some big box in a strip mall with bad lighting and a sales force trapped in ill-fitting polyester "team member" outfits, slogging it out under flickering florescent lighting, telling small children to get their dirty shoes off of the sofa/chair/mattress. This is made more awkward when the children in are in their 30s and refuse to put their face masks on, but I digress.

While we were wandering the floor, something odd caught my eye -

Yes, gentle reader.  This is a Peugeot automobile that is probably older than most of you reading this. While I would not call it mint, I would say it was in gently used condition.

A few rows of furniture down the way, there was a Mercedes convertible which was certainly nice enough, but didn't really catch my attention beyond passing.

But then, I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks.

What is in hazy focus (like many of my memories of 1985) is the Corona name plate.  Yes, a 1977 Toyota Corona.

It as June, 1985 and my father and his new wife had just moved to Jackson, TN. Jackson is not exactly what would have been termed a "public transit friendly" city back then. So whether I liked it or not, I was required to purchase a used car. In fairness, my father provided $100 towards the car, and co-signed a $1,500 loan. My stay in Jackson lasted all of about 2 weeks when it became abundantly clear to one and all that this was not going to work out, so I packed all of my belongings into that 1977 silver (truthfully, faded stainless steel hued) Toyota Corona, and pointed it's snout north towards Oberlin, Ohio. 

That car was well-loved and enjoyed for our short term together. Until one fateful December evening when my recurring roommate, Vince HAD to borrow it to drive about 30 miles to Cleveland to watch the Mr. Olympia contest in a movie theatre/convention center.  It was a snowy, icy night, and I should have said no, but I figured as he was older, he knew what he was doing. Long story short? He made it to the Mr. Olympia showing, and he made it back. My Toyota Corona was, sadly, forfeit to his overwhelming desire to see grown men in posing pouches all oiled up. He managed to rack it up on an overpass when he braked too sharply and first ran into another car, then acquainted the rear end of my Corona with the front end of a pick up truck. So if any students at Tiffin University are reading this, do NOT let Professor Moore borrow your car for any reason!  It will only come to grief.

Seeing this sun-shiny yellow goodness really brought a smile to my face. And truth be told? I am not really much of a car guy, so this is saying something.

And after a fun day of shopping and reconnecting with your (somewhat) misspent youth?

TACOS!

Because let's be honest, NOBODY hates tacos!

To quote that other great commentator on the watch business Feris Bueller who opined in 1985 -

'Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.'

Don't just enjoy your watches, enjoy your time!

 

The Myth of Craft and Heritage

Now it goes without saying that in the digital watch media game, you apparently need to have a bushy beard and a fairly over-inflated sense of your own gravitas to be taken seriously...

All credit due to Jeff Greenspan

And SNAP!  You've fallen into the Hipster Trap!  Throw in a "vintage" strap and any one of five zillion "homage" / "heritage inspired" field and pilot watches hurled up like so many semi-digested street tacos mixed with bile and reconstituted kombucha and you have the horological equivalent of the hipster trap above.  Okay, in fairness, I really like street tacos - I mean, c'mon, nobody hates tacos!  Or as the youngsters would say -

"These sweet potato tacos with mango salsa are LEGIT!"

 But what I am driving at here is a willing suspension of disbelief.  And to quote that other great commentator on the watch business, Black Adder -

"Well, I'm not having anyone staring in disbelief at MY willy suspension!" 

Like any business, the watch business is fueled by a certain amount of codswallop, and hot air and bullshit are easier to bandy about when, in fact, you are offering the same thing as pretty much everybody else.

So without further delay, here are two myths in dire need of busting: 

Myth #1 - Hamilton is an authentic, down-home, old-timey American heritage brand.  A brand where humble artisans painstakingly made watches one by one, by hand.   Yeah, not so much...

Shamelessly borrowed from the world-wide info-web

Now here's the thing, while watches were more hand made "back in the day",  you better believe that the watch brands were looking for any and every possible modern technique that might help them crank out as many watches per day as possible.  Even before Swiss investment came in, and ultimately took Hamilton away from these shores, Hamilton was a mass produced product.  And for what it's worth, so was pretty much every US brand of note.

I personally don't have a problem one way or another with the watches Hamilton makes.  But don't try to sell me on this "American Heritage - Artisan" stuff.  You can put a rock in the oven, but that doesn't make it a biscuit ; )

Myth #2
A made in America, mechanical watch can be made, marketed and sold through retail outlets for just north of  $1,000 in any serious volume.
When just servicing your watch can cost upwards of $300 US, I find it highly unlikely that said watch was sourced, assembled, packaged and sold to the retailer for $500 or so (i.e. keystone). Constituent parts are going to come in around $100 or more (my bet is more).  Time and effort to put constituent parts together (correctly) so that said watch functions as advertised?  Let's factor in another $150 - $200 or so - this is presuming that the movement is being assembled (not fabricated, but assembled) in-house as advertised.  Again, we would presume that at the level of "craftsmanship" that some brands are claiming, this would come at some expense.  It's pretty basic economics.   Keep in mind, although they might amortize their work time through each sale, there is still the cost of owning, or renting a facility, tools, electricity, phone bills, marketing, warranty repair, shipping... I realize this might seem a bit nit-picky, but let's be realistic.  Now, it is also possible that some of these seemingly independent micro brands are being funded by investment.  And then, suddenly, some of that old-timey, bootstrapping success loses some of its luster.  That's the problem with origin myths, sometimes they're a bit too mythical.


So the next time some bushy-bearded Brooklynite tries to sell you on the authentic heritage of his favorite five month old brand, just remember that you can only take a grown-assed, thirty-something year old man so seriously when he's spilling out of his skinny jeans while rocking an Amish Outlaw.