Thousands of red-blooded Republicans are descending on the Twin Cities for their convention that begins Monday in St. Paul, and the influx of media and delegates will fill every hotel all the way to Duluth.  While Minnesota has a history of progressive politics -- it's the home of Hubert Humphrey and Walter Mondale -- it's also marked by an independent streak that has brought unexpected developments like Governor Jesse Ventura.  Much of the talk lately, however, has focused on current Governor Tim Pawlenty, who was apparently on John McCain's short list of vice presidential candidates before the Republican nominee tapped Alaska governor, Sarah Palin.      

A few basics of the twin towns: St. Paul, the capital, is, of course, the home of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and you can visit his parents house on Summit Avenue where he wrote This Side of Paradise.  The historic St. Paul Hotel is right on Rice Park and is guaranteed to be full of GOP luminaries.  If you can make your way through the throngs of tax-cutters, the wood-paneled bar is a perfect place to enjoy a scotch and read the Wall Street Journal.  While Fitzgerald is an iconic figure, the same cannot be said of Premium, the local beer.  It's one of the most forgettable drafts around, which makes it even more endearing. 

Go west across the Mississippi River and you enter Minneapolis, where there have been dynamic architectural additions in recent years, from Jean Nouvel's Guthrie Theater to Herzog & De Meuron's extension of the Walker Art Center.  Some of the greatest buildings, however, remain the classic mills and warehouses along the river that date from the early 1900s.

Over the following days we'll outline more Twin Cities highlights chosen by a native Minnesotan who, though living in New York the past decade, still visits his hometown regularly, still pulls hard for the Twins, and has put back more than his share of Premium. --DAVID COGGINS

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(Inside the DNC convention center on the night of Biden's speech)

It's the third day of the Democratic National Convention and Obama's arrival seems to have ratcheted up the spring-break-for-politicos energy in downtown Denver. It's a party and everyone's here, even if they weren't invited. Police are roaming the streets in riot gear, sinister-looking automatic weapons in hand. And at hotels like the Westin (where Obama's staying), the Brown Palace, and the Ritz, notable dems and the people who love them are schmoozing in force.

"Hey it's that renewable energy guy!" says a bearded man with a broken leg as he greets Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer (who spoke before Hillary on Tuesday) outside the Ritz. Kanye West's Escalade has just pulled up. And Princeton scholar Cornel West is being introduced by his bodyguard to "Brother Moby." The two of them engage in an affable chat as we wait for a car to take us to lunch with Moby's friend, actress Lisa Edelstein (Hugh Laurie's boss on the show House) and my wife, Laura Dawn, the creative director of MoveOn.org. Lisa's spent the morning representing for an anti-torture lobbying group. "I actually came in place of Deborah Winger, who got sick and couldn't make it," she explains. "And since we kind of look alike, everyone wanted me to give them her autograph."

After a vegan lunch at WaterCourse foods (which has become a bit of a young-lefty convention dining nexus) we head to the Brown Palace for an RFK memorial hosted by the Kennedys. The room is packed with blue-blazer types. Ethel Kennedy and her grandkids are on a receiving line thanking guests for spending $5,000 a pop to stand around in a crowded hotel function room eating red, white and blue canapés. We bump into Pulitzer Prize-winning author Samantha Power, who introduces us to her brand new husband, lawyer Cass Sunstein, whom she met while working for the Obama campaign (which she had to leave after being scandalized for calling Hillary Clinton a "monster" during the height of her Obama smearfest). "If I hadn't completely destroyed my nascent political career," she jokes, "I probably never would've ended up getting married to Cass. So in a way, I'm happy the way things worked out." I have a feeling Samantha's career will turn out ok. She's a pretty smart gal.

Our next stop is the Westin, to catch the VIP shuttle to see Bill Clinton and Joe Biden speak at the convention center. Our SUV-mates turn out to be actress Jessica Alba and her entourage (including husband Cash Warren). "So what do we think of Biden?" asks Alba to one of her handlers. "I think we're pretty psyched about him," the handler replies. The conversation quickly turns away from politics to what we discover is our shared passion: Scrabble. "It is totally unfair that people who own the official Scrabble dictionary memorize all those two letter words," says Alba. And I agree.

After going through two separate security checkpoints, we arrive at the convention center and are ushered to "VIP boxes." I can only imagine Alba's box is slightly more glamorous than the one we've been escorted to. It's owned by the company Waste Management and offers a distant, partial view of the back of Bill Clinton's head. Along with Broadway star Alan Cumming, actor/director Tony Goldwyn, and other guests of the Waste Management box, we slowly realize that this is probably as good as it's gonna get. It is very cool to see all the enthusiastic delegates waving their American flags in the stadium. But as for actually watching the speakers, the TV on the back wall turns out to be a better bet.

Our last stop of the night is a party for the Manifest Hope Gallery. Sponsored by MoveOn and graphic artist Shep Fairey (who created the ubiquitous Obama "Hope" logo), this turns out to be, without a doubt the hippest event of the DNC. Located in an industrial building on the outskirts of downtown, the temporary gallery's filled with excellent, cutting edge, Obama-inspired artwork, all for sale to support the democratic cause.

After a bangin' old school disco DJ set by Fairey, comedian Sarah Silverman takes the stage for some signature teetering-on-the-edge-of-total-wrongness political comedy. "McCain doesn't even know the difference between Sunni and Shiite," she says. "His foreign policy is, 'if it's brown, flush it down.'"

Next up are indie rock darlings Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie), Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley), actress/singer Zooey Deschanel, who play a sweet set of old school, Laurel Canyon '69-style folk music with a couple of their friends. Their performance shows moments of sweet brilliance, but it's clear that the people at this party were a little happier drinking fair-trade wine and dancing for democracy.

Mellow folk quickly gives way to recordings of Obama speech-giving over groovy hip hop beats, courtesy of DJ Z-Trip (Apparently, if the whole president thing doesn't work out, Obama may have a solid future in dance music). By 2 a.m. the celebration shows no signs of abating. As MoveOn organizers negotiate Charlize Theron and her husband's arrival, we take a hit of supplemental oxygen and grab a cab back to the hotel. After a long night of libertine activism I am sure of one thing: If the democratic party was anything like the Manifest Hope party, Obama would have this thing in the bag for sure. --DARON MURPHY

(Shep Fairey, Laura Dawn, and Moby at the Manifest Hope Gallery)

(Our most excellent view of the Clinton speech from the VIP box at the DNC center)

(Art on the walls of Manifest Hope)

(Sarah Silverman onstage at Manifest Hope Gallery)

(Indie rockers at Manifest Hope: Ben Gibbard, Zooey Deschanel, Jonathan Rice, Jenny Lewis, Matthew Caws)

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Top 10 things I learned about conventions -- at least Democratic ones.

1.    The phrase "Don't you know who I am?" works wonders for accessing backstage and after-parties because, in reality, no one knows who anyone is.

2.    Although the convention is a national stage, local politics still run the show. State delegates care a lot more about who will run next for state legislator than they do about social security.

3.    The media will flock to wherever they see an old person and a young person dancing together in the aisles. It's golden material.

4.    The young staffers who pass out the credentials have the most power in American politics for one week at least. While Jim Roosevelt (chairman of the party's Rules Committee and FDR's grandson) wandered the convention hall looking for a pass for his wife, 21-year-olds were trading backstage passes like baseball cards.

5.    The proximity and accessibility of local celebrities far outshine those speaking on stage and on television. When 86-year-old former Senator George McGovern, the 1972 presidential nominee, walked through the Massachusetts delegation on Thursday evening, not even Barack Obama could hold their attention.

6.    The Kennedy men are just as handsome and charming as they're reputed to be.

7.    People actually pose -- sometimes even following stage directions from photographers -- for those heartfelt and thoughtful pictures that are splashed on the front pages of newspapers. 

8.    Wolf Blitzer is short.

9.    The whips (the young volunteers who hand out the signs and tell the audience when to hold them up) might actually whip you with a sign if you don't take one.

10.    Men in politics wink more naturally and more frequently than any other category of man.
--CHLOE KAMARCK

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On day three of the Democratic Convention, I ventured past the Pepsi Center parking lots, button-sellers, and security tents in search of the protesters' corral. After all, when it comes to politics, screaming activists and extremists are half the fun. I was specifically looking for people from the group PUMA -- or People United My Ass -- those former Hillary supporters who've flocked to McCain. Given their clever acronym, I hoped for a vivid quote, a sarcastic sign, or an aggressive T-shirt. As I rounded the corner that supposedly led to the official protesters' pen, however, all I heard was an audibly drunk man's voice over a microphone yelling, "The Broncos suuuuuuck!"

In the middle of a massive fenced-in parking lot, there sat the sole protester of the Democratic convention at the Pepsi Center: a middle-aged man in a Raiders jersey. Confused, I found the closest -- and apparently only -- security man around. "Yep," he said when I asked him if this was where the protesters were supposed to be. "I was prepared for the worst," he admitted, "but I didn't realize I'd have to deal with the taunts of a Raiders fan."

So, what happened to all the protesters? "I don't know," he shrugged. "I guess they didn't like the location we chose for them." While surely those protesters exist somewhere in Denver or elsewhere, their physical absence at the convention grounds, especially the dreaded Hillary/McCain folks, gave the Pepsi Center an atmosphere of calm and -- that ubiquitous word -- unity.

Feeling a little bad for the security guard, I asked him if he was bored. "It hasn't been all bad," he said. Looking down at his sun-kissed arms, he said, "I've evened out my tan." --CHLOE KAMARCK

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Four years ago, I was in the audience in Boston as Bill Clinton delivered his speech at that Democratic convention. I was in awe. I compared him to a rock star; a demigod; an all-star athlete who you just can't take your eyes off of.  This time around, however, after all his shenanigans and "aw, shucks" moments during the primary campaign, after all his drama about Obama, I was ready to be under-whelmed by a man who has only drawn negative attention in the past year. The party faithful cheered around me for three and a half minutes and waived their American flags when Bill walked out. I sat firmly in my seat and felt jaded.

Then he began to speak.

For only twenty minutes he spoke and simultaneously delivered the most effective attack on the Republicans and the most persuasive endorsement of Barack Obama thus far in the convention -- heck, the campaign. In short, Bill Clinton gave the speech that Hillary Clinton should have given.  It was probably the speech that she secretly hoped she had given. After Hillary's appearance Tuesday night, she had all the networks and columnists claiming she had hit a home run.

Well, if Hillary hit a home run, Bill hit for the cycle.

He did everything he was supposed to do for the team, and then some. Before delivering a perfect speech, he sighed and chuckled, "I love this." Like no other politician, the man is able to use statistics that convince rather than bore, and right now, the numbers are on the Democrats' side. He spoke effortlessly and drew parallels between the Republican attack of "inexperience" against himself in 1992 and against Obama now, and made it unequivocally clear that Obama is ready -- an assertion that Hillary never made in her speech.

The frustrating part is that these twenty minutes of genius from Bill Clinton make him all the more infuriating as a public figure -- and exasperating as a party leader. He's like a little kid who knows what not to do, but still tries to test the limits. "That's why I'm so pissed at him," claimed one Massachusetts delegate on the convention floor. "He did all the right things, but his own behavior so often overshadows," she vented.  It's certainly true that in recent years, and especially this past primary year, there hasn't been much good news about Bill Clinton. His business practices and associates have been questioned, and during the primary, the carelessness of his remarks actually made it seem like he was out to sabotage his own wife.  At times, his involvement in Hillary's campaign appeared more selfish than supportive.

It was bittersweet then that Bill walked last night out to his 1992 campaign song "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow" by Fleetwood Mac.  The song was a reminder to Democrats how Bill Clinton pulled off his improbable victory back then. But let's not forget that the refrain of that is: "Yesterday's gone, Yesterday's gone." --CHLOE KAMARCK

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(Apparently Harold Ford couldn't stop all the photographers. Photo: Getty)

If it's true that Washington, DC, is Hollywood for ugly people, then someone forgot to tell the Democrats, who gathered here at their National Convention in Denver staunchly determined to party in a sexy way. The city's streets were rife with natty revelers on the second night of the DNC. And for every paunchy old drunk guy attempting to use his labor union credentials to hit on a young babe, it seemed there were ten bright-eyed activists "energizing the base" at some hip left-wing soiree.

My first stop was downtown's Jet hotel for a fundraiser hosted by the nonpartisan charity organization Do Something. Their mission: to "encourage young people to create their own vision for making a difference in their community by offering resources and support." The room was filled with teens who'd been given grants by the organization to fund their self-created progressive programs. One had spearheaded a project to distribute clothing to homeless people. Another was part of an organization encouraging 18-year-olds to register to vote. A third was there in an effort to lower the voting age like they did during the height of the Vietnam war draft (apparently thousands of kids below the age of 18 have signed up for the armed forces after high school visits by military reps).

I was there to play guitar for Moby, who was performing an acoustic set to raise funds for Do Something. The kids seemed to dig it. But the 20 or so blue-blazered Blackberry-wielding lobbyist types at the bar were apparently there to solely to ignore the performance and loudly boast about their senatorial connections while ogling the waitresses's risqué jumpsuits.

Next stop was a nightclub called Beta, where DLC chairman Harold Ford was hosting a party with John Legend, who was performing onstage when we arrived. We were led to the V.I.P. balcony, where Mr. Ford held court, rapt in conversation with a heavy entourage of besuited peers (apparently this talking-over-live-music thing is a political trend in Denver). But when I produced my humble point-and-shoot camera to take a photo of John Legend performing his last tune, Ford stopped his conversation and stood up to tell me personally that pictures were strictly verboten at his party. The music was too loud for me ask why, but I really didn't have to. It was just too sexy in there. --DARON MURPHY

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If thoughts of precarious Venice slowly sinking into the Mediterranean threaten to ruin your next gondola ride, the Hotel Cipriani has the perfect distraction: onboard massages. While lying face-down in a boat may not seem like a guarantee for relaxation, the hotel promises a custom-made mat to keep you away from any water. What else do you get for around $590? A 40-minute massage focusing on the neck, shoulders, and head with a special sunscreen-infused oil to prevent that American-tourist-with-heatstroke look, plus a foot massage and iced tea to, er, finish you off. If pride, and not price, is a deterrent, keep in mind it all goes down in a private corner of the Venetian lagoon. The hotel -- founded by the same Ciprianis that run the namesake restaurant -- is celebrating its 50th anniversary, which means you should stop by post-massage for gold-drenched drinks, food, and even spa treatments. If it all seems a little decadent in light of the anemic dollar, remember: enjoying Venice is a limited-time offer. --WYATT JANSEN

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Customization and personalization are all the rage in clothing these days, and tennis is not above the fray. From Roger's "RF" monogram at Nike to the seal on Sharapova's tennis bags to the embroidery on many of the pros' footwear (lest they get confused about whose shoes are whose -- it's a big locker room out there), everyone's doing something to make their product unique. Up until now, these services have only been peddled to the pros -- tennis is an elite sport, after all. But in time for the US Open, the rest of us get to eat cake.

YOUR STICK:
Customyze It, a new service offered by racquetmaker Prince, allows players to design their own racquet face using the the O3 Speedport Black as the base. After picking a frame -- the O3 Speedport Black; the lighter Team version; or the Longbody, for those who need some help with wingspan -- you can choose between two stringing systems that allow for either more control or more power. And you get to choose between seven colors for the grip and the string inserts on the racquet face (there's four of them). Take heed, though: the base color is still black, so there are certain combos you might want to stay away from.

When you're done choosing, print out your creation and take it to your nearest Prince dealer.

BUY: O3 Speedport Black, $199.99. Visit Princetennis.com to start customizing.

YOUR SHOES:
The pros get their fair share of coddling from their sponsors, not excluding molding their shoes to fit perfectly on their feet. At adidas, their mi adidas program (pronounced as "my adidas") allows customers access to the same treatment that Ana Ivanovic and Novak Djokovic receive from the sports giant. To start, your feet's length and width are measure down to a tenth of a millimeter right there at the store, allowing you to have different sized shoes for left and right. (Don't worry, even though you step on what looks like a scale, they're not taking note of your weight.) adidas offers the Barricade IV (and for women, the ClimaCool Divine), from which each customer picks the shoe's cosmetic design: various parts of the sole, the upper, the eyelets, and the tongue all have different colors, while a country flag can be embroidered on the tongue and up to 10 characters printed on the outer side sole of each shoe.

And if you're getting fitted for a sport that involves more pure running, a dynamic scan analyzes your running pattern, creating a sole specific to your heel strike and pressure points.

BUY: mi adidas available at adidas performance stores in New York, San Francisco, and Chicago; for shoes for running, volleyball, soccer, basketball, and tennis. The fitting and color-choosing takes between 20-30 minutes, and the shoes ship in about four weeks. Visit adidas.com/com/miadidas for more info.

YOUR TEE:
A short-hitting session doesn't need complicated moisture-wicking, body-mapped polos, so take note of the Sportswear iD tee the next time you're on the court. It comes in a variety of colors, graphics, and application treatments. The fitted tee even has an option for printing a name and number on the back, jersey-style.

BUY: Nike Sportswear iD tee, $45, shipped in about four weeks. Visit nikeid.nike.com
--ERWIN ONG

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(Nadal's shows off his "traditional" new look)

In case you didn't know, there's been a lot of talk in the last few months about Rafael Nadal overhauling his image, at least as it comes to fashion on the court. He and Nike want to move away from the muscle shirt and Capri pants -- a "hunky rebel" look -- to that of a more traditional tennis player: polos and shorts.

Nike and Nadal debuted this new look at a press conference last Thursday (which involved Don King -- that's a post for later) showcasing a bright orange polo with a wide checked pattern and cuffed sleeves. Perhaps to compensate for the loss of bicep exposure, they hiked up the hemline of the Capris closer to the vicinity of his knees.

We got another glimpse of these new threads at Nike's shop on the U.S. Open grounds. The polo fits snug against the torso (we were asked to go up a size larger than usual) -- a well-executed stylistic nod to Rafa's European fashion roots -- and a refreshing change from Nike's usually blousey performance tops.

But when Rafa stepped into Arthur Ashe stadium yesterday to warm up against qualifier Bjorn Phau for their first-round match, the Spaniard wore the same blue sleeveless Nike tank and white Capris that he'd been wearing all summer. What happened?

According to an e-mail statement from Nike, Rafa didn't have enough time to fully transition into the new silhouette ("fundamentally different" from his old uniform) because of the tight schedule between the Olympics and the Open.

Too bad, we were really hoping for him to shake up this year's tournament with his new uniform. But understandable, because he's going into this major with some major titles under his belt: Toronto, Beijing, and of course Wimbledon -- all while wearing his tank and pirate pants. If it ain't broke...

Scoreline: Rafa beat Phau in straight sets, but needed two tiebreaks to do so. 7-6 (4), 6-3, 7-6 (4). --ERWIN ONG

(Photo: Getty)

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Soba, the buckwheat noodle from Japan, is mild and subtle -- a veritable model of discretion. But that doesn't mean the thin noodle doesn't have ardent supporters.  Too often soba is an afterthought on Japanese menus, shunted off to the side. But the understated glory of the noodle deserves a starring role.

Like any classic staple, soba goes well with everything, from tempura to sea urchin, or on its own with a dipping sauce.  For a high-end introduction, head to Matsugen, the Tribeca outpost of Jean-Georges's ever expanding empire.  They take soba seriously: there's a special mill to grind the buckwheat kernels into flour for the three types of soba noodles -- those coarsely flecked with dark buckwheat husk (Inaka), those with some husk (Seiro), and those with none, a smooth, satisfying monastic pale brown (Rin).  Your mission is to choose which type of noodle you want, decide whether you want them hot or cold, then select one of the suggested accompaniments.  You've got a lot of work to do.

On a recent visit, the cold Inaka had a firm woodsy taste and stood up well to the pitch-perfect sweetness of a sesame sauce.  If you want more of a production, order the Matsugen soba, where the noodles are hidden beneath a heap of okra, nori, bonito flakes, some scallions, and a raw egg for good measure.  Pour in a little soy-based sauce, mix it together and it manages to be indulgent without being heavy.  As any monk can tell you, virtue is well and good, but it tastes better with a raw egg. --DAVID COGGINS

Matsugen
jean-georges.com
212.925.0202
241 Church St.
New York, NY 10013

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(Photo of Jay Fielden, James Blake, and Marc Berger:  Joe Schildhorn/PatrickMcMullan.com)

Men's Vogue hosted a cocktail party on Thursday night for tennis player James Blake in honor of the recently established Thomas Blake Sr. Memorial Research Fund. James' father, after whom the fund is named, succumbed to cancer at an early age. Blake, dressed in Hugo Boss, expressed gratitude for Men's Vogue's help with setting up an online auction at charityfolks.com. Prizes include a chance to hang out with Blake at a 2009 tournament in Miami, a trip to the Evian Resort in France, a Maurice Lacroix watch, and a Niketown shopping experience. "All this support get me closer to my goal of raising $1 million by next year," Blake said.

The American No. 2 will go into this year's U.S. Open with some momentum on his side. Even though he lost the bronze medal match in Beijing Olympics last week to Serbian Novak Djokovic, James notched a huge win over Roger Federer. "Beating Federer in Beijing was enormous for his confidence," said his brother Thomas, Jr, a former tennis pro. And did he have any pearls of wisdom for his younger brother for next week's tournament? "He always gets fired up for the U.S. Open. There's not much you need to tell him."

Along with establishing this fund, based out of New York City's Sloan-Kettering Hospital, James recently put his name on a facial mister spray with Evian. Thomas Jr. flashed a mischievous smile when we told him that James helped design the bottle. "He's going to get a lot of flack for that." James is still paying for his Evian bathtub ad from 2006. "We still have those pictures of James in a bathtub tacked up around [the house]." I'm sure they're not the only ones. --ERWIN ONG

Related: Photos from the event

(Photo of Blake with childhood friend John Mayer: Joe Schildhorn/PatrickMcMullan.com)

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The fashion world often ignites many an unlikely trend...like a certain Carrie Bradshaw inspiring desperate hordes of starved fashionistas to line up for hours in search of sugar at a small West Village bakery.  SJP and her disciples might need to rethink their allegiance to the cupcake when she hears this certain endorsement.

During the recent menswear shows in Paris, the early morning Lanvin show featured Dunkin Donuts-style treats served by elegant waiters wearing white gloves to the very weary fashion troops in attendance.

At first the crowd appeared skeptical and only the devil-may-care photographers and film crews could be tempted...but one by one, fashion writers and editors threw off their inhibitions and tasted of the forbidden fruit. Diets be damned -- the crowd jumped in. Sprinkles, frosting, fruit filling, jelly, every caloric sin was indulged. The crowd went from haughty to Homer in seconds. As a bonus, after every last sugary morsel was consumed, frozen sweetened frappucinos and mochaccinos were served to wash them down.

Now that Lanvin designer Lucas Ossendrijver and mentor Alber Albaz have anointed the donut as "chic." Can we expect a Krispy Kreme 'shop in shop' at a Barneys near you? --STEPHEN WATSON

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(Anita O'Day)

In 1958 photographer Bert Stern descended upon Newport, Rhode Island to make a documentary about the music of the Newport Jazz Festival. Surprisingly, the jazz is not the real reason to own the resulting film Jazz on a Summer's Day. The movie should be kept as a time capsule of sorts for the sartorially obsessed. A day in the life of actual Don and Betty Drapers drinking beer out of Dixie cups, dripping in the casual elegance of the era.

Jazz on a Summer's Day is a flashback to one of the most optimistic times in American history. The documentary features moving performances by jazz greats like Louis Armstrong, Mahalia Jackson and the deeply troubled singer Anita O'Day. A particular shot of O'Day, dressed in a beautiful hat and white gloves as she serenades the bird-caged microphone, has resonated with audiences for decades. In her autobiography years later, O'Day, a longtime drug addict and subject of a recent documentary, amazingly reveled that she was high on heroin during that famed performance. This revelation, while shocking considering it was 1958 and not 1988, does little to diminish the beauty and timelessness of the film.

The remarkably pure photographic quality of the Jazz on a Summer's Day -- shot in a sort of Kodachrome-meets-high-definition -- magnifies the style and charisma of the time. With the memorable musical sets, peppered with shots of the well-heeled crowd and the picturesque yachts of the America's Cup trials off the coast of Newport, this film creates a setting of unmatched American sophistication. --MICHAEL WILLIAMS

Go see: Anita O'Day: Life of a Jazz Singer

Buy: Jazz on a Summer's Day

(Louis Armstrong)

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With the Democratic convention less than one week away, will the Edwards distraction be the large, finely coiffed, elephant in the middle of the room? Democratic insiders are concerned that the scandal of John Edwards's extramarital affair with campaign documentarian Rielle Hunter and possible illegitimate child, while certainly not the most appalling we've heard of this year (read: Eliot Spitzer), are affecting the reputation of the party, overshadowing Obama's upcoming veep news as well as the struggle for unity between Obama and Clinton supporters.  According to political pollster and Democratic party guru Doug Schoen, "the Edwards scandal is a distraction the Democrats must move beyond if they are to defeat John McCain."

In the humble opinion of this blogger, a distraction ought to be embraced, rather that swept under the rug.  Imagine, for example, a whole night of the convention devoted to the party's testament to testosterone... It could be an all-star adulterers lineup with Gary Hart, John Edwards, and Bill Clinton. Falling short of that, however, the Edwards distraction could cause serious repercussions, not the least of which are explained below.

First, with Bill Clinton set to speak during primetime on Wednesday evening, it's inevitable that viewers will take a walk down memory lane.  From Gary Hart's indignant challenge to the press to tail him in order to disprove adultery rumors to Bill Clinton's redefinition of the word "is", Edwards's statement that being 99% honest is no longer enough will be a glaring reminder that the Democratic party has had its problems with honesty over the last three decades. It will be hard for the Democrats to avoid the familiar label as the party without family values. Schoen warns that "unless the Democrats can move past the Edwards scandal and articulate a pro-family agenda at the convention that emphasizes traditional values, victory will be that much more difficult in November." Don't expect a Barack-Michelle convention kiss, a la Al and Tipper Gore, but don't be surprised if you see a little more of Obama's family and marital life than you bargained for.

The second, and perhaps more catastrophic, effect is that Edwards is now the second man to screw over Hillary Clinton with his adulterous ways -- a fact that Hillary supporters will have a hard time forgetting.  As former Clinton aide Howard Wolfson is contending, Hillary would have won the nomination had the mainstream media reported on the Edwards rumors sooner.  Wolfson complained to ABC that "Our voters and Edwards' voters were the same people. They were older, pro-union."  It's impossible to say whether Edwards's backers would have flocked to Hillary in Iowa, but it's fairly safe to say that embittered Hillary supporters will be energized and contentious, making party unity a challenge. Hillary's a pro, so her speech on Tuesday evening of the convention will undoubtedly reaffirm her support of Obama, but since it's scheduled to coincide with the anniversary of women's suffrage, you can expect her to hit hard on the women's empowerment message, thus further riling up her supporters.

The Democrats have to hope that this Edwards scandal gets better before it gets worse. With imminent VP announcements, a war in Georgia, and Michael Phelps's speedo clogging up airtime, they could still pull off avoiding that dandily-groomed elephant in the room.  If Clinton's supporters allow it, that is. --CHLOE KAMARCK

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As the season gives way to Indian Summer in Montauk, the Citiots' weekend shares expire, the Paskowitz family comes to town, and September swells rise with the warm waters off the Atlantic as if to say: "Will the real surfer boys please stand up?" And the group behind the town's new hip -- but not too hip -- Surf Lodge is hoping to be among them. Known for raising CAIN in Southampton (SHHH!) and the equally raucous Gold Bar in Manhattan, partners Jaime Mulholland, Jayma Cardoso, and Robert McKinley have left their velvet rope past behind with this 30-room weekend retreat overlooking serene Fort Pond.

"It's not about bottles of Crystal. It's not about jumping on tables listening to house music," says Mulholland. "It's about the real things of being healthy and getting out in the water." In other words, it's more Walt Whitman than Walt Disney. Don't let the hair salon, the Tracy Feith boutique, or the restaurant run by Top Chef's Sam Talbot fool you. The vibe actually is laid back, i.e. it's okay to use the word vibe. A recent visit revealed a sun streaked blonde in the open-aired reception area, appropriately named Summer, and an eclectic crowd that included Bruce Weber, at least one pony-tailed dad, a few full-fledged families, one leggy brunette and one tattooed bad-ass, all spread across the back porch. They were doing something dangerously close to lounging and listening to a reggae band while real wave riders showed their chops on a projector screen in the lobby. So the Surf Lodge set may not be the most hard-core Ditch Plains-devotees, but the surfing day was done and the balance required to keep locals happy while catering to the likes of Jerry Seinfeld and Ralph Lauren has to count for something. --LIZ McDANIEL

I recently learned for myself what I have been hearing for ages: a good shoe is always worth the price, and with proper care they will last a lifetime.  When I wore my favorite JM Westons into the ground a few months ago, I returned them to the store and they came back to me refurbished far superior than when they were new, better than fresh out of the box. They look absolutely perfect; with shades of their former life looking now part vintage, part new, and all fantastic.  It's a great lesson to learn in the value of owning a great pair of shoes.

This is a lesson that Steven Taffel totally believes in -- as he's opened the most amazing shrine to men's footwear in New York City in the form of a small treasure chest of a store curated with a small collection of incredible men's shoes. 

On an unassuming corner of the radically changing Christopher Street (think newly stylish Bleecker Street)  an edited collection of beautiful men's shoes line the edge of a single large table with about 20 pair per side. Shoes brought in from Corthay in Paris, Edward Green in London, Aubercy, Churchs, and even my beloved Weston -- only five styles from each company. These are mostly shoe brands that are virtually impossible to find anywhere in the US and styles that are normally special order elsewhere.  The footwear here is to be thought of as investments, as the life of these shoes will far outweigh any costs that might initially set you back.

This is a very special place -- a shoe lover's nirvana, a store that represents classic style, sophistication, and above all is curated with with a great eye.  Steven even blogs about his shoes. It's a new men's store not to be missed. --STEPHEN WATSON

Leffot
10 Christopher Street
New York, NY 10014
212 989 4577
leffot.com
blog.leffot.com

(Sloe Gin Fizz, Old Fashioned, and East Side Fizz)

Every woman will tell you, when it comes to rocks, size and shape absolutely matter.

Any good bartender will, too.

"It's all about surface area," says Joseph Schwartz, managing partner of Little Branch, the West Village, Manhattan, cocktail institution. "You want the largest volume to keep the drink as cold as possible, but the smallest surface area to minimize dilution."

At Little Branch, that means muscle. For sipping drinks such as an Old Fashioned (bourbon, sugar cube, citrus zest, bitters), they use a four-tined ice pick to carve out one gigantic cube from a larger block.

Chiseling out a single cube to fit into a Collins glass proved problematic, so they've developed a mold for those long, rectangular shapes. The Collins glass cube cools the "slightly shaken" cocktails like a Sloe Gin Fizz (Plymouth sloe gin -- it's the only kind available in the U.S. made from real sloe berries, gin, simple syrup, egg white, bitters, club soda) or the East Side Fizz (gin, lime, sugar, mint, cucumber, club soda).

Pour heavily shaken drinks like a Caipirinha or the Gordon's Cup (gin, fresh lime, cucumber, simple syrup, sea salt) over cracked ice (large, jagged chunks), he says. Save the crushed ice for juleps and drinks with minimal mixing, where dilution actually helps.

The average at-home mixologist may be at an ice advantage over barmen at most big joints. Those little ice disks and hollowed out cubes most restaurants and bars use are meant to melt fast. You'll be way ahead with a good old ice cube tray, Schwartz says.

So, next time you order up a Hudson Manhattan Rye and want it to last, be sure to ask for it, "On the rock."

In other New York cocktail news: Schwartz also reports that his Little Branch partner, Sasha Petraske (Milk & Honey, East Side Company Bar, Mercury Dime), plans to open a sipping spirits joint on Essex Street, tentatively named "White Star" and Petraske and Little Branch bartender Richie Boccato are bringing the upscale cocktail scene to Long Island City with "Dutch Kills." --HOLLISTER HOVEY (PHOTOS: PORTER HOVEY)

(A Collins glass with the long, rectangular ice cube)

(Old Fashioned)

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As a kid, Shorty Maniace swept hair in "Grandpa" Jasper's barbershop back in Spokane.  He picked up shaving and cutting along the way (with some professional education) and landed at Nick's, the 45-year West Village barbering institution at 5 Horatio Street.  Nick left this intersection near West 4th and 8th Ave. about five years ago, but Shorty's returned to the spot to clip and shave a new generation of guys as manager of Sam Buffa's new Freeman's Sporting Club outpost, FSC Barber, which recently opened in the spot.  Like the just-off-SoHo-original, the new FSC digs look old, but everything is new to the space (except for Nick's old wooden phone booth and a couple doors at the back of the store). Buffa and crew rescued the barbers' stations from a '40s-era barber shop in Florida, the Alpine Oak floors from a barn in upstate New York and the '20s lockers and front desk from Pennsylvania.  They sell grooming products, too -- like the store, classics, packaged like they used to be.

Shorty walks us through the steps and elixirs it takes to shave the old-fashioned way these days (Photos: Porter Hovey):

Step 1: Musgo Real Pre-Shave Oil ($22)

Step 2: Baxter of California Close Shave Formula ($16)

Step 3: Hot towel on the face.

Step 4:  Heated shaving cream (from a vintage hot lather shaving cream dispenser). Conair makes a modern version for $29.

Note: he uses Sharp's Kid Glove Shave Gel ($13) instead of foam when trimming around mustaches and beards to maintain a clear view of his palate.

Step 5: Straight edge shave, going with the grain.

Step 6:  Splash rose water to kill off any bacteria.  Shorty recommends Manetti Robert's version for $9 or Santa Maria Novella's for $50.

Repeat steps 1-6, but turn that blade against the grain (if it's right for the guy's kind of facial hair). 

Wrap face with cool towel to tighten the pores.

Follow up with Musgo Real's After Shave Balsam ($22), Baxter of California's After Shave Balm ($15) and seal it off with Sharp's Daily Prep Tuning Lotion ($24).  --HOLLISTER HOVEY

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City dwellers hanker for the farm these days.  Well, the farms close by.  The local or "slow food" trend that's sweeping across American kitchens has been growing strong for years in the U.K.  Now the Brits are bringing the same concerns to the things they put on their bodies, not just inside them.

James Shaw and Alastair Rae founded their new men's line Albam on the principle of local British manufacturing at relatively affordable prices.  But one English spot's been famous for keeping it local for centuries: Savile Row.

"We have fantastic cloth and tailors here in England, so why buy something with cloth from the Far East that's been glued together in a factory in China?," asks Patrick Grant, owner of Norton & Sons, the Savile Row shop that's been suiting up kings, princes, and presidents in English and Scottish wools for almost two centuries.

Of course, staying local Savile Row style doesn't come cheap -- especially for Americans suffering from the weak dollar.  Norton & Sons suits start around £3,000 (around $6,000), but they're more sought after than ever.

The backlog for one of the 250 suits that the shop turns out each year has stretched to four months from two, despite the ever-tightening worldwide economy.

"At a time like this, a lot of businessmen return to more formal, understated, elegant clothes because business is difficult and they need to look the part," says Grant, who purchased Norton & Sons two years ago when he was only 34, fresh out of post-grad studies at Oxford.  "Having the right clothes speaks volumes about you as a person."

There's also the concern of quality over quantity.  "These suits are going to last you a long time," he said, adding that they're currently altering a duke's trousers that were made in 1957.  "Most of our suits tend to have a classic Savile Row cut that will not date. We might exaggerate or reduce a lapel, or reduce a pocket flap but we strive to maintain correct balance and proportion.  A well-cut suit will never be out of style."

Americans don't have to fly to London for this special treatment.  Grant and his tailors normally do four trips to New York a year.  But expect to be patient.  They measure up a new client, but will need to see him two to three more times.  "Unless they come to London, they might wait a year for their first suit."

What's a year, though, when your new duds will last a lifetime? Sustainable Suiting at its best. --HOLLISTER HOVEY

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Tee Faircloth took a year off from his finance job after 9/11 to hole up in Scotland and fish the North Sea. In between casts, he found a girlfriend who asked not for diamonds or shoes, but a zebra skin rug.  As all good boyfriends would do, "I went to Africa to get a rug," he said. On that hunt in the name of love, Faircloth fell in love with Africa.

Faircloth's Africa is the Africa of Karen Blixen and Hemingway and Land Rover Defenders. "Italy has Gucci.  France has Chanel.  China even has Shanghai Tang. But there wasn't a brand that captured the Africa I found wonderful: the amazing animals, the beauty unlike any place on earth," he said. There also wasn't a brand out there making hot-weather clothes that fit this aesthetic.

Tee Faircloth with Ant Barber

So, on his next trip to the continent, he went hunting for a brand that would embody what he loved about this land.  He discovered F.M. Allen, the defunct safari company founded in the '40s by gentleman hunter Frank Murray "Bunny" Allen.  He bought it from the family and imbued it with a history of steamer trunks, Roorkee chairs, field boots, silver flasks and $17,000 tents -- and gave it a future filled with decidedly modern textile technology.

He'd helped restructure Burlington Industries in the mid '90s, so he understood high-tech fabrics. Cold weather adventurers had North Face and Patagonia and countless others dedicated to their cause, but no one was paying attention to the heat.

Faircloth was.  He's designed F.M. Allen's bush jackets to hang like the pocketed khaki classics, but the fabric blocks the Serengeti sun (SPF 50), wicks away the sweat, dries in a flash (six times faster than cotton) and keeps away the stink (antimicrobial).

The clothes may be high tech, but the rest of the company's wares are straight out of Happy Valley. The company not only will dress you for safari, they'll plan your whole adventure -- or help you decorate your home as if you'd gone on one or nine.  The Madison Ave. shop is filled with colonial relics (the kind Ralph Lauren seems to enjoy) and 1920s stage lights, luggage and authentic and reproduction campaign furniture.

Growing up in Macon, Georgia, young Faircloth was no stranger to antiques.  His mom dragged him all over the South on vintage-buying trips.  Unexcited by the prospect, he made her a bargain: for every three antique stores, he got to pop into one specializing in sports.  But he picked up a thing or two about those old things along the way.  "I actually started liking antiques," he said. "I learned to ID fakes and repairs. I spent a lot of time crawling under desks."

These days he and his team travel Europe, the U.S. and "the continent" in search of these finds and he travels to all corners of Africa and the world for adventures. In Africa, his favorite destinations include the Grumeti Reserves in Tanzania, Serra Cafema Camp in Namibia and the Okavango Delta in Botswana, Africa's largest wetland.

When he goes he travels light: Two shirts, jeans a couple pairs of shorts and his sweat-wicking, sun-blocking bush jacket -- a decidedly necessary accessory if traveling par deux in Africa, hoping to hold on to your love. --HOLLISTER HOVEY

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The fashion philosophy of the menswear brand Jack Spade, as espoused on its website, is distinctly utilitarian. "Chinos for the military, Levis for the workman, Lacoste for the sportsman. The products these companies manufacture have style because the designs have a reason for being."

Following this maxim to its logical conclusion, the Jack Spade store in lower Manhattan has decided to celebrate one of their most dedicated customers, a thief who has returned three times to the store in search of items that are both stylish and fully functional for the busy burglar.

Jack Spade's Greene Street Store

Jack Spade was so smitten by this criminal's dedication and affinity for their products they have created a comic book to commemorate his adventures. Breaking and Entering is available for purchase at their Greene Street location, which is also decorated in homage to their nocturnal visitor.

The love affair between Spade and their sartorial sneak began back in March, when our hero, whom we'll call Paul Bunyan,  broke into Jack Spade's Greene Street store by smashing