HYPE, CLAPTRAP and BLUSTER from media types and sundry rascals
…one of the more charming treatises to come along in years…In short, [Whimsy] glorifies almost every aspect of Homo Affectus…as [his] book points out, being a dandy is…about imagination, about dreaming up and acquiring and embodying a mixture of traits and clothes and habits peculiar to you. And if they seem peculiar to everyone else, well then, they had better catch up, hadn’t they?
Ask Whimsy, and he may call himself a “crack-pot” or a “shut-in.” But if you want the full answer, hightail it to a bookstore and secure a copy of one of the most entertaining—and certainly weirdest—non-fiction titles of the summer…The Companion is a lifestyle battlecry, both quaint and radical, lighthearted and dead serious…The Affected Provincial’s Companion may never dislodge The South Beach Diet as a guide to post-modern American living, but it is a lot more fun than any rivals in the field. After reading this eccentric’s creed, it feels good to know that a book this quirky can still get published. And good, too, to know that Whimsy is out there, tending his bug-eating plants and dreaming up his next shot at boring mainstream life.
“…a clever and eclectic collection of essays, treatises, poetry and philosophical diagrams, the book is a tongue-in-cheek guide for modern living…with the wit and charm of a modern-day Oscar Wilde…”
We humbly endeavor to showcase the talents, both literary and graphical, of the aforementioned Lord Whimsy. While he has been widely denounced as a cad, rake, and sipper of porridges, we humbly submit that he is also a splendid raconteur and a canny quillsman. Granted, he is also something of a bounder. But, gentle reader, let the work speak for itself. Witness his rousing jeremiad against Sporting Wear. Admire his scientific chart detailing the improbable physics of Self Congress. Behold the impeccably turned out man-about-town. We are confident you will find this dandy’s manicured musings a bracing tonic against the enervating drudgery of the modern world. Was it not the great Gallic thespian Gerard Depardieu who once exclaimed, “Ah, Whimsy—un homme d’esprit!” Yes, it was not.
Whimsy is most agreeable.
Whimsy’s well-turned phrases (to say nothing of his illustrative graphs) are, though distanced and quaintly arcane, sweetly smart and modern.
Inspired foolishness. It seems odd to say that the Net needs more whimsical eccentricity, but it must, or how would we be made so happy when a site like this turns up? …this collection of essays, charts and assorted silliness is deeply amusing if you’re in the right sort-of-arch mood.
…visit the web page of Lord Whimsy, author of The Affected Provincial’s Almanack, who styles himself a dandyish, late Victorian Poor Richard…
Thank you, damask man.
This miscellany of foppish ephemera is a bizarre satire worthy of McSweeney’s oddball publications. The robustly “affected” author chooses snippets on penis girth and eccentric self-publicity in this spurious, camp pillow book of dandyish distractions.
Quentin Crisp is one of the greatest dandies ever to have lived – apart from me. He is scattered from above on this book like confetti. And yet Crisp’s The Naked Civil Servant had an aching creative heart. It was a book about narcissism and negation. Vitality and vulnerability. Grandiosity and humility. He took us straight up to heaven without losing our breath, and then straight to hell with the same passion. The Affected Provincial’s Companion does nothing of the sort. Scratch the surface and you’ll find more surface.
Lord Whimsy, aka Victor Allen Crawford III, once saw the phrase ‘affected provincial’ tossed off as a term of contempt, and heroically appropriated it to describe his own ideal of a person not born into the aristocracy but none the less determined to lead the life of a sophisticated dandy. Those who wish to emulate the style he currently practises in New Jersey will learn how herein: riding a penny-farthing bicycle, catching moths to wear in your buttonhole, training crabs for the stage, and dressing with the maximum of discomfort. The prose style is fruitily whimsical in the extreme, but not without some intriguing sociological arguments. There are some very funny pseudo-scientific diagrams (particularly Fig 2, ‘The Bohemian-Dandy Class Continuum’, and Fig 50, ‘The Retrosexual Atlas’), and one can’t help but warm to any author who refers to ‘this silly little book’.
We’ve seen some odd personal home pages but this is among the strangest.
Who’ll like it: Anyone who doesn’t have to look up the word “popinjay”. Who won’t: Intolerant folk with a short temper—after 155 pages of the above, you might just want to thump one-joke Whimsy—whoever the hell he is.
He’s no stranger to feathers. He listens to Felt, and he rides a crazy bicycle. What’s not to love?
LIES, GOSSIP, RUMORS and HEARSAY from even less reliable
sources than the press, if that can be imagined:
Though elegant in all ways, Whimsy is by no means an elitist. His aim is to help males of the slouch era graduate from Guys to Men and from Metrosexuals to Dandies. With fanciful diagrams of detachable collars, lapel decorations and cufflinks as well as advice on how to attire oneself properly on a low budget, what on first glance appears to be snobbery is actually a do-it-yourself call to arms against The Mundane!
Although Part I (essays on sartorial pleasures, dandyism vs. bohemianism, and “Naughty Rimes”) is clearly the crowd pleaser, Whimy’s Parts II and III offer philosophical musings on bog fauna, Lucy the Elephant, and inhabiting the trunks of enormous African trees. Whimsy is no empty bon vivant, no idle fop—for he hangs Enlightenment-style metaphysics in the wardrobe of his mind. “The Affected Provincial’s Guide” is perhaps one of the greatest works of the 21st century thus far. In the aesthetically pleasing, plant-like future that hopefully awaits us, Whimsy’s work will be considered a classic. Read it and allow its delight to fill your life!
America’s love/hate fantasy relationship to Britain has always revolved around class, or at least the notion that Brits embody a certain ne plus ultra of overall classiness. But we also like to see that notion disproved, especially with regards to the royals. We like our Brits cheeky too. Lord Breaulove Swells Whimsy, author and bon vivant, is our fantasy of classy Britain made flesh — more Oscar Wilde than Hugh Grant, he dispenses pseudo-advice on the perils of sportswear, self-defense for sissies, and proper grooming. But with tongue delicately in cheek, he lets us have our trifle and eat it too.
The first interesting, worth-reading (and actually worth-buying) book of this century is finally available!
The Affected Provincial’s Companion (vol. I) is, quite simply, a semi-serious philosophical examination of the construction of the persona, wrapped up in custom silk pyjamas from Timothy Everest and an ancient silk top hat, balancing a first edition of Francis Dashwood’s memoirs atop a large rubber nose, and alchemically distilled into book form. A mere trifle, and so much more.
Whimsy alternately amuses the reader with his sparkling wit, lulls them into a reflective state, and sends them scurrying for the dictionary. Despite his erudition, Whimsy’s words are such a pleasure that the most churlish reader could not be put off by them, and even the advanced and adventurous gentleperson will find a trove of delight from which to augment their education.
With his hawk eye and peacock-plume pen, Whimsy dissects everything from sportswear to nostalgia to hobbies, giving the reader a new sense of wonder at each turn. If you’ve an interest in the philosophy of style, an appreciation of the life well-lived or a taste for white raspberry tarts with ginger cream, The Affected Provincial’s Companion is essential reading for you.
The author is clearly a master wordsmith. Every page is riddled with lyrical and lilting prose. Quips and parenthenticals abound; analogies are tossed around with expert skill. The whole work is an enchanting piece of modern-day work wrought in the style of an eighteenth-century essayist, and would make a great contribution to any personal library.
The reason I flipped for your work immediately was that it wasn’t a stunt; it came from a real, well-considered response to living in our times…I do expect you to be beaten up for it.
Hick…“Lord Flimsy”…doesn’t get it…
We live in a cynical age where a mix of cool posed corporate chic and plain indifference are the norm. I like Whimsy because he’s an example of whatever that isn’t: playful, colourful, curious, decorative, self reliant etc etc.
After I got over the shock of Whimsy being an American rather than an English aristocrat, I felt like I’d known him for years…Whimsy is wit and charm incarnate, a constant stream of anecdotes, his conversation scattered with arcane knowledge about everything from toads to porpoises, Durban to design.
We discovered this recently, as we too often do with material we wanted to respond to more personally but have instead set aside and left there with the best of intentions—anyway, we’re sorry it’s taken so long to get around to this little note. Your book seems fully-formed, and we’re glad we got to see it. You seem like a nice guy. Is this an anticlimactic end to a year-and-a-half of suspense? Thanks, in any case, for thinking of us.
Lord Whimsy is tremendously talented, but he’s boring as f**k…So far as I can tell, dude managed to plough through a ton of nineteenth century literature without jumping out a window. Hoo-stinkin-rah! Woo me with your arcane knowledge of fish polish and strange elixirs, oh, bon vivant. Add all the window dressing you like. Birdwatching still sucks.
This Amazon Short, which I discovered while sitting in my dentist’s office, is one of the strangest things I have ever read…it succeeds completely, and while not everyone will find the intentionally pompous language to their liking, true word lovers will adore it.
You’re a genius!
Dude, Whimsy’s real!
The Lord can be a rough fellow. I nearly took some punches for him one St. Valentine’s night.
I feel inspired to remark that gentlemen of your wit, pulchritude and sartorial heroism are few and far between in this dismal era of Hesperian decline. We salute you.
As a man of letters from the 18th century, I cannot but entertain suspicions of arrant mountebankery when I gaze upon this spectre of dandyism’s far-flung future, Lord Whimsy. He may be one hundred years younger than me, but what are his credentials? For example, I have a lovely hot air balloon, yet he mumbles madly of ‘trains’ and ‘dirigibles’. I, like the most excellent dandies, sport britches and puff at a meerschaum, while his velvet suit conceals a laudanum pocket. I have an ‘ancien regime’, he an ‘overseas empire’. I have ever- reliable Sade, he some upstart contrarian called Wilde. I have Robbespierre, he Prince Albert. Is this really the future I see before me, or mere poppycock and fluff? You will tell me next that men shall walk upon the moon. Away with you, futurists, and your ‘patent medicines’ with you!
Do you remember the Days of Old Whimsy? When we would take our sorrows to the water’s edge and think wistfully of the Golden Times to come. And “Murderers, the Hope of Women” played softly in the moonlight as the waves gently lapped the silver shoreline, calming the tragic nights of youth. In white hair, wrinkles, and false teeth, was there anything a body could not get away with?
Lord Whimsy is the gentleman to see when the world and his wife are on your back; when you find that you are no longer able to see the world through strange eyes after years of having seen the world through strange eyes; or when—perchance—you find yourself still sealed in an insipidly tight t-shirt, still capped with a young Rod Stewart haircut, still slurping at warm cans of PBR and digging the latest old-school try by the Strokes—and you realize that you have failed. In dark and ignominious times such as these, look to Whimsy. For with his laudanum pocket and bottles of absinthe; his collection of butterflies, powdered wigs, and fantastic hats; his velocipede journeys along the buttercupped lanes of summer; his round-the-world dirigible voyages; his cufflinks of amber and rings of jade; his lectures on gentlemanly grooming and pamphlets for the young flâneur—with wonders such as these—when you wake each night to find yourself paralyzed by the succubus perched upon your chest, when the flickering light of hellfire casts the stooped shadow of your soul on the dank wall of your melancholy mind, when all seems lost—it is Whimsy who will make it all better.
Last night, I dreamt I was trapped in my parents’ house from when I was a teenager. (…) The doorbell rang, and who stood there there but Lord Whimsy, in a green velvet suit and that Bavarian hat, accompanied by space-women. Whimsy and his companions ushered us to a hotel in a hollowed out cave full of fishpools, where muppet-like moray eels popped their toothy heads up to cackle in welcome, and damp moss carpeted the floor. This dream was very welcome.