ICYMI: FALLIDAY — The Eternal Quest for the Perfect Flannel in the Land of Endless Summer

A girl can dream <3

***Originally published August 12, 2023. Reposting for new members who might share my love for fall and flannels.***

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Victory was mine!

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FALLIDAY — The Eternal Quest for the Perfect Flannel in the Land of Endless Summer

August is the most useless month.

Each year when it rolls around, I become obsessed with finding the perfect flannel. Historically, I had too much time on my hands — it was the loooooong month between July and November sweeps, when broadcast news management was on holiday and brains were boiling to the level of indecision.

So as a veteran workaholic suffering from deadline lite, I became obsessed with finding the perfect flannel.

Year after year, I failed, I compromised, I’d lowball bid three on eBay with fingers crossed one would be reasonably perfect. I always prefer preowned with the hope that someone somewhere wouldn’t recognize that grandpa’s flannel was a family heirloom, and I could pinch it for ten bucks.

The obsession dates back to the ‘90s, naturally.

My younger sister had absconded from NorCal to SoCal with her skater pal Alan’s exceptionally perfect flannel, and as a tariff for living with me in Beachwood Canyon on a cul de sac in the Hollywood Hills, it became mine.

It went everywhere with me — mostly tied around my waist as we do.

It was so soft, and olive and lavender and it made everything in my life better.

On the night Prince performed at the opening of his own club Glam Slam in Downtown LA, I was on the list plus whatever, because as a nightlife columnist for the Los Angeles Times I had privileges. I was wearing Betsey Johnson pants that predated leggings and zipped up the side. I screamed so hard when he began performing, the pants split up the back.

It didn’t freaking matter, because I had my trusty flannel, and I wrapped it around my waist and kept screaming.

A short while later, tragedy struck.

It was karmic payback, I’m sure. The night Dr. Dre performed at Glam Slam, Fire Marshall Bob got there before I did, and the club had hit capacity and I was told I couldn’t enter. Fire Marshall Bob and I went waaaay back — he used to read my column to see which clubs were hot and where he should go to assess them each week and ensure safety.

I was with a veteran music industry publicist, and we both looked at each other, and at the same time, we decided to bumrush. We just bobiddled past the cashier and got lost in the crowd.

I wasn’t gonna miss that show.

When the performance was over, I walked out to my car — an old salvaged Fiat Spider that was jinky and hinky, and I loved that pos.

I never locked the door because it had a soft convertible top, and someone had riffled through the back seat and stole Alan’s Magical Flannel.

I was gutted.

Ever since that night, thirty years or so ago, I have been on an eternal quest to find the perfect flannel in the land of endless summer.

I’ve had some victories — the J. Crew women’s boy cut circa 2013 in pine green and white — and a men’s Wallace and Barnes orange and Canadian blue — practically perfect in every way.

Falliday

Thursday was a day like any other. I woke up and checked the calendar and realized Falliday was nigh upon us.

Falliday is a holiday I invented, and it usually falls on the day of the year when Peet’s Coffee announces its fall menu is available. I prepare for the day weeks in advance by color coding my cashmere sweaters, dusting off my boots, and seeking a new old flannel to debut.

Every year I show up, sweating, because the nuclear heat in Southern California doesn’t subside until deep fall, but I wear the damn outfit out of principle.

So on Thursday, I set out to find a flannel that would be magical and perfect and soft and wonderful and not like any others in my possession.

I walked up and down the block in Old Town, popping in to converse with the experts. As always I am weeks early — the inventory doesn’t start trickling in until deeper in August or after Labor Day but by then, I’ll be over it. Too busy with work to care. I need the perfect flannel before Falliday hits.

I had trudged the road of unhappy and fruitless destiny when as a last ditch effort I walked into Urban Outfitters. Not my scene man, but for the perfect flannel, I’ll try anything once.

And there it was, buried in a random heap — a one of a kind, refashioned vintage flannel, part of their Urban Renewal project, which takes preowned items and works them over.

I kept blinking to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. It was soooo soft, and various shades of brown but they’d dyed orange flecks in it. The interior was a dark brown, and the exterior was soft, and luscious, and wtf — it would be mine, oh yes, it would be mine.

Just like Wayne Campbell when he wanted his dream guitar, I had found my perfect flannel.

Because I’ve spent a lifetime as a writer, I walked up to the register and asked if it was on sale. The cashier said no, but explained it was part of the Urban Renewal program, and it’s one of a kind and already discounted. I slapped down my card and made it mine.

I wore it on RadPod & Chill that night — and I’m pretty sure it was our best livestream ever — a side effect of the magic of the perfect flannel in the land of endless summer.

Yesterday, I flounced around the boulevard to show my friends on the block to never give up, never accept defeat — always pursue your dream, even when the odds are stacked against you.

The flannel ended up tied around my waist, which is the way of SoCal in August.

But I knew it was there, just waiting for its Falliday closeup — on that day I get in line at Peet’s, and order my first — and likely last — decaf pumpkin spice latte with oat milk of the year — dressed in my fall finery.

I’ll go home, throw the flip-flops back on and sweat it out until it’s cold enough to wear boots and outerwear some time in deep November.

I love fall. Always have.

Sent a poem to the Christian Science Monitor when I was a poet in the ‘80s. It was a tribute poem in the style of ee cummings. It was called ‘Autumn’.

A few weeks later, I got a check in the mail and a tear sheet. They sent me $25, and published my poem.

We have to live our best lives during trouble times — ‘the days run away like wild horses over the hills’ (Me and Bukowski).

Tonight, I will be writing about monsters — nestled in my new favorite flannel, dreaming of pumpkins and spiders. They can’t take that away from me.

🥹🍂

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More info about Bette Dangerous - This magazine is written by Heidi Siegmund Cuda, an Emmy-award winning investigative reporter/producer, author, and veteran music and nightlife columnist. She is the cohost of RADICALIZED Truth Survives, an investigative show about disinformation and is part of the Byline Media team. Thank you for your support of independent investigative journalism.

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Begin each day with a grateful heart.

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(Me and Fire Marshall Bob, back in the day)