It arrived yesterday in a little blue and gray box, tucked inside a Walgreen's bag. My father had purchased a new electric razor, and he was very enthusiastic about it. First, he needed me to open the box. People over the age of 70 can't open containers or packages of any kind. They come from an age of dry goods in glass jars, wooden boxes held shut with tacks, and cardboard. The electric razor was wedged into a piece of plastic, and it pissed him off. After I extricated the contraption, he plugged it into the outlet next to the couch and proceeded to give himself a much needed shave.
Soon after, he observed, "We need a hand mirror." It isn't easy to shave without looking at your kisser. But he did it. He then declared it to be the best electric razor ever made. He said, "This is the best electric razor ever made. It's perfect." I was happy for him, but a stupid argument was brewing.
"Here, you try it, I'm telling you it's a great shave." said Pop.
"I'll try it later." I replied.
There was a pause, as if it took him a moment to take it in. The inconceivable had just occurred. The spectacular, perfect razor didn't impress me enough to use it while sitting on the love seat. I was eating a bowl of Grape Nuts.
"Just try it, it's great." He was insistent.
"If I try it, I'll have to shave my whole face, otherwise I'll have a bald spot." With that, he developed the affect of a deeply disappointed human being.
"So you don't want to try it?" He moped.
"Why can't I try it later? I'm sitting here eating a bowl of Grape Nuts. I don't want to get little hairs in there. And I can't shave without a mirror."
"You could use a shave, though, just give it a try." He wouldn't let it go.
My voice raised, "I will try it, later. Later on I'll try it. Okay? I don't want to shave while eating cereal on the couch, it's just me."
"Fine, so you'll try it later." He radiated a vague impression of anger and bitter disappointment. If he had taken a swing at me, I wouldn't have been that surprised. I half expected him to say, "I wish your mother had had an abortion, you fucking asshole." About five uncomfortable minutes went by. It felt like an argument. An asinine argument.
The Grape Nuts were becoming mushy, and I decided to throw it in. The towel, that is, not the razor. "Okay, I'll try it." Up the stairs i went, plugged it in, and shaved my puss. And you know what? It's a damn fine electric razor.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
A Pleasing Obituary
A scandal has been slowly, but steadily, gaining interest here in the Commonwealth. As a probationer myself, I must confess that I'm pleased by the charges of patronage, conspiracy and extortion. A US grand jury has been convened, complete with the power to subpoena. A Boston Globe investigation found that the Probation Department is rotten to the core, so to speak. An independent commission used similar language, saying that the department is "riddled with corruption."
Why does this make me happy? Because I've seen with my own two peepers just how poorly it is run. Few people there seem to know what they are doing. Simple requests are met with blank stares. And probation officers are generally first class, A-1, state of the art assholes. They enjoy waving an air of moral superiority around the room, like Ron Jeremy and his wang in a porno movie. They could decide to do their jobs with a professional demeanor and an affect of formality. Instead, they act as if you've stolen a garden gnome off of their lawn, or pooped on their front porch. They take whatever you did personally.
This scandal goes right up to the tippy-top, with Massachusetts House Speaker Robert A. DeLeo admitting that he wrote a "recommendation" for his God son. He controls the funding of the probation department from his fluffy perch in the Golden Dome, so his "recommendation" carried a bit of weight. He was hired.
With the feds involved now, my hopes are high that some of these schmucks will get taken down. Perhaps I'll write a letter to my probation officer saying, "Shame on you," although that may be unwise. I'll smile from a careful distance. Clarence Darrow once said, "I've never killed a man, but I've read many obituaries with great pleasure." Damn right.
Why does this make me happy? Because I've seen with my own two peepers just how poorly it is run. Few people there seem to know what they are doing. Simple requests are met with blank stares. And probation officers are generally first class, A-1, state of the art assholes. They enjoy waving an air of moral superiority around the room, like Ron Jeremy and his wang in a porno movie. They could decide to do their jobs with a professional demeanor and an affect of formality. Instead, they act as if you've stolen a garden gnome off of their lawn, or pooped on their front porch. They take whatever you did personally.
This scandal goes right up to the tippy-top, with Massachusetts House Speaker Robert A. DeLeo admitting that he wrote a "recommendation" for his God son. He controls the funding of the probation department from his fluffy perch in the Golden Dome, so his "recommendation" carried a bit of weight. He was hired.
With the feds involved now, my hopes are high that some of these schmucks will get taken down. Perhaps I'll write a letter to my probation officer saying, "Shame on you," although that may be unwise. I'll smile from a careful distance. Clarence Darrow once said, "I've never killed a man, but I've read many obituaries with great pleasure." Damn right.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Old Photographs
Nostalgia motivates me today. Below you will find an assortment of photographs. Some of them have personal meaning to me, like the pictures of former Milwaukee mayor Frank P. Zeidler. On the left you can see him and his friends and comrades celebrating his 1948 victory. On the right, a picture taken of Frank in 2002. Frank was a friend and a comrade. During my early days of activism in the Socialist Party USA, we spoke over dinner, and on the convention floor, mainly about health care reform. He was extremely affable, and wrote to me for years after our meeting. I had hoped to see him one more time before his death in 2006, but it was not to be.
Civilian Conservation Workers, circa 1936
Here we see Works Progress Administration workers building a road, 1936
These massive swimming pools were built by the WPA, near Hellgate, New York.
A WPA Cannery
Children playing near a Brockton, Massachusetts tenement, 1940
Nude, 1935
Josephine Baker in Paris, 1939
Civilian Conservation Workers, circa 1936
Here we see Works Progress Administration workers building a road, 1936
These massive swimming pools were built by the WPA, near Hellgate, New York.
A WPA Cannery
Children playing near a Brockton, Massachusetts tenement, 1940
Nude, 1935
Josephine Baker in Paris, 1939
Dark Night of the Kenmore
The washing machine died suddenly earlier this week, right in the middle of a cycle. There it was, full of water, ready to rinse and spin. But it will never rinse and spin again. It was difficult for us to accept, as we like to was clothes. And I had just fixed the dryer. Somehow I looked and found the problem, fiddled with it, and ba-boom, it sprang to life. No such luck with the washing machine. But before I knew just how seriously dead it was, I tried to fix it. This turned out to be a mistake.
In a very manly way, I pulled the infernal contraption away from the wall, ready to turn screws and poke and pull things. First I detached the hot and cold water connections. Happy day. Then I took to a-screwin'. A very large metal plate had to come off to reveal the guts inside. My mind was packed with images of broken belts, or perhaps a large on/off switch. Something fixable. A working trophy of my handiness sat a couple of feet behind me. The dryer. My confidence was bolstered.
Then, with frightening speed, all bloody hell broke loose. As I pulled the plate out, my fat little hand (which was holding a screwdriver) slipped and flew into the (apparently) razor-sharp edge of the plate. Blood shot across the floor. I stood up and said the only thing I could say in a moment like that. "Ah, cripes."
Ta-da!
Nancy says that I was snow-white when I meandered up the basement stairs. That sounds reasonable. The sight of blood doesn't upset me. The upcoming trip to the hospital, however, did. It felt like such a redneck thing to do. Futzin' around with an appliance. Anything to save a buck.
On the way to the hospital, I decided not to put up a Christmas tree this year. I was ensconced in self-pity. Images of a little fat man (me) wrapped in fake, plastic branches, falling over, and subsequently impaling himself on the metal tree pole, presented themselves like a slideshow on the inside of my skull. My victory over the dryer was erased, and replaced with an embarrassing loss against the washing machine. I went from handy, to a complete bumbler, in a matter of minutes.
The hospital honeyfuggled around my hand, and they ended up putting 11 stitches in there. Oh, the humanity! As I write this, thick black wires stick out of the wound like spiders emerging from my skin. Yuck.
Let this be a lesson to all you kids. Never try to do anything. If you're anything like me, you'll blow it. With a vengeance!
In a very manly way, I pulled the infernal contraption away from the wall, ready to turn screws and poke and pull things. First I detached the hot and cold water connections. Happy day. Then I took to a-screwin'. A very large metal plate had to come off to reveal the guts inside. My mind was packed with images of broken belts, or perhaps a large on/off switch. Something fixable. A working trophy of my handiness sat a couple of feet behind me. The dryer. My confidence was bolstered.
Then, with frightening speed, all bloody hell broke loose. As I pulled the plate out, my fat little hand (which was holding a screwdriver) slipped and flew into the (apparently) razor-sharp edge of the plate. Blood shot across the floor. I stood up and said the only thing I could say in a moment like that. "Ah, cripes."
Ta-da!
Nancy says that I was snow-white when I meandered up the basement stairs. That sounds reasonable. The sight of blood doesn't upset me. The upcoming trip to the hospital, however, did. It felt like such a redneck thing to do. Futzin' around with an appliance. Anything to save a buck.
On the way to the hospital, I decided not to put up a Christmas tree this year. I was ensconced in self-pity. Images of a little fat man (me) wrapped in fake, plastic branches, falling over, and subsequently impaling himself on the metal tree pole, presented themselves like a slideshow on the inside of my skull. My victory over the dryer was erased, and replaced with an embarrassing loss against the washing machine. I went from handy, to a complete bumbler, in a matter of minutes.
The hospital honeyfuggled around my hand, and they ended up putting 11 stitches in there. Oh, the humanity! As I write this, thick black wires stick out of the wound like spiders emerging from my skin. Yuck.
Let this be a lesson to all you kids. Never try to do anything. If you're anything like me, you'll blow it. With a vengeance!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thriller and the Brick
After a brief conversation about a difficult assignment in math class, and her lustrous smile (years of braces had paid off), we found ourselves awkwardly looking at our feet. Her name was Heather. We were at recess, and she and I were both 14 years old. Children rushed out into the yard, and we were perched in the middle of all that energy streaming by, like a stone in a river. Ignoring them was a simple matter, as they were irrelevant to what I had decided was a very important conversation. Every so often a friend would pass, but would ignore us. Interrupting a man trying to ask a girl out was heavy stuff. There was a school dance that Friday, and we both new that it was my job to ask her to accompany me. All my friends knew it, too.
Meanwhile, a girl named Donna haunted us. She never left Heather's side, and this moment was no different. She stood behind Heather and looked annoyed, every so often our eyes would meet and an unspoken disdain was clearly related. She could hear everything I was saying, and that was not helping. Not one bit.
After the awkward pause, Heather looked up, smiled and asked, "What happened to you in gym class today, you weren't there." At that age, skipping a class was comfortably subversive. It indicated a proper lack of respect for authority. In an instant, I became acutely self-conscious and felt wretched. Donna looked up and smiled a queer little smile. I could have killed her. She damn well knew that I skipped gym class because my weight back then was 400 pounds. "Well Heather," I mused, "I have a deep fear of locker rooms, what with all the naked men." She laughed. In truth, my most profound gym related fear was a shirts versus skins game. My man boobs would dance a merry dance if I ran up and down a basketball court, flipping and flopping. There was no doubt that it would be the most humiliating experience of my life up until that point. Generally, I wore a blazer all the time, to help hide breasts that were larger than half the girls at my school. Going shirtless at any time, under any circumstances, was not an option.
Donna's gaze became cruel and unflinching, so I decided to end the conversation with Heather by getting to the damn point. "Hey, there's a dance Friday, you want to go with me?" And there it was, the big doohickey. Donna turned away, and loitered behind Heather, who looked skyward and fidgeted. The heels of here feel went in opposite directions, and her hands were locked and twisted. "Okay," she answered. "Great! I'll drop by your house and we can walk there together." We could have continued to talk, but I felt as if I had just robbed a gas station. I had to get the Hell out of there. She apparently felt the same way, and responded to Donna's spoken desire to go talk to some friend of theirs. We both smiled at each other and then parted.
The dance itself is a blur in my memory. On the way to the dance, we hugged, and I knew it was a good thing. By penis thought so, as well. An erection pulsed under my sports jacked. It commanded that I use it, even though I'd never used it with another human being before. It was very hard, and hard to ignore. I wouldn't have been surprised if it started singing and dancing. The little bugger had received orders from a part of myself that I was powerless to control. As Heather and I held hands, there was a fear that I would suddenly come, and fall to the ground, moaning and screaming. Her scent and smile touched me in a profound way. My penis, however, was driven by naughty thoughts. Nasty bastard.
As I said, the dance was a blur of poorly dressed kids and cheap cologne. One part I do remember is Michael Jackson's "Thriller," which was played on a television in the back corner of the auditorium. Kids rushed in to see it, and I suppose Heather and I did, as well. At some point, however, we both decided that we had to get out of there, and we did. There wasn't a soul outside, and the cool breeze made me feel sweaty, but relieved. The two of us walked through the parking lot, and then into the pitch black darkness of the baseball field. It was wonderful. Her little hand in mine made me a little dizzy. When I held her close, careful to avoid her hitting the erection, it brought to mind Romantic poetry and passion. This was good.
We had sex. The two of us kissed for a very long time, and then it happened. Pants came off. Then underwear. "Holy shit," I thought, "that's pubic hair, we're outside, she just looked at my cock, what the Hell am I doing?!?" We eventually figured it out, but not without more than one awkward moment. At one point, I considered the possibility that her skinny figure and my roundness wouldn't go together. Like trying to fit a 220 plug into a 110 outlet. As I entered her and started thrusting, I couldn't help but notice that I was crushing this poor girl to death. To her relief, I lifted myself up, allowing her to breath. We were having sex. We were so grown up. And it was over very fast.
We held each other for what felt like a long time, kissing, and speaking of how much we loved each other. The dewy grass and gentle breeze turned our legs white, so we put our pants on and slowly walked home. She lived just a few houses down from mine. Her watchful mother prevented a kiss with which to end the night, but the embrace was very satisfying. I thought of her all that night.
When Donna found out, she literally tried to beat the shit out of me. In her mind, I had pulled a con, worked an angle, did something terrible to convince Heather to want to fuck me. Heather and I spoke now and then, and enjoyed our time together. But after awhile we drifted apart, partly because neither of us wanted to cross Donna. At one point she threatened to smash my cock with a brick. I didn't like the sound of that, not one little bit.
It was a pleasant and memorable first time, with lovely images and feelings left behind. All except for the squashed girlfriend, and the threat of a smashed cock. Little did I know that the day would come when my heart would be broken, making the brick look tame by comparison.
Meanwhile, a girl named Donna haunted us. She never left Heather's side, and this moment was no different. She stood behind Heather and looked annoyed, every so often our eyes would meet and an unspoken disdain was clearly related. She could hear everything I was saying, and that was not helping. Not one bit.
After the awkward pause, Heather looked up, smiled and asked, "What happened to you in gym class today, you weren't there." At that age, skipping a class was comfortably subversive. It indicated a proper lack of respect for authority. In an instant, I became acutely self-conscious and felt wretched. Donna looked up and smiled a queer little smile. I could have killed her. She damn well knew that I skipped gym class because my weight back then was 400 pounds. "Well Heather," I mused, "I have a deep fear of locker rooms, what with all the naked men." She laughed. In truth, my most profound gym related fear was a shirts versus skins game. My man boobs would dance a merry dance if I ran up and down a basketball court, flipping and flopping. There was no doubt that it would be the most humiliating experience of my life up until that point. Generally, I wore a blazer all the time, to help hide breasts that were larger than half the girls at my school. Going shirtless at any time, under any circumstances, was not an option.
Donna's gaze became cruel and unflinching, so I decided to end the conversation with Heather by getting to the damn point. "Hey, there's a dance Friday, you want to go with me?" And there it was, the big doohickey. Donna turned away, and loitered behind Heather, who looked skyward and fidgeted. The heels of here feel went in opposite directions, and her hands were locked and twisted. "Okay," she answered. "Great! I'll drop by your house and we can walk there together." We could have continued to talk, but I felt as if I had just robbed a gas station. I had to get the Hell out of there. She apparently felt the same way, and responded to Donna's spoken desire to go talk to some friend of theirs. We both smiled at each other and then parted.
The dance itself is a blur in my memory. On the way to the dance, we hugged, and I knew it was a good thing. By penis thought so, as well. An erection pulsed under my sports jacked. It commanded that I use it, even though I'd never used it with another human being before. It was very hard, and hard to ignore. I wouldn't have been surprised if it started singing and dancing. The little bugger had received orders from a part of myself that I was powerless to control. As Heather and I held hands, there was a fear that I would suddenly come, and fall to the ground, moaning and screaming. Her scent and smile touched me in a profound way. My penis, however, was driven by naughty thoughts. Nasty bastard.
As I said, the dance was a blur of poorly dressed kids and cheap cologne. One part I do remember is Michael Jackson's "Thriller," which was played on a television in the back corner of the auditorium. Kids rushed in to see it, and I suppose Heather and I did, as well. At some point, however, we both decided that we had to get out of there, and we did. There wasn't a soul outside, and the cool breeze made me feel sweaty, but relieved. The two of us walked through the parking lot, and then into the pitch black darkness of the baseball field. It was wonderful. Her little hand in mine made me a little dizzy. When I held her close, careful to avoid her hitting the erection, it brought to mind Romantic poetry and passion. This was good.
We had sex. The two of us kissed for a very long time, and then it happened. Pants came off. Then underwear. "Holy shit," I thought, "that's pubic hair, we're outside, she just looked at my cock, what the Hell am I doing?!?" We eventually figured it out, but not without more than one awkward moment. At one point, I considered the possibility that her skinny figure and my roundness wouldn't go together. Like trying to fit a 220 plug into a 110 outlet. As I entered her and started thrusting, I couldn't help but notice that I was crushing this poor girl to death. To her relief, I lifted myself up, allowing her to breath. We were having sex. We were so grown up. And it was over very fast.
We held each other for what felt like a long time, kissing, and speaking of how much we loved each other. The dewy grass and gentle breeze turned our legs white, so we put our pants on and slowly walked home. She lived just a few houses down from mine. Her watchful mother prevented a kiss with which to end the night, but the embrace was very satisfying. I thought of her all that night.
When Donna found out, she literally tried to beat the shit out of me. In her mind, I had pulled a con, worked an angle, did something terrible to convince Heather to want to fuck me. Heather and I spoke now and then, and enjoyed our time together. But after awhile we drifted apart, partly because neither of us wanted to cross Donna. At one point she threatened to smash my cock with a brick. I didn't like the sound of that, not one little bit.
It was a pleasant and memorable first time, with lovely images and feelings left behind. All except for the squashed girlfriend, and the threat of a smashed cock. Little did I know that the day would come when my heart would be broken, making the brick look tame by comparison.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Americans and Sex, Sex, Sex
America can't talk about a fuck. Whether it be same sex slide whistle action, going down on your lover, ejaculating, moaning, nudity. We are Uber prudes. Europe is laughing at our homophobia and sexual timidity. Can't you hear them? Laughing their refined asses off. We can't even have a conversation with horny teenagers, and at least provide some advice, like Vaseline is a poor lubricant, and anal sex isn't all that great. Young people think about sex 89% of the time, and could use a bit of advice. Here's a list of some of our prudery.1. Sex Phobia: Recently a product was developed to help young woman prevent developing the human papillomavirus, which can cause cervical cancer. Conservative Christians attacked the product. In their little minds, helping to prevent cervical cancer would compel girls and woman decide to have sex. As if cancer has been holding girls back from sex. Some Evangelical and Catholic groups equate homosexuality with pedophilia. Confusion and paranoia.
This sort of logic is indicative of the problem we have. We are rabidly irrational in all matters sexual. Abortion rights seem safe for the time being, but in many states (North and South Dakota, for example) it is almost impossible to secure an abortion. Not allowing women access to safe, clean, clinical abortions is a violation of human dignity and rights. But I'll refrain from going further here.
Naturally, pregnancy is the big fear for parents, as are sexual diseases. They know that their little son or daughter is out screwing his or her brains out. The fear is pregnancy, disease, and a broken heart. Two of these three problems are a condom away from success.
Jerking Off/Rubbing One Out: Another completely sexual act, masturbation, has the Evangelicals and Conservatives in general in a tizzy. Over a decade ago, the Surgeon General suggested that masturbation is normal. "I think that it is part of human sexuality, and perhaps it should be t
aught."She was run out of town. This level of prudery exists in the US alone, not among any other first world nation. Masturbation very clearly is a natural act. Something we do to find sexual release and get familiar with how
sex feels. It's also damn fun. My first experience was at age 9, and I thought it was a dandy thing to do.Sex Education: This one really pisses me off. Part of this phenomenon is the push by Conservatives to end the use of contraceptives, and advocate abstinence among teens. If these jerks are so hell bent on ending abortions, you would assume that contraceptives would make sense. But it doesn't to them. As for abstinence, give me a break. I lost my virginity at age 14, and like my fellow men and women, sex is on our minds a lot. A lot. Abstinence has been proven ineffective in the extreme. And nobody should get married without first living together. It would help to avoid a lot of mistakes.
We need to teach sex soup to nuts, so to speak. Eliminate the myths. When I was a teen, I was told that ejaculating into my girlfriend wouldn't get her pregnant. It takes several orgasms to make a baby. Brilliant. Another favorite is to masturbate before sex to get rid of semen. More nonsense. The pull out method is equally stupid. Have you ever tried to pull out right before an orgasm? Yeah, good luck with that.
Teach contraceptives. Dental Dams. Teach pregnancy. Teach libido. Teach masturbation. Explain same sex attraction, demystify it. Eliminate the guilt over one of the very basic things humans and animals do...fuck and masturbate and pursue what we desire. Is that such a hard pill to swallow?Gay Bashing: This could be eradicated with just a little bit of sex education in the classroom. A little knowledge would end the fear that heterosexuals feel for people who are different. The single most ridiculous policy right now is Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Every other industrialized nation in the world allows gays to serve. Studies show that it wont hurt us. Military leaders say the same thing, as do 72% of men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan. Also, homophobia needs to go bye-bye. Anal sex is a fine thing for many men. As is love, kissing and dedicated affection. But so what if men and women get off in different ways? Americans are very concerned with sex the right way. Oh, Please! Mind your own damn business, America. Love is love, however it is expressed.
Sex Toys: Sex toys can be fun as all Hell. An ex-girlfriend bought me rubber vagina, so I could get off before another partner could be found. It worked fairly well. Lubes, vibrators, dental dams, penis numbing cream, pornography, etc. all could be good.Television Fucking: This amuses me. The gross out body horror magnum opus The Fly, with Jeff Goldblum, was on AMC the other day. Now AMC has commercials, so it feels compelled to tone down the sex, a lot. The problem with this family friendliness is that all the sex scenes, nudity, or even implied sex or nudity is removed. As if it's ok to see a giant fly puke and dissolve a man's leg and consume it. Or see a man's arm ripped off during an arm wrestling contest.
In America, violence good, penis bad.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
A Planted Peanut
Drew Carey is doing a fine job as the host of The Price is Right. He strikes me as an affable fellow, very "down to Earth." He's been cultivating a new look lately, a bow tie. The bow tie is not easy to pull off, especially for a guy wearing thick frames and giving away Libman mops. Now George Will came naturally to the bow tie, as does Tucker Carlson. A couple of assholes. Vladimir Horowitz wore a bow tie, and may be wearing one now, for all I know, interred in the Toscanini tomb.
At some point in my life, I tried wearing one. It wasn't very flattering. Like a fat, confused Pee-Wee Herman. And it's not easy to tie, so I went with a clip on. Not good. A robust, exotic butterfly perched on the top button of my shirt. Or a gay vampire bat. It looked very out of place.
These days, I wear a black Fedora hat, mainly because it provides me with a "prop." People with severe social anxiety (me) often employ a prop, to hover in between oneself and the gaze of another. It waters down the scrutiny. Sort of the same way that a monocle, top hat and cane allow Mr. Peanut to function in society. If Mr. Peanut went out into the world with just a baseball cap and a pair of jeans, you'd be more likely to say, "Holy shit, that's a six foot talkin' peanut!"
Another benefit of the Fedora is that it allows me to literally approach the world "hat in hand." It says, "I got nothing, and I know it...be gentle." Think of it as a classier, Depression-era version of, "Don't judge me, Jerry." Sometimes my hand finds it way to the brim, and the hat is tipped at passing women. If I'm feeling saucy, that is. For several days last week I tipped my hat to every woman I passed on the street, within about 10 feet. It didn't take long before it became clear why that little nicety passed into history; there are too many damn women. After twenty minutes of that it looked as if I had a brim-pinching fetish, or an epileptic tic of some kind.
Someday I'll rock the bow tie and the Fedora at the same time. At my funeral. They can bury me wearing them both, although I'll have to find an undertaker that can tie a bow tie. The clip-on would be better for laughs. Or better yet, I'll wear a monocle, cane and top hat and people will think they're burying Mr. Peanut.
At some point in my life, I tried wearing one. It wasn't very flattering. Like a fat, confused Pee-Wee Herman. And it's not easy to tie, so I went with a clip on. Not good. A robust, exotic butterfly perched on the top button of my shirt. Or a gay vampire bat. It looked very out of place.
These days, I wear a black Fedora hat, mainly because it provides me with a "prop." People with severe social anxiety (me) often employ a prop, to hover in between oneself and the gaze of another. It waters down the scrutiny. Sort of the same way that a monocle, top hat and cane allow Mr. Peanut to function in society. If Mr. Peanut went out into the world with just a baseball cap and a pair of jeans, you'd be more likely to say, "Holy shit, that's a six foot talkin' peanut!"
Another benefit of the Fedora is that it allows me to literally approach the world "hat in hand." It says, "I got nothing, and I know it...be gentle." Think of it as a classier, Depression-era version of, "Don't judge me, Jerry." Sometimes my hand finds it way to the brim, and the hat is tipped at passing women. If I'm feeling saucy, that is. For several days last week I tipped my hat to every woman I passed on the street, within about 10 feet. It didn't take long before it became clear why that little nicety passed into history; there are too many damn women. After twenty minutes of that it looked as if I had a brim-pinching fetish, or an epileptic tic of some kind.
Someday I'll rock the bow tie and the Fedora at the same time. At my funeral. They can bury me wearing them both, although I'll have to find an undertaker that can tie a bow tie. The clip-on would be better for laughs. Or better yet, I'll wear a monocle, cane and top hat and people will think they're burying Mr. Peanut.
Monday, November 08, 2010
War, War, War
Why do so many of my countrymen, my fellow Americans, forget that we are at war? Clearly they have. During the last election cycle, I rarely heard anyone talk about the young men and women, half way around the world, giving their youth and their lives to their country. Some of the brightest, most thoughtful and principled of this generation are fighting and dying in two wars that seem to have been totally forgotten.
As a nation we'd rather talk about tax cuts for the wealthy. About immigration and "anchor babies." About the president being a "socialist"(red-baiting) and "taking the country back." About political nonsense and attack ads and fear-mongering and populist platitudes. Mostly wealthy, white people saying anything and spending absurd amounts of money, to get elected. And all the while barely a peep from any of them about Iraq and Afghanistan.
We are at war. A small group of families and soldiers are paying the price. The rest of us would rather talk about anything else...anything else. If you support the wars, keep making your case for it, and don't forget the unspeakable emotional and physical pain that our military and their families feel every waking hour of the day.
If you're like me, and you're against these wars, keep talking about why you're against them. Remind your fellow Americans that, yes, we are still at war. And keep saying it, "Bring them home."
However you feel about these wars, don't forget the men and women suffering for them. Most Americans are not in the military. Most Americans don't even have a family member in the military.
Bring 'em home, in the name of decency. BRING THEM HOME!
As a nation we'd rather talk about tax cuts for the wealthy. About immigration and "anchor babies." About the president being a "socialist"(red-baiting) and "taking the country back." About political nonsense and attack ads and fear-mongering and populist platitudes. Mostly wealthy, white people saying anything and spending absurd amounts of money, to get elected. And all the while barely a peep from any of them about Iraq and Afghanistan.
We are at war. A small group of families and soldiers are paying the price. The rest of us would rather talk about anything else...anything else. If you support the wars, keep making your case for it, and don't forget the unspeakable emotional and physical pain that our military and their families feel every waking hour of the day.
If you're like me, and you're against these wars, keep talking about why you're against them. Remind your fellow Americans that, yes, we are still at war. And keep saying it, "Bring them home."
However you feel about these wars, don't forget the men and women suffering for them. Most Americans are not in the military. Most Americans don't even have a family member in the military.
Bring 'em home, in the name of decency. BRING THEM HOME!
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