Black, Myself

I had it on continuous, repeated headphone play during my routine at the rec center, as I sang silently along, the words “Black Myself “ ringing inside my cranium.

But, dear hearts, I am not black, but of Norwegian ancestry, which makes me a poster boy for pallid. No matter. A good soul-stirring anthem is what I needed today at the gym and that is exactly what I got. Cultural appropriation … possibly. But I don’t know any Norse exercise songs that can carry one through the paces like this tune does.

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From The New Yorker

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I admit to having taken cheap shots from time to time at the world of fashion. It is a world beyond my understanding or caring, but obviously means a great deal to some people, and it is unkind of me to be so dismissive. It is, after all, art of a sort and I have no qualifications to judge art.

But I will remain silent and let the picture speak for itself.

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Life has offered me opportunities too many to mention, to be a good example. I have taken advantage of so few of them … . For instance:

A. I was given a substantial four year scholarship upon graduation from high school. After two years of spending more time wandering the bluffs of the Mississippi River than I did in class, the scholarship committee cut off the last two years.

B. When seat belts were first offered in cars, I ignored them entirely. It wasn’t until going without a belt was against the law that I finally gave in and put the blasted things on.

C. I was repeatedly told that going bareheaded while bicycling was a poor example to set before children in our small town. I cared not a fig. I was already working overtime with those same children in other venues, what @&&$$#%^*% claim did they have on my free time? But the incessant badgering finally wore me down.

D. Motorcycling? Helmets? Take away my freedom to ride the way I wanted? I grudgingly relented, but with much pouting. I’m still pouting and I don’t even have the motorcycle anymore.

And so on.

But that was the old me. The new man that I am sits up straight at the table, uses his knife and fork properly, and closes his mouth when he chews. I keep my lawn trimmed and follow the recommended schedule for maintaining my automobile. I try to be a good listener even when the speaker is spewing pure bilgewater. I pat the errant children of others on the head, even when their hygiene is questionable.

At long last I am making an effort to become a grownup, and leave those bad behaviors behind. What are the odds in my favor? I would guess about 10%.

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From The New Yorker

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I like to point out the hypocrisy of others. It helps me to avoid dealing with my own. But there has been quite a hoorah about women over the past several years about their right to wear whatever they want and wherever they might be. Appeals to caution generally fall on deaf ears.

No matter. Their theme is wear what they want and any adverse consequences are somebody else’s fault.

Now the hypocrisy I mentioned comes in at exactly the speedo point. This is where these same people do not granted males the same freedom of clothing expression . To refresh your memory, the speedo is a garment which is the male equivalent of the bikini, but one that has almost no defenders.

If I were to go to a beach wearing this patch of material, I imagine it would be a very short while before the beach police covered me with a horse blanket and hauled me off for fashion counseling. If I were stubborn about it I might even be charged with creating a public nuisance, and brought before a jury that would consist of twelve persons good and true wearing identical expressions of disgust.

The only people who are allowed to wear a speedo without becoming targets of derision and hurled tomatoes are the young and extremely fit. And even for them it is a chancy thing to wear one in public in America.

The last time I ever put on a Speedo was in Mexico, when I was eons younger and a good deal more fit. Today I have enough respect for the public’s sensitivities to not want to provoke their horror by wearing this abbreviated bit of cloth.

So, where we are at present it is women – wear what you please. Men – don’t even think about it.

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When I was a little kid, staying on grandpa’s farm, I would occasionally be sent to the cornfield to select a few ears for supper. Grandpa never planted sweet corn for the table, but thought that if field corn was good enough for his hogs, it was good enough for us. So off I’d go to do my duty. Somewhere along in life I was taught to examine the cobs for worms, which was a gross thing to do and therefore interesting to a kid.

I was reminded of this childhood process when this summer an infestation of corn earworm developed in the fields of Olathe, about ten miles from us. Olathe is a very small town, almost completely dependent on sweet corn for its livelihood so the local effects were, if not disastrous, certainly harmful to the local economy.

But all this ado and fuss has made me paranoid enough that today when I shopped for corn, I peeled back the husk just enough to check for unwanted travelers. Call me fussy, but I don’t like it when my meat moves on my plate.

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