Tangled Up In A Twist Of Fate 102/ Men’s genes and jeans, odd bits
Posted on May 23, 2013
If there is anything built into the male genetic code it’s hoarding. As men we want to keep everything, note I didn’t say everyone. It goes back to the days when supplies were short and the next meal was kinda iffy. Men stored things and women made sure the men kept the stuff in order. It worked well. Men still hoard. Look at the stereotypical garage or basement workshop. Men go through sages in hoarding. At first they toss the binkkie and bottle out of the crib. As time goes on they hang on to them because they’re substitutes for Mommy. They progress onto teddy bears, toy trucks, model airplanes and stuff. It begins to change when women come into the lad’s life. The first time he sneaks his fifteen-year-old girl friend up to his bedroom for a make-out session when the parents are away. She giggles at the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling and the GI Joe bed sheets. Of she doesn’t think about the eight hundred some troll dolls she’s got shelved around her room. They get serious. She gets him away from model planes and into her. Relationships move on and change. Other girlfriends get him clothing and attitudes toward women into shape. The right one arrives. They go out, get engaged, marry. She has her work cut out for her. She has to undo all the “bad” things other girlfriends instilled. The first is usually cleaning out the assorted stuff that has accumulated. Old issues of Playboy or Penthouse, pictures of dates with prior GFs, old male friends that are a bad influence and generally his past. The physical part works really well. Ah, but the mental part. His first kiss in fifth grade, his first time, that flash of cleavage from the waitress at the diner who smiles at him when he stops in for morning coffee, the’57 Chevy Bel Aire that he spotted cruising down the pike and that huge, shaggy Irish Wolfhound that his buddy Emile bought after he got divorced from Wendy. These are all stored inside the only place a woman has limited access to, his brain. To be specific, his memory. It’s all up there. In some men it’s stored neatly and can be accessed in a moment’s notice. In other’s like mine it’s piled up in various corners and nooks and crannies that require some serious fishing around. But it is all accessible. And ladies there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. He’s not going to rummage around every odd moment for some past fantasy, but sometimes he’s going to have a faraway look and a slight smile. Leave him alone, don’t ask what he’s thinking.
After all of the above there’s another set of jeans. That pair that he’s worn for at least twelve years and look like they’ve seen the first and second coming. If he’s been single long enough they bear scars of washing machine disasters concerning liquid bleach and attempts to age them. They belong to him. The designer jeans that you’ve bought for him have found their way into the back of the closet and the de riguer jeans aren’t going to cut it. If the frayed cuffs, torn knees and the stitching that’s coming loose in the crotch really are bothering you and the man in you life isn’t going to give in and take a trip to any store at any mall, I’ve got a trick. When he’s dressing in the morning, saunter into the bedroom with a cloth tape measure palmed. Walk up to him, smile seductively and slowly go down onto your knees. Measure his inseam and waist. For good measure his butt. Get up, write them down and drop him off at an Army Navy store. The Army Navy store should remove any stigma of shopping. If you can’t trust him take him to the men’s department of any store at any mall. find a salesperson and give them the measurements and make sure he’s wearing his favorite jeans. They should match them up well enough. Now he’ll have two pair. One for futzing around the yard and one for being seen at semi-formal affair like neighborhood cook-outs. As a reward for being good and giving in to the inevitable take him out for a burger. Not one of those frou-frou trendy burger emporiums, a burger joint. Any other rewards are up to you.
Is it a law in Canada that every recording artist must record a Leonard Cohen tribute? Monday night I listened to Matador by Patricia O’Callaghan, yep a LC tribute. I want to hear the hidden Neil Young, Joni Mitchell and BTO LC tributes.
Who came up with the idea that an Aussie accent makes a commercial even more macho? Or a woman dropping a robe with a British voice over is going to make us buy a diet pill?
I’m losing it. I forgot a phone appointment that I had this morning. I went shopping and I had two items on the top of the list that I expressly had to get. I forgot both of them. I’m losing what I call calendar concept. The ability to remember things that have to be done on certain days.
Oh yeah, to J.J. Abrams: WTF you apologized for a woman in a shot in your new movie. She’s wearing a modest two piece outfit that was in fashion during the early Sixties. No one was really offended just some prude in the Midwest who listens to the voices in her head.
The WIP is stalling, mostly my fault. Got to get it out before 4/29.
See you on Friday.