The Clothes Make the Man, Woman, Etc.

"Let's play dress-up," I told myself, in words not so foppish or dandy. Home alone, I was not sure anyone was listening.

"I'm tired of nothing more fancy or formal than jeans, T-shirts (long- or short-sleeved), sweaters, casual summer shoes in winter, matching or unmatching socks, deodorant-off days, pajama bottoms off-screen from the Zoom camera, and the absence of mouthwash that would have played a supporting role in any 'normal' 3D encounter." 

Those were not my exact words. Hardly. (And what difference would it make? I was the only one here, talkin' to me is who I was talkin' to, to paraphrase Travis Bickle in "Taxi Driver.") Besides, the sentence in my head was more meandering, sloppy, zig-zag, and self-referential, if you can picture that in your ears. Imagine a locution more or less halfway from the first sentence above to the second.

Why get dolled up? anyone would ask. To break up the monotonous habits of quarantine, isolation, or solitude during the coronavirus pandemic. This is not original. You hear people every day referring to "Groundhog Day," the movie. (Coincidentally, today, as I write this, it is Groundhog Day.) The Groundhog Day-ness of these days stems from the ceaseless repetition of customs and practices that no one observes or feels the effects of, except for yourself. These hamster-wheel marathons of déjà vu have become a shared code, a wordless nodding understanding, even if such recognition is only to yourself. Crazy, right? Will this sound crazier in years hence, assuming, Deo volente, that we get to the "years hence"?

So I got dressed up. I pretended I had an office to go to. Before leaving the apartment, I sprayed onto my neck an evanescent mist of Tom Ford Ombré Leather, because I like it, hope others do as well, and as a test for and a spur toward reacquiring my sense of smell post-Covid.

Again, this is not unique or singular in any way.

Is human dignity at the root of all this? I have a picture of my dad in a hospital bed, New Year's, 1958, when he nearly died of bleeding ulcers. I see shaving cream, a mirror, and the long single blade he used. Was he shaving himself, or was someone, one of his brothers, performing the kindly deed? And I see the same sort of image, with a more modern twin blade, of my dear friend Doug Sullivan in 2005. He would die a few days later. My mom, at a nursing home which she would never leave, became buoyant and brighter when the on-site hairdresser "did" Mom's hair. Whether it was cut or permed, it gave her a bounce, like a shot of espresso. The simple act of my combing her ever-matted bed-head hair, best as I could with her rake comb, yielded heart-breaking gratitude. A few days before my mother died, at 102, one of my daughters polished (painted? "did"; I don't know the technical term) her grandmother's nails. It elicited childlike pride and delight. Mom wasn't going anywhere. We knew the end was near, but uncertain as to exactly when, of course. I have a photo in my phone of her ancient, papery hand with its freshly done nails resting in my hand in her last hours.

Human dignity.

But that wasn't the primary motivation for me as I donned a blue dress shirt, a pale blue tie decorated with pink and lavender blossoms, a dark tweed sportcoat, olive-gray dress pants, and brown dress shoes (despite snow on the ground). I did not get an A+ in Proper Matching. Although the temperature was in the thirties, I wore no overcoat.

I stopped at Salt City Coffee to grab a cup to go and to visually strut and brag to Gabi, my barista-friend. She was not working.

No matter.

I swaggered back to my car as the boulevardier I have declared myself to be on my "business" card. Let's throw in "jaunty."

I carried this élan with me when I went to Spectrum to sign up with them and get a new iPhone. I kept my costume on when I went home and participated in a Zoom meeting that evening.

Outside in? Or inside out?

For me, the driving force was to "act as if." If the wearing of my uniform managed to lift me out of a rut, to raise me out of any lingering doldrums, all the better. In this unscientific experiment, I wanted to see if I could "act myself into a new way of thinking," as the saying goes. Although I won't be writing a peer-reviewed paper on my qualitative or quantitive (if that were possible) findings, I can report anecdotal evidence.

The episode planted seeds for future anecdotes that will surely be reviewed by peers, and others. Early drafts are positive.

palimpsest people

I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.  

Joan Didion

82. He crashes his head onto my chest. The baby blanket draped over my shoulder. Will it hurt him? The rhythmic pacing and patting. The ardently sought burp. His eyes on mine. And when he cries it's full and all and now and forever. To him. I know, he doesn't know, it'll pass. Travail will not last. Baby, be my metaphor. The sobs of relief and joy into the bathroom towel before they came home. Triggered by John Lennon's Beautiful Boy.

54. The first-grader whom Mrs. Nutter called "Sunshine," memorialized in a photo lost, for now. The one who forever onward remembered "left" as the windows side in the classroom and "right" as the wall side with the entrance door; he who idolized Willie Mays but more so decades later cherished fatherly arms wrapped around him, secure, swinging at a lobbed baseball, this being the hugs and outward love signally recalled; he who played priest with a blanket over his shoulders, awed by the breathless fear of eternal hellfires and brimstoned purgatory mirrored. bookended, by pristine absolutioned after-bath crisp sheets purity. 

73. Soho. A few pounds sterling. Drunk. Another drink. A few more pounds. In for a dime in for a dollar. Another drink. More pounds. How much is that in dollars? Her name was Tanya.

77. At the altar, at a cathedral no less the velvet kneelspace of the prie-dieu not cushiony enough. Her back hurting, she in Renaissance array. Vows. Not a word of the sermon called to mind. Mom and Dad supposed to bring up the "gifts" but a foul-up, a confusion. Have and hold. For richer or for poorer. Sick or well. Unto death do they part. No incense. No asunder. No consummation, not here. The exchange of rings. Looking into the eyes. The hand places the ring on the finger. The public kiss. Not the consummation. The communion, even for Protestants. The beard, gone. The suit, not a tux. 

86. The splash of liquids, fluids, on the other side of the draped cloth. Here. It's a scissors. Here. What? Take the scissors and snip. Tough meat, that umbilical cord. Want to keep it? No, thanks. The fierce and roaring wind the night before. The nub on the bottom of her foot, subtracting from a perfect Apgar score but not hindering the strength or stamina or stretch of a soaring ballet career. Looking across the glass, at the latest crop of newborns: there, there, no, yes, there there that's her his beaming.

79b. Noon. Up the dark wooden stairs, slowly, hopefully, warily. Raise your hand. Stories. It was just stories. J. was there. Drunk in the middle of the night at a party months before on your side of town. He was not drunk now. Serene and sober. Just stories. Only an hour. The hot bath at home. New water. Lighter. Buoyant. Walking up those steps. And back down again.

97. Kentucky Derby. Waiting. Timing contractions. Chinese takeout from Seymour Street. Her walking, her nausea, her vomiting. What? She had taught childbirth. What was this? Walk halls with her, the IV tubes trailing. Sleeping in the room. Sunday morning. Here we go. Is this possible. This is physically possible. The slow miracle. The shrill cries. Hold her. New. She's okay. Newer. They're okay. Newest. We're okay. More. Even more. She. Her.

95. Let's try this again. A chapel we never returned to. Warm and windy for November 11. Veterans, we joked, of previous wars. Was the priest drunk? What did he forget? There was talk. The kids said we came back, driving in a November blizzard, peppy. Was that their word? Peppy. 

79a. Out there, the life of the party. They were all laughing. The Rolling Stones' song about the Puerto Rican girls. Miss You. Carrying on as if it were a dance floor. What a time we were having. We were all laughing. Shitfaced. Almost falling down. In the bathroom, in there, staring into the mirror and proclaiming and praying: You can't do this anymore. You can't. It's gonna kill you. You can't keep doing this. You... What am I gonna do? Back out there, the life of the party, the ringleader, manic. What a carnival. A circus. Closing time.

round 'em up! . . . or down!

Some countries force buyers and sellers to round their commercial transactions up or down. There are lots of ways to implement cash rounding, depending on the local custom and the level of currency involved. For example, cash rounding might eliminate all coins or only designated fractions of a currency. Thus, $3.61 could be rounded up to $4.00 or it might be rounded down to $3.60. This technique, also known as Swedish rounding owing to its 1972 introduction in that Scandinavian nation, makes for simplicity and ease of use. I imagine it all sort of evens out in terms of income gained or lost. It must. After all, when an American taxpayer fills out the tax forms in April or earlier, the IRS does not require coin amounts, allowing those who file to round up or down. Tax software typically employs rounding.

Before going any further, let me say I love the Swedish word for "öre rounding": öresavrundning, though I'm not sure how to pronounce it. But I can hear its melodic lilt. Think of the öre as a penny in the United States, except that unlike the miserly penny it was discontinued in 2010. 

Now, as I am wont to do, let's jump to other roundingness situations.

Once upon a time, I went on a trip with two friends, one of them an engineer. We all decided to share expenses such as car rental, hotel, tolls, and gas. At the trip's conclusion, the engineer announced how much each person owed IN DOLLARS AND CENTS. Spare me! Or should I say, don't spare-change me! I objected then, and would now, that among friends we need not break it down into fractions of a dollar. What would one call this: Midwestern Reader's Digest Pecuniary Persnicketiness? I say that, although I confess to similar attributes as a fussy editor. But this is different. To me, it resonates with a moral exactitude rooted in the notion of a Fastidious Bookkeeper Omnipotent Being. 


What sort of person is ruled by such calculations? Does their viewpoint block any vision of the Incalculable? Or am I employing some sort of reverse superiority?

I am tempted to posit that select cultures foster such fastidiousness in daily affairs, not just regarding financial obligations. But that would invite the most prosaic and banal of stereotypes.

I hereby declare Round 'Em Up! 

Teachers and professors, round up the grades of your subjects.

Parents, round up the praises of your kids' accomplishments.

Police officers, round up the numbers on those Breathalyzer tests!

Law officers, round up the mph of cars whizzing by you! (I threw those last two in there for all those who figured I was going all soft and snowflaky on you.) 

Employers, round up the hourly wage of every minion mining profits for you.

For that matter, round down, too.

Dear Father Confessors, round down the sins and peccadilloes of your penitents.

Umpires, round down the strikes of the whiff artists at the plate.

Finally to all cable news pundits, analysts, consultants, moderators, anchors, and co-anchors: round down the decibels. 

Round down to zero. (Perfect for nihilists.)

Getting Even, Going MAD

During the Cold War, military strategists concocted the notion of mutually (or mutual) assured destruction as a deterrent to nuclear war. The prospect — no, the potential and imminent reality — of nuclear war allegedly would be so ghastly and unthinkable as to stop each side from pressing the button, if in fact buttons would be pressed instead of dials turned, detonators plunged, or switches flipped. The concept was known by the suitable acronym MAD.

As the folks at Nuclear Age Peace Foundation (nuclearfiles.org) succinctly put it, “Whoever shoots first, dies second.”

According to one report, the term was coined in 1962 by one Donald Brennan of the Hudson Institute, which was led by Herman Kahn. The 1964 Stanley Kubrick movie “Dr. Strangelove” wickedly satirized elements of Kahn’s strategies.

I am not qualified to comment on whether MAD is or was a viable option. (“Viable option” seems oxymoronic at best.) I am not schooled in war theories or military history; during the Vietnam War, I applied for conscientious objector status. 

But I do claim to be a wordsmith, so let’s start with that.

Mutually assured destruction. Does it work as a relationship tool? Let’s see. Person A threatens to blow the relationship up. Person B counters with, “Go ahead! Go nuclear. Then we both have nothing. We both destroy the planet we currently inhabit.” Kids, house, income, savings, two dogs, three cats, and the pet iguana neither of you ever wanted but the child insisted on all go up in smoke, more accurately it all turns into domestic shrapnel sent flying from your respective attorneys’ offices.

Sound familiar? Veterans of divorce understand this scenario. They and those in their nuclear testing zones intimately and tragically know the radioactive fallout of this strategy when it fails. “Fails” may be the wrong word. It’s safe to say the approach may have worked in the short term — even for years or decades. “Worked” is putting it kindly. It held divorce at bay, the way religious strictures and stringent civil prohibitions against divorce once prevailed.

One need not go the marriage-divorce route to comprehend this. It might just as easily go from threats of infidelity to actual carnal misdeeds, ending with one’s worldly possessions on the curb in the rain.

It all might end with the clanging silence of ghosting, a muffled neutron bomb without detritus.

Maybe MAD works infinitesimally better in domestic relations than on the world stage. An after-nuclear-war planet presumably doesn’t have second and third chances. But uncoupled and divorced people connect anew or remarry all the time, getting a chance to try MAD all over again. Or they trod a lessons-learned path, such as mutually assured security (MAS),  albeit another military analogy.

If you like, carry this same MAD metaphor into the workplace, financial markets, parenting, legislating, and sports. Game-theory enthusiasts and negotiation experts already have.  

Does all or nothing, “whoever shoots first, dies second” ever work in any context?

In the field of substance-abuse and addiction recovery, there’s a tough-love tactic that says, “Maybe you haven’t had enough. Go out and try some more.” Even if it kills you. It’s all or nothing. No half-measures. You don’t hear this much — how else would rehabs make money? Would this be provisionally assured destruction and reconstruction (PADAR)?  

Being twice divorced and not wishing to add the adjective “thrice” to that past participle, I will not suggest strategies for domestic harmony. But as for MAD as a useful gambit in other realms?

Who knows.

The fateful question is: Are you sacrificing a pawn or a king?

Word Counts, Revisited

I take back what I said about words in the previous post. Sort of.

Words count. But so does counting words.

Dr. James W. Pennebaker, a professor of psychology at the University of Texas, counts words and analyzes what the array of our words and their number say about us, whether we are lying, what our motives are, whether our relationships are changing, other patterns, et cetera, ad infinitum.

When I was an English teacher, I loathed when students would pencil in their running tally of words in their assigned writing. They'd pencil in pesky little numerals above their text -- text that usually consisted of What The Teacher Wants To Hear. Yawn. And I told them I loathed that practice because they were paying more attention to the number of words than the content of the words. They'd say, "Mr. K, how long does the assignment have to be?"

"I don't know; as long as it's good," and they'd howl.

Who knew the kids were inadvertently on to something?

Click on the link here for the article in today's Science Times; fascinating.

Plus, check out Wordwatchers, Dr. Pennebaker's intriguing website that provides dispassionate and sober critiques comparing word use by, yes, of course, McCain and Obama (and the other candidates).

So, now, this blog has explored the linguistic gamut, From Um to Eternity.

Water You Know, the Seaquel

Back in my early days of blogging, I caused a stir by suggesting it was hypothetically possible, maybekindasorta, that people pee in the shower, maybe even Laughoristic bloggers tinkle en passant de shower. O, the comments on that post! A new shower thought has spouted forth: Do you ever drink the water that comes from the spout? Do you ever open your mouth and just take satisfying gulps of water, albeit in spray form, from the shower head? Until recently, I never did, ever, in all my years. Why not, I don't know. Then I tried it. No harm done. But I typically purse my lips while showering, habitually preventing the water from raining into my mouth. As for why, I leave that up to the armchair psychoaquatherapists. What about you? Ever drink shower water? Why? Why not?

The Year in Review, Literarily

Well, here's the year in review. Literally.

Or should I say "literarily"? (Yes, I should.) Anyway, what I mean to say is, here's a list of my reading matter (i.e., books) for the year 2006. (Incidentally, do you say "two thousand six" or "twenty-oh-six"? I hear the former, though I wish the latter took hold. I heard "twenty-oh-six" on BBC World Service last night.) The Irish Independent (seen here being perused by an erudite if slightly effeminate-looking Laughorist en route from Malahide to Dublin, last October) doesn't count. Just books.

Do people read actual real books anymore? I fear not too many do. That does not make me better or worse. I'm a slow reader, one who savors a book. Yes, I read magazines and newspapers too -- hard copy -- but I am most faithful to books. I need to read a book before falling asleep (yes, even after THAT). I know, I'm so retro.

Here's my rather short list, unadorned with editorial comment.

1. On Beauty by Zadie Smith (novel)

2. The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster (novel)

3. Attention.Deficit.Disorder by Brad Listi (novel)

4. Blue Angel by Francine Prose (novel)

5. Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser (poetry; former U.S. Poet Laureate; I shook his hand)

6. McCarthy's Bar by Pete McCarthy (travel; humor)

7. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (novel)

8. Born to Be Mild by Dave Armitage (novel)

9. The Beast God Forgot to Invent by Jim Harrison (three novellas)

10. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (novel)

11. The Pornographer by John McGahern (novel)

12. Praying Like Jesus by James Mulholland (spiritual commentary)

13. A Year to Live by Stephen Levine (psychology/meditation)

14. The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami (novel) (about 40 pages and I'll be done; I promise, I'll finish by December 31 -- Deo volente).

(Addendum: OK. I did finish it, last night, on December 30. Can I start and finish something short in one day? Perhaps Steve Martin's The Pleasure of My Company?)

Name one of your books of 2006. Just one.

Please?

Thank you.

Happy and peaceful and healthy and blessed 2007. One day at a time.