One of the many benefits of hot weather is the effect it has on
dress. When temperatures rise, sensible people peel. Out come
halter tops, shorts, gauze dresses, and in select cases the
stunning combination of bikini top and faded jeans. Those of us
with a high appreciation for that most magnificent of art-forms —
the human body, and especially the female variation — suddenly
find ourselves in heaven, and one without the tough admissions
policy.
Yet this is not the only reaction. Others among us — including
some of the most prominent members of society — are horrified by
this general dressing down. Indeed, they’re horrified by any
dressing down. To them, one’s personal drapery is a reflection of
the soul. We shall deal with them presently.
First, however, let us praise the heat and its noble side
effect. I was downtown with my chaplain the other day, downing a
few wheat beers on the patio of a favorite tavern and taking in the
sights. We are middle-aged gents with trained eyes, which is to say
we know how to train them on the beautiful women that nature and
nature’s God have provided. We were surrounded. As the chaplain
rightly observed, a heat wave will get the girls out of their
dresses faster than a bottle of plonk and a promise of
matrimony.
Flat bellies, many with jewels winking from navels, paraded
past. “Much like a harem,” the chaplain observed. Who could
disagree? Everything about them looked good, even their tattoos. It
seems you can’t find a young woman in these parts who hasn’t got at
least one somewhere in plain sight. One waitress bears a set of
checkered racing flags, easily a foot long each, crossed just about
her posterior cleavage. This has inspired long and deep
contemplations as to the meaning: Pit stop below, the chaplain
believes, but who knows. Other tattoos are of supernatural
creatures, pets, salad ingredients (mushrooms and chili peppers
especially), musical notes, fish, various flags, and the occasional
waterfowl.
Another waitress bears a tattoo dedicated to her favorite saint,
while a cross adorns the ankle of another. What would Buddha do? I
ask the Chaplain. “He would have another wheat beer.”
It is true, to be sure, that summer raiment falls on the
beautiful and hideous alike, but the trained eye is good at
overlooking most violations of taste and decency. One can easily
observe, however, that those polls about the number of overweight
Americans seem to be fairly accurate, as is the report that human
DNA is very similar to that found in trees. This latter becomes
apparent on a fairly regular basis, as there are many humans who
are clearly first cousins to stumps.
So goes the human comedy. But not everyone’s laughing. The other
day, for example, a Washington scribe of some repute took time
during a music review to discuss the habit Americans have of
dressing down. His view, paraphrased here, was that when he was a
young man he understood that clothes didn’t make a difference. But
when he got older, he was instructed by a boss that one should
“dress one’s age.” He had fully embraced this philosophy, and he is
not alone. Countless people, including everyone in Washington,
believe the same thing.
Here in the sticks, we recognize this as a Drapery Fetish. Its
victims believe that putting on a tie and coat makes them more
mature and requires us to take them more seriously. This extends to
the wearing of bow ties by young men, which is a more enlightened
land would be treated by drowning.
The fact is that any dope can wear a coat and tie. Most do, as
have the most highly developed criminals in history, including
Hitler and Himmler. We are currently bedeviled by a race of people
with their own clothing fetish, the female variation of which
leaves the women looking like a flock of black ghosts.
We recognize that many people who embrace this ridiculous code
may be suffering from a condition closely related to the Stockholm
Syndrome, in which prisoners sympathize with their captors. These
victims have been taken captive by The Man, and come to adopt his
ways. Eventually they find themselves incapable of laughing at
pictures of Richard Nixon wearing knee socks and wing tips on the
beach. They see the latest gang of CEOs being marched to the paddy
wagons and say: Nice suit.
There is no respite, even during a hot flash. Just yesterday, as
we sat beneath the canopy at said tavern, the karma was suddenly
cracked by the appearance of an earnest young man wearing a suit —
jacket, tie, pants, the entire catastrophe.
“What would Buddha do?”
“Reach for his revolver.”
