Friday, March 27, 2015

the importance of shoes



A friend sent me this article on the importance of shoes. Too many men simply pay no attention to their shoes, either in buying or in keeping them up. My dad always wore good shoes, bought them for me, and showed me from an early age how to use a shoe-shine kit and keep my shoes looking spiffy. (My mom has fond memories of her German father doing his shoe-detailing routine daily. It was part of his entire air of rectitude.)

I have to say that once we decided that Greta and Clara were going to be our only two, I had a moment of sadness that I'd never bring up a son to enjoy all the accoutrements of manhood — the necktie knots, the importance of shoes and collar stays and good tailoring — that I always enjoyed. Of course, there's no guarantee that my son would value those things, so there's no sense sentimentalizing it.

The article goes a bit adrift when bringing in the choice of shoes that seem to the author inappropriate. After all, I've seen rhinestoned sandals with cocktail dresses that were a delightful choice. One gets the idea that this author would have disapproved of the first gents to wear tuxedos, though no doubt he does himself now. And he's on slippery ground in calling for hiking shoes for hiking, dancing shoes for dancing, and presumably never any mixing or borrowing: in a society in which a man wears a lounge suit to work and then comes home and changes into laboring-men's work clothes to lounge, that's a bit tone-deaf, right? If sailor suits were only used by sailors when sailing, we'd lose one of the icons of childhood, not to mention one of the icons of cheerful femininity.

But he's on much firmer ground in exhorting us all to enjoy our black lace-ups and take care of them. I've had my Florsheim Imperials for coming up on two decades and they look spectacular. It's my firm conviction that one of Greta's or Clara's sons will wear them with joy, just as I wore my own grandfather's gorgeous kangaroo-hide boots ... for dancing.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

sympathy for the devil


Some friends and I were discussing (lowercase) sympathy for the devil, specifically in relation to Milton's "Paradise Lost," which is a seminal text in English on the topic: Milton allowed us into Satan's Satanic reasoning, and it looked awfully familiar.

William Blake famously said that Milton's writing of those scenes was so alive precisely because he was "of the Devil's party without knowing it." He couldn't help but make Satan sound more interesting than boring old God, because he, being so sinful, had some natural ... err, sympathy for him. Later critics repeated Blake while reversing him: Milton did know that he was of the Devil's party, and knew that you and I were too; he deliberately made Satan persuasive so we wouldn't kid ourselves about whose side we're really on. (Whether his trick was intentional or not, Milton's aggressive Protestantism, which held that we are all completely incapable of good without direct intervention from God, would absolutely track with that interpretation.)

This all got me in mind of one of the Rolling Stones' most notorious songs. I remember hearing that the Rolling Stones were Satan-worshipers (an allegation that was diluted by the fact that virtually all popular musicians were, in the eyes of many youth ministers in the 80s). Mick Jagger is even on record as saying that, because people thought of the song that way, later heavy-metal acts got in on the action, and that song is the genesis of an entire heavy-metal trope. It bears mentioning that in that same interview Jagger brushed off the idea that the song indicated anything like Satanism on their part — proof for many that he was indeed a Satanist, because that's exactly the tricky sort of thing a Satan-worshipper would do.

As usual (I'm looking at "Puff the Magic Dragon" and "Bohemian Rhapsody"), the religious-minded critics of that song quite simply couldn't have really listened to it. At least, if they had, they might not have perceived what's there in black and white, instead trusting what they think they know.

Before we get into it, though, allow me to rewrite the song, or rather write my own song, with lyrics that could very well be forwarded in one of those horrible emails that your uncle sends around. I'll even cast it in doggerel form just to make it more realistic. The goal here is to write something that would give a more traditional view of Satan, something like a pop-culture Screwtape Letters, in which Satan introduces himself and reveals to the presumably skeptical listener that he's the dark power behind all the evil of history — a poem that your youth minister could have gotten behind, a song Carmen might sing. Let's give it a shot:
Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith
And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
I made sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain
I rode a tank
Held a general's rank
When the blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank

I watched with glee
While your kings and queens
Fought for decades
For the gods they made
I shouted out,
"Who killed the Kennedys?"
When after all
It was you and me

So if you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse —
Or I'll lay your soul to waste.
I like the references to Soviet Communism and WWII, which we think of in such human terms, but which we must realize have their roots in the spiritual world. I especially like the subtle and damning theology of "I shouted out, 'Who killed the Kennedys?' when after all it was you and me." Bam! Says it all, right? The sin in the world doesn't come at us; it comes out of us, to use Jesus of Nazareth's startling phrase. The evil that plagues history isn't some accident or flaw: it comes from Satan, and you and I are in league with him.

By now, you've figured out that those are the lyrics to the real "Sympathy for the Devil," by the Rolling Stones. That doggerel isn't an inexpertly-rhymed email forward or a Carmen spectacular: it's the original song.

So that's "Sympathy for the Devil?" Why on earth didn't every youth minister in the land latch onto it as a perfect bit of pop-culture theology? How could anyone look at it and conclude that these people are God-is-bad-Satan-is-good occultists? Certainly they weren't exemplars of sober and spirit-filled living, but few pastors went after Jerry Lewis. What's the deal? These guys succeeded in a rock-n-roll samba worthy of Screwtape himself.

Rule number one: before you criticize a song, pay attention to what the song is actually saying. You might be surprised.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

leaf work



Our yard man has steadfastly refused for the past 5 years to include our back driveway/parking court​ in his sphere of duty. (It bears mentioning that this was a stable back when the house was built! The pleasures of old homes!) I've steadfastly refused to let him off the hook, leaving the leaves to pile up till he can't in good conscience leave them unnoticed.

Well, gents, he won. Yesterday I decided to clear all that stuff away, and quickly decided I wasn't going to be the one to do it. The girls and I struck out up and down the street till we found some 10-year-old-ish boys bicycling around. I offered them a few bucks to come to the job. Their parents, from their porch, gave the OK and expressed enthusiasm that their boys were going to earn an honest dollar, but they didn't have a rake. Since we didn't either (we, after all, have a yard man who has a rake), I went to our next-door neighbor, a quiet older man who takes care of his mother, and borrowed *his* rake, took it to the boys, and brought them out back, where they worked for a good hour and a half.

As they worked, Greta and Clara came out to help/hinder, got to know the boys, tried to get them to play, jumped on the trampoline, fussed with a ball. Catherine came out and introduced the first cascarones of spring. (Greta's raison d'etre in spring is cascarones, and she's been talking about them for weeks.) The boys got a couple and exchanged a look that made it clear their victims would be each other.

13 bags of silty leaves, a fairly-well-cleaned-up driveway (I'll handle the remaining silt and leave the bright confetti), an ice-cold Coke for the boys to top it off, and a standing invitation to the trampoline, and I felt much more connected and grounded in our community, our little neighborhood with such a mix of people.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

the first 4000 days

Today, Catherine and I walked, talked, dined, smiled, hugged, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and each other, on the 4,000th day of our marriage. Four thousand days! We're old pros now, and we loved thinking up what we'd say to our younger selves 8000 days ago about what was to begin in their future: a beautiful lifetime together, who knows how long — a marriage of true minds.

Monday, March 16, 2015

cuir



I tried on Cuir for the first time today. Part of the Les Nombres D’Or series of fragrances by Mona di Orio. It came out in 2010; always good to try relatively new fragrances, if only to see what they're making and wearing these days. You don't want to be one of those people who stopped everything at the age of 28. So I treasure the fragrances of my youth — YSL and Platinum Egoiste and Kouros — but I occasionally try new stuff too.

Cuir is (as you may have expected if you know any French) very leathery. Zow! It's like it's 1977 all over again, except edited for modern tastes. Smoky, dusty, spicy, absinthey, and *completely* opposed to the watery-citrus smell of a college hangout on Friday night. Mellows out to a purer sandalwoodiness. Masculine, soberly intoxicating, well-balanced and daringly imbalanced. Not sure if I would wear it regularly, and it still hasn't passed the wifely gauntlet, but what an interesting side trip! It's like wearing a tuxedo at a campfire.