How Well Do You Really Know Me?

If you haven't noticed, I occasionally like to wear vintage and even modern clothing that has flowers or bright colors on them. Whenever I'm surfing the net for vintage clothing and I see something that I dig, it usually ends up being meant for the female gender. I use conditioner on my crew cut. I wear an eye mask some bright mornings so I can sleep in. I have danced to "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)". I grow herbs. I use Chapstick often. I put cream and honey in my luke-warm coffee. I own a book about purses. I wear linen pants. I want to learn how to sew. I have a high-pitched laugh when I can't stop. I generally wear an A-shirt underneath to prevent too much nipple/man boob from showing. I made a pair of my cargo pants into capris. I like to wear flip-flops, and own white ones. It takes me a very long time to choose what to wear and a very, very long time to pack for a trip. My bike has a bell on it. I occasionally wear a leather fanny pack. I bought one of those European Speedo-type skin tight boxer/brief -like swim trunks, just to see....Now, after being told these things you may have formed your own opinion about me, and no offense, but frankly I don't care what others think of me. I contend there are tons more "manly" things about me, and hopefully my wife, friends, and family can attest to this. I said, hopefully. Recently I went to my cousin Sarah's wedding (my Mom's sister's daughter). I had met her new husband, Jassen, a couple of times before spending a week in his presence at our family reunion ten months ago, and had talked with him briefly this past winter. Sarah's wedding was big, beautiful, and elaborate, and Sarah is a somewhat eccentric person, and I love her for all of it. Knowing all of this about Sarah, I didn't think she would mind if I wore my men's vintage suit to her wedding--my Dad's 3-piece blue suit from the late 70's. I happened to find a modern Van Heusen shirt that matched the green of her wedding perfectly, and a black tie from the 70's that had darker green accents. My shoes were two-tone brown Nunn Bush's from the last ten years. My 70's sunglasses, being that the wedding was outdoors, were clear gray, big and round, and probably a woman's before me. The seating at the ceremony was sporadic, so I and my brother David, in my late Grandfather's 80's black pinstripe suit, black shirt, and silver tie, sat alone together in the front row. It was a splendid service. At the reception I learned that Jassen asked Sarah, "Is David gay?" Not because David, who Jassen knows, looked gay, but because Jassen thought I did. He thought I was my brother's gay lover. I know, it sounds like it could be complicated, but it's not really. Jassen, who apparently does not remember me each time we meet (He has said to me before, "Hey, guy, how are you doing,? Nice to see you again." When someone uses "guy" or "chief" or something like that when they talk with you, it's pretty obvious they don't remember your name.), just has a bad memory and thinks I dress effeminately. So you see, it's not the gay part that bothers me, it's the lack of impression I'm leaving (and not that I'm trying to impress, but naturally it feels good to be remembered by people). Do I need to try harder? I think every time I "meet" Jassen from now on, if I say, "Hi Jassen, I'm Chris, my brother's homosexual lover," I'm pretty sure he'll never forget me again.

Four!

I've been in this conversation with a lot of different people, and pondered this question myself. What is golf? Is it:
A. A sport
B. A hobby
C. Recreation
D. Silly time
Actually, it's all of the above. I've come to the conclusion that I've played golf for all of those reasons, ever since I took it up in 7th grade 23 years ago. And I realize that sometimes it's been for a combination of those reasons in the same round. I have taunted many a friends right before teeing off of hole #1 in competition with them, but then claim by hole #10 that I'm just playing for fun, and then by #14 it's goof-off time--if I've been bad up to this point I may as well really stink at it. I am no Tiger Woods, and I have to remind myself that golf, for me, has to be fun. And fun only fits letter D, because I still get too friggin' ticked off if I'm thinking A, B, or C. I can't take myself too seriously, because then I get too stressed. However, golf is an easy game to take too seriously. You see it from just about anyone on the course on any given day. People are getting angry all over the place. At their crappy shot. At their crappy lie. At the crappy course. It's too hard. It's too easy. The wind's changing direction. There's a puddle. The grass is too long. You stepped on their line. They stepped in goose poop. That guy's shirt's not tucked in. The birds are too loud. Someone laughed....They'd cuss out their own grandmother if she was in front of them and playing like a turtle. In no other sport, game, or whatever you want to call it do people complain and get mad so much. The greatest golfer ever, Tiger Woods, makes millions, is good-looking, has a good-looking wife, gets to play golf for a living, but still is often angry at something and occasionally will throw a club. I'll tell you a little secret if you want to have a little more fun and a little less chance of dying of a heart attack on the course. It's how you dress. I came across this picture of John Daly with a big smile on his face. No, it wasn't the first thing I noticed, but it was the second. Here's a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously and who has fun. Jesper Parnevik has fun. Ian Poulter has fun. Camilo Villegas has fun. Payne Stewart had fun. Johnny Miller had fun. The Three Stooges had fun. Tiger Woods though? He's having fun rolling in his pile of money. Golf can be boring enough already (how many of you actually watch matches on television?), especially when everyone's dressed in the same polo and khakis and you confuse one guy with the next. Tiger Woods won't tell you it's true because he doesn't know, but I do. I've been there and done that in pink men's vintage pants and a men's vintage shirt. Golf is more fun this way. "But Tiger makes a lot of dough and he wears ordinary clothes," you mock. Here's the difference though. You and I have moxy. And you and I will never make one red cent from our golf skills to pay for a quadruple bypass that will happen one day if we don't do this. Maybe your new, bold outfit will just be one more thing for that old guy behind you to complain about. And the new you will just laugh at his misfortune, kick your ball out of the rough and into the fairway, and whack away.

Drinking Mother Nature's Milk

Even though Earth Day is technically only celebrated on April 22nd, I've heard more about our planet over the past couple of weeks than any other point in my life time. There are numerous events going on in the St. Louis area that are geared towards cleaning up our environment. I, for one, am a proponent of this to an extent of anal-retentiveness. I always recycle anything I can, and will even bring home items from other places I visit that don't have recycling, such as cardboard boxes from work, bags of wine cooler bottles from my parent's home, or an unwanted newspaper out of the middle of a street. I cringe when I see recyclables thrown in the trash wherever I may be, and speaking of trash, I can't stand it when people litter. When I see a cigarette butt thrown out of a car window, I want to go pick it up and stick it in the cornea of the perpetrator. I have to have lights turned off, we use cloth grocery bags, the oven door needs to be open after we use it, I reuse water glasses and bottles several times, I reuse sandwich bags several times and then use them to clean up my dog's poop on walks, I may wear the same clothes or may not shower for several days during the summer, I sometimes wait two or three times before I flush the toilet....well, you get the idea. But I'm a hypocrite just like everyone else who wants to save the Earth. I don't ride my bike everywhere (actually, hardly anywhere), I eat pigs, I don't plant trees, I don't cool my food in the snow, I don't pee outside, and I don't take sponge baths. But one thing I'm especially proud of, is that I rarely buy new clothes any more. On any given day I'll take a pop quiz with myself and see where I got my pants and shirt and how much they cost me. A lot of the time it's from a thrift store or private sale and equals less than $5. I also have not grown to big for my clothes from the 90's. So as you probably well know, I couldn't let Earth Day pass me by without wearing second-hand vintage clothing. These vibrant, royal blue, Sears Kings Road polyester men's vintage pants complete the three amigos of my red and green ones from previous posts, and the JC Penney Ultressa men's vintage shirt is one of my favorite solid polyester disco shirts that fits me like a glossy glove. I wore this ensemble to a family Easter/Baptism/Birthday/Earth Day celebration in a small town in Illinois, population of about 50 people and one dairy farm right across the street from my sister and her family's house. I felt that with Earth Day approaching I needed to pay a visit to the cow farm. After all, farming is a pretty natural, Earth loving, un-corporate entity, right? We wish. Thank goodness this was not one of those farms where cows are crammed together like sardines and living on mud/feces slicks. The cows I visited weren't exactly roaming in open green fields, however, let alone the younger ones who were chained in over-sized dog houses. On one hand, I'm in love with milk. On the other hand, I don't love most farms and their methods any more. This is my dilemma, my yin and yang, my ebony and ivory, and happens to me in a lot of areas of my life. Do I buy the deeply discounted $10 shoes made by child labor in Bangladesh? Do I dry clean my favorite coat that smells like goat? Do I use weed killer, or get cited by my neighborhood association? I think my heart is in the right place though, or at least going in the right direction. It's kind of like when you were a kid and you made your mother breakfast and a card for Mother's Day and then screamed that you hated her in the afternoon. You still loved her. I dressed for Ma Nature that morning, and then selfishly drank her tainted, bastardized milk that afternoon. But I still love her.

It's Like Pulling Teeth

I am an estate sale addict. I go to as many as I can, within a reasonable distance, every Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes there can be as many as ten, and sometimes as few as one. On those weekends where there are several, I usually will have to cut out some of them to balance family time. That's the tough part--trying to be a part of two separate things that I love, all at once. My wife, Nicki, rarely buys anything used, and never clothing, and has only been to maybe one sale with me before. My daughter, Alex, is generally not very adventurous and doesn't itch to leave home. Worst of all though, she says, is the smell. About a quarter of the time the homes that I go into will have an old, musty kind of smell, and rarely will have an animal scent. And it has seemed to be Alex's luck that a majority of the ones she's been to have been "stinky". So, therein lies my problem, involving myself in both things together. In the beginning, when I started funksauce, Alex went on quite a few with me because it worked out with running errands, giving Nicki some alone time, etc. Since then, however, she has fallen out of favor with them, which has left me a little more strapped for time. Finally and miraculously, two weekends ago, Alex and Nicki went to one with me. As we were walking up the steps to it, I could smell the old house smell, one that I can't explain and only recognize through experience. Needless to say, Alex didn't want to go to any more, and I couldn't bribe her with the little shot glass she wanted for 75 cents because my wife, the CFO of funksauce operations, was there to control my budget spending. I forced Alex to go to two more later that day with me, which always is tough because she complains most of the time and wants to be held, which is tough when I'm trying to go through people's clothing racks with one hand and struggling to hold her up in the other. So on Friday mornings when I open up the web classifieds, part of me wishes for only a few in my area, because if there are more I'll be tempted to go, like I'll be missing out on something. My CFO has held a meeting with me that it's time to start focusing less on junking up her basement with more stuff and more on advertising to the masses. Secretly, I think that this is her way of telling me that she doesn't want to go to any more sales. My mini-CFO can't articulate this in sales terms, so she'll keep bringing out the "stinky" defense. Overruled. My addiction will be the biggest fight to fight. It's like pulling teeth to get anybody to do anything, including my own.

We Needed Some Irish Luck

Over my Spring Break and on St. Patrick's Day I thought it would be fun to take my daughter to the much hyped Ancient Order of Hibernians' Parade in Dogtown in St. Louis. The Ancient Order of Hibernians in America was organized in the U.S. in the 19th century in New York City by Irish immigrants who joined together to protect the Catholic Church. In Ireland it was founded in the late 17th century not only to protect the Catholic Church, but to also preserve the Catholic clergy who's lives were threatened under the penal laws. "Hibernia" is Latin for "Ireland". Only practicing Catholic men over the age of 16, and who are Irish by birth or descent, may join. By many it is said to be the real Patty's Day parade, above and beyond the popular one in downtown. I was fearful now, however, that Alex and I were preparing to go watch old men with green beanies on their heads and loaded 16 to a float pulled by a tractor and waving to a crowd of their wives. Either way, it was going to be the first Irish parade ever for the both of us, and we were ready to green up and get out of the house. Alex was looking most forward to getting candy, and in fact we have a jar full of candy that dates back to soon after her birth four years ago. But it's the idea of getting new candy thrown to her, like an unwrapped, unregulated Christmas in March, and aren't we all like that? Of course for our first Irish parade we had to wear green, and it was set to be the hottest day of the year thus far--a balmy near-80 degree day, with the parade starting at 11:30. I was able to get Alex to wear a green summer dress that my parents picked up for her in Mexico while on a cruise, explaining that we had to wear green that day, that it was Ancient Hibernian Law, and this was the only thing that would be cool enough....like, weather cool. People who know Alex couldn't believe the pictures when they saw them, because she would sooner try to walk around as a green Leprechaun than wear a dress, but she didn't think about that one, and now that I do, that would have been kind of fun. I of course had to wear my green men's vintage pants (also see The Garden To My Flowers)--I believe they really were made for that day. My wife thinks that the only reason I wanted to go to the parade in the first place was so that I could wear the green machine, but I insist this is only partly true :) I paired them with a modern white with green stripes polo style shirt, knowing that the flowered shirt I wore them with last time would just be too hot....like, weather hot. I grabbed my bag chair and Alex's Diego folding chair, and we were on our way. I had heard parking would be tough, so I illegally parked in a familiar Walgreen's parking lot about what I estimated to be a mile away from the parade, and we began hoofing it. About five minutes in we were hot and Alex was already asking me when we would be there, and I started noticing some legal parking places. I could have kicked myself for not driving in a little further, and told her we'd have to remember those for next year. I ended up letting my left arm, right arm, and Alex's legs take turns in transporting her to our final destination about a mile and a half later. The hills were brutal, the sidewalks in shambles, and the streets tight with parked cars, but we followed the crowd to the first sighting of what looked like was the parade. There were people all over the lawns, all over the rooftops, all over the backs of trucks, and all over the streets, blocking our view. All I could really see were strands of beads flying in the air, as if we were at Mardi Gras, which I thought was strange. A copy-cat parade with beads? This, paired with many foul-mouthed drunk twenty-somethings, and I was getting a little nervous. Alex didn't need to keep drilling the fact into my head that she wanted candy for me to make the decision that it was about time to go. I put her on my shoulders for a little bit so that she could see the tops of old white heads, but after 20 minutes and a bribe to Walgreen's candy aisle, we decided to make the trek back to the car. On our hilly route back, my arms + Alex got more of a work out than the first time, not to mention juggling the chairs, realizing early on that I was the only dufus carrying them. The highlight for me was seeing a man carrying a blitzed and near-passed out woman, cradling her like a baby as he stumbled down the sidewalk, partly from being inebriated and partly from the weight of this 140 pound woman, with her friend close behind looking concerned. It was funny, thinking of the hills he had to climb with her, but also that they were going towards the parade! Now that is dedication to the Hibernians! Alex did not see this, but I was prepared to answer, "That man is carrying her because she's tired of walking, just like you!" After much stopping and crying that she couldn't go on, Alex and I finished our mile and a half walk back, sweaty and tired, with an empty and air-conditioned Walgreens a welcome sight. I was hoping Alex would go for the chocolate, taking the opportunity after missing out on getting cheap Dum-Dums thrown to her, but instead she picked some flavored wafers that reminded me of the cheap candy I would have picked out as a kid. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree as they say. So this is just my advice for those handful of people who consider going to the Ancient Order of Hibernians Parade, if that's really what it was. If you are going with a friend or two and want to drink the day away and don't mind climbing hills and carrying your friend around whilst you hack up your breakfast on the way to a parade of old Catholic guys that you won't be able to see anyway, then this may be the time of your life. But if you don't fit into this category and you really want to see this parade, then you might have better luck finding Irish in your ancestry, becoming Catholic, becoming a man, and getting on a float with the other 16 farts, in that order, than actually seeing the parade. I may do the former one day, but will never ever do the latter again.