I am constantly reminded these days of “age”…my own in particular.
Just last week I was talking to a customer at the Publix store where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk, which by the bye is corporate jargon for what has been known pretty much universally as a “bagger”; I’m fairly sure that the HR people working for large companies like Publix get bonuses for coming up with vague, semi-confusing gibberish that, in their fevered little brains, describes something/someone in a concise, definite manner, when in reality, the simpler form is the more descriptive and more readily understood; making up fancy-sounding titles like “FSC” is mere tautology.
Anyway, the lady I was speaking with and I are “of an age” as it were, and we were bemoaning the rapid passage of time these days, which we both agreed seems to be exacerbated by the fact that, as seniors, we’re a lot closer to the end of things than to the beginning. I mean, wasn’t it just New Year’s last week? How the hell can it already be Easter? Geez.
Since the nice lady was a customer, I refrained from reciting for her my Old Age Rules, which go thusly:
- Never pass a toilet if you think the next one is well down the road;
- Never waste a boner;
- Never trust a fart.
Despite all appearances to the contrary, I do have the good sense to know when to keep my big, dumb mouth shut.
I stumbled onto an article on the Internet the other day that got me to doing the old “stream of consciousness” thing, and following the flow, led me back to some memories of my now long-past youth, and specifically, to bras.
That’s right, exhaust fans, brassieres.
Bras date back to ancient Greece and have evolved over the centuries from support garments to fashion statements; Roman women wore “breast-bands” while competing in sporting events, as an example. Today’s bra is colorful, more comfortable (so I’m told by wearers of same), often times more obvious when worn and, I suspect, just as hard to remove by the male of our species as it has always been…more on that in a moment.
The article that started this trip down mammary lane was entitled How Do You Put On A Bra? New Debate Proves It’s Not That Simple. Now I freely admit that my experiences with brassieres has been from the taking off point of view, rather than the putting on, other than that one time and excess Jack Daniels was involved then. (Apparently, I’m a 38 A-, which I suspect looks like some kind of half-assed sling-shot with two thimbles attached to the front.) Various methods for putting on a bra were discussed in the piece, with women weighing in on their preferred method (one women said she steps into hers, like a skirt, and pulls it up…hard to see how this would work for the lady with an “hour-glass” figure where the sands of time have all run to the bottom) without any consensus being reached.
So how did this article take me back in time? Simple; I may not have any relevant input regarding donning a “boulder-holder” (as they have been indelicately described by comedian Larry the Cable Guy) but as I said above, I do have some experience in removing them, and can still recall the agony of trying to get one off of a person of the female persuasion when deep in the throes of teenage lust.
For those of you who have never tried it, believe me, it ain’t easy…I refer you to this clip from the movie Animal House as evidence of this.
(I once made, and won, a two-beer bet, this being much too esoteric a skill for a mere “one-beer” wager, with a very well-endowed young woman in a bar one evening, that I could reach around her, using only one hand, and unclasp her bra, which as is common, she was wearing underneath a blouse of very thin material. The trick is to grasp the back-strap of the garment between your thumb and index finger, being careful to lift it away from the back of the wearer, and then pinch the ends together so the hook thingie slides out of the loop thingie…trust me, it works.)
I learned and then honed this technique as an adult, in direct response to the difficulties I had experienced on rare occasions in my youth; in high school, most of the girls I knew were bi-sexual…any time I tried to get sexual they said bye.
Ah, sweet bird of youth. (And thank you, Mr. Williams.)
I had another reminder of my now long-lamented youth and the rapidly passing years recently when, in the spirit of the Easter holiday, I dug through my CD collection to find my well-used version of the Andrew Lloyd Weber/Tim Rice rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. The album was recorded and released in 1970, when I was 19.
I am not a believer in the traditional Christian concept of “God”, and since it isn’t relevant to this post, I’ll refrain from expounding on just what I do believe in…suffice to say, and contrary to the cast in concrete stance of most “religious” types, whose idea of their “imaginary friend” is unassailable, after many years of deep contemplation, I have no idea whether or not God exists. (I remember a character from a book I once read stating that “if God exists, he should be sued for malpractice”.)
But the story of Christ is to me compelling, no matter your thoughts on the existence of a “god”; there is intrigue, politics, betrayal, personal agony, joy and even some sluts thrown into the mix. (FYI, I have done research on this…there is no mention anywhere in the New Testament that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute; none. Author Dan Brown takes a fair stab at how she came to be portrayed as such in his book The Da Vinci Codes. Frankly, I think the lady was hosed by Matt, Mark, Luke and John.)
What a story…here’s this young man, by all accounts a person of unapproachable integrity and an all-around good guy, who rises to such a position of prominence in turn-of-the-millennia Palestine through his preaching of the “Gospel” and as such so threatens the existing power structure of the time that the head priest of the ruling religious council, a man named Caiaphas, declares, as he says in the play, that “Jesus must die”, thus greatly abetting the rise of Christianity throughout the world by making a martyr of Jesus and thoroughly ruining Christ’s Passover that year.
The opera is a towering achievement; the lyrics, the music, the musicians and mostly the cast, led by one of my all-time fave front-men, Ian Gillan of Deep Purple, singing the role of Jesus in a stunning display of his amazing prowess as a vocalist, are breathtaking.
To me, it makes no difference if you believe or not, because as Caiaphas also says, “Jesus is cool”.
Jesus was indeed cool.
I am not inclined by my nature to be serious for any extended length of time, and in so keeping with the usual tone of my articles here on the WATURK blog, I’ll bring today’s post to a close with this…according to a report from local TV station WKYC, a man entered a Painesville OH restaurant and attempted an assault on the manager of the establishment by taking an iguana from under his shirt, grasping the animal by the tail and then swinging it over his head and launching it at the man.
The attacker was apprehended by local police and charged with disorderly conduct, general mopery and assault with a herbivorous lizard. When asked what prompted his attack, the iguana-wielding culprit stated that he was moved by the passage in the Christian Bible from Mark 16:18, which says, in reference to persons who “believe in Jesus” that “they will pick up snakes with their hands”. When told that he was confusing iguandae with reptiles, the man further stated that he didn’t have a snake available and he figured that “you filthy, unbelieving heathens wouldn’t know the difference anyway”.
It was further learned in subsequent interrogations of the man that he had been raised a Roman Catholic back in the ‘60s and had become increasingly frustrated by his inability to successfully unclasp a woman’s bra, and was merely acting out his anger.
Love and birthday cakes,