Musings: The Whining Stranger on Men's Fashion and Seminal Sartorial Influences

Hello all, if there is indeed any kind of all left out there after my endless absence. The last time I checked statcounter.com to see if the Whining Stranger had retained any kind of readership, I was not surprised to see that this has become a virtually readerless space on the web. Up on blocks, as it were. Nevertheless, I'm back, maybe mostly for myself, to return to semi-regular musings and minutiae, now that the summer is here and my work schedule has lightened again for a while.

Today's topic: a fluff piece, I'm afraid. No philosophy or politics or literary exegesis this time around, but rather a brief meditation on men's clothing. I've been thinking about my arrival as a self-assured wearer of clothes. I have specific tastes. I am not moved so much by passing trends. (Thank Allah for that, too, as I couldn't stomach another go-around with acid wash if it ever comes back into vogue.)

So today I present for your amusement, as a subset of my ongoing Pantheon of Heroes, a list of the seminal influences on my fashion sense.

1. Spike Lee



I love Spike for daring to make it acceptable for grown men to be seen in public wearing baseball-related apparel. My Alan Trammell jersey and my 1918 model Detroit Tigers cap thank you.

2. Marcello Mastroianni

Marcello, as faithful readers know, is my model for sunglasses-shopping. The dark, chunky shades he sports throughout Otto e mezzo have influenced my purchases for over fifteen years now.

3. Bill Evans

For the spectacles, and the clean-cut timeless look. I wear horn-rimmed glasses very similar to those pictured here on days when I go bespectacled.

4. Steve Dallas

While this Bloom County character was never anything worth celebrating in terms of his personality, I was always charmed by the aloof way he held his martini glass, and the length of his ties (always extending below the belt buckle), and the way his Oxford shirts are always worn with sleeves rolled up. The first thing I do when I get to the office every morning is roll my sleeves up, the same way.

5. George Plimpton

The preppingest preppy if ever there was, dear George informed my love for corduroy and repp ties and Oxford shirts. I recall seeing a photo of George in Sports Illustrated when I was in high school, in a story about his attending both a Yankees and a Mets game on the same day. The photo showed George on his bicycle, riding to the subway station. He was wearing corduroy pants, and a wool crewneck sweater, and a tweed jacket. It was autumn in New York. I was transfixed.

And a few sartorial rules, by which I abide:

1. Men will never look good in cowboy boots.

2. Ditto tank tops.

3. Button-down collars were meant to be buttoned down.

4. The color of your belt should match that of your shoes if both are leather. (Grosgrain proves to be an exception.)

5. Loops and oversized pockets only look good on jeans if you're a carpenter and need to carry tools on the job.

6. White athletic socks were made for wearing during athletic activities.

Musings: 10 December 1994 - 23 December 2006

To the greatest canine companion a neurotic intellectual would-be-writer boy could ever have asked for, who traveled everywhere I went from age 21 to age 32, who lived in two provinces and one state and two countries with me, and who kept me going through dissertation-writing and book revisions and losing Tiger seasons and so many trying times, on the day of his death from old age.

I'll miss you, buddy.

A poem by Pablo Neruda, in tribute:

A Dog Has Died

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

Musings: Ah, old scholar.

I realized this morning that my not infrequent grumbling about students' work ethics and yard ethics and driving ethics etc. may rehearse one of the more tired cliches of university life: The "What's wrong with these kids?" & "Back in my day" & "Now is worse than then" cross-generational divide. If I gave you the impression that I am united among my colleagues on the faculty in a constant misanthropic judging of today's youth, then I apologize. Such is not the case.

In fact, as I rediscovered at a faculty party this weekend, the professoriate has perhaps a greater ability to stir my ire than the earnest if underachieving undergrads about whom I sometimes rant.

Case in point: the tenured colleague from another department who brazenly and proudly told my partner and I that--

1. He hates cats and would be happy to shoot them if they came into his yard. ["Um, you do live out of the radius of my cat's wanderings, right?"]
2. He has pulled himself up from his bootstraps over the course of his career, the evidence of which is the fact that when he first moved here to [unnamed college town] he lived in a neighborhood where [sotto voce] he "was the only white person around." ["Um, it is truly inspiring how you've left those insidious black and brown folks behind."]
3. The university needs to stop hiring so many ugly women, and when he's on a hiring committee makes sure to vote against any unattractive women candidates. ["Um, what is the number for the campus ombudsman again?"]
4. He doesn't feel you need to be able to talk with the person you're fucking. In fact, he had a thing with a 17 year old a few years back. The pussy, he insisted, was great. ["Um, did a tenured faculty member just say "Pussy" and proudly admit to statutory rape?"]
5. The Mexican-American fellow colleague of ours who's thinking of running for the House of Representatives in the future should borrow his white wife and children to impress voters, unless of course that would hurt the "obvious" advantage of being a minority candidate. ["Um, we are talking about the United States, right? What fucking advantage?"]

Sigh.

Musings: "The reports of my death..."

...as Mark Twain wrote in 1897, "are greatly exaggerated."

My apologies to any readers of The Whining Stranger who've missed my daily billets absurd, my cranky meditations, my pop culture obsessions. Maybe that reader is me most of all, who's been sad to let this blog slide for sometime now. But it's been a busy semester. And after the Tigers' collapse in the Fall Classic ("Practice throwing to third base come Feburary, ye Motown pitchers!") I fell, quite frankly, into a bit of autumnal melancholy.

So, what I have missed reporting on?

Well, I published a short story last month, which was exciting. And my classes continue to go well, though we're into the grading monsoon period of the semester. I've worn innumerable pencils down circling comma splices and writing "vague topic sentence" in the margins of undergraduate term papers. Today I felt the first surge of impending Yuletide spirit when I booked my trip home for the holidays. 32 and still waking up in the old childhood bedroom on Christmas morning... Which means, yes, Mom still hasn't sold the house. But she will, I assume, at some point.

Politically, the Democrats restored some equilibrium to that mess up in Washington. And joy of joys, that bonehead rummy, by which I mean, Mr. Donald, stepped down. Shame it took 2800 American military casualities--to whose families my heart goes out, and my prayers are directed--before he was willing to admit things weren't going so shit hot. Speaking of matters political, was anyone else as digusted as I was being forced to endure that lousy Chevrolet commercial throughout the baseball playoffs, in which John Mellencamp celebrates "Our country" to a series of contradictory images: Viet Nam, Ali in the ring, Rosa Parks, Nixon saluting from the plane, MLK, Jr, Katrina, the Twin Towers... And all to sell more fucking big trucks. I wait for moresuch inspired commercial spots. Maybe "the Trail of Tears" to sell Pop Tarts; Japanese internment camps shilling for Chef Boyardee; a Swiffer sold by veterans of the Tuskegee experiments... Ah, our country indeed. And history makes for good marketing.

See, cold autumn winds, post-Series depression aside, I remain critical, and whining, and stranger.

Musings: Real Men Use Umbrellas

Last night, at a bar with a couple of friends to commemorate Monday Night Football with ultra-manly activities (read: drinking beer, eating pizza), one compadre began to tease me for having an umbrella with me. (It was rainy; I walked!) Apparently, he'd been listening just yesterday to two morning radio louts go on and on about the potential unmanliness of using an umbrella. (Their reasoning had something to do with not being able to work a barbecue, hold a beer and carry an umbrella all at the same time. To which I say, unironically, I've got big hands. And you know what they say about men with-- Er.)

Anyway, is this--dear Mary Poppins--the face of umbrelladom? Is this the popular image of the umbrella post-Neville Chamberlain?



Need I remind people that one of the scariest, most mysterious figures in twentieth-century American history is the so-called Umbrella Man in Dealey Plaza the day John Kennedy was killed? This is a spooky figure who carried an umbrella--and had it open as Kennedy's motorcade passed--even though it was sunny and warm that day. He's an insidious villain who may or may not have fired a poison dart from said umbrella and thereby paralyzed Kennedy so he couldn't react to the incoming hail of gunfire.



That example, noted, though, I will of course point out that not every man with an umbrella qualifies for real man status. Look at the unreal man pictured below. He's--dare I say it?--all wet, umbrella or not.

Musings: On Headphones and Dark Sunglasses and Monday Mornings

A brief procrastinatory meditation as I try to kill ten minutes of would-be work time before I justify more non-work time with a noontime lunch break...

I like busy weekends with much socializing, for the most part, but they make me exhausted come Monday morning. Not a good way to start the week. I need to sleep more, perhaps. Saturday morning, for instance, I ran a 5k race on just under three hours sleep after too much beer and good fun the night before. My time was good given the obvious fatigue and dehydration, but I have to admit I'm not a kid anymore. ("I admit I'm not a kid anymore.") Sunday followed a long birthday party for a friend on Saturday night. I was slow moving till dinner time. Then it was about time to go to bed and call it a weekend. This morning's 9am meeting was unwelcome in turn.

In other news, I'm loving the mobile private bubble of my mp3 player and dark sunglasses combination on walks to campus each morning. The new shades that I got (black, Marcello-ish) for a dollar-fifty at a thrift store last week are clearly the darkest sunglasses I've ever owned. I won't even wear them for driving because they impede visibility so much. But that's good when I have to pass Casa Barbarian next door, and for general, "Don't get in my consciousness" ambulation time before meetings and classes.

Still reeling from the Tigers' collapse against KC this weekend. I am soliciting a general abundance of pro-Detroit, anti-Yankees vibes from anybody who reads this. Boo Yankees!

OK, there. I look at the clock. It's just about midday. By the time I post this it'll be time to get my lunch out and ignore the stacks of books on the desk for a little bit more.

Musings: The Barbarian Invasions Continue

Leaving the house today to walk to campus, my partner and I noticed that the rich barbarian undergrads next door--they of the BMW and the Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, of the garbage on the lawn, and the ratty couch on the front porch--were hosting a stack of crumpled Bud Light cans all over the front lawn, just steps away from one of their gas-guzzling expensive vehicles.

Now, I'm not one for neighborhood policing, or gated communities, or homogeneous middle-class living, I swear it. But could you spoiled little assholes at least make the slightest bit of effort to step up the evolutionary scale and join civilization? Christ, for proprietary's sake, even if you're refuse to adhere to the common sense (and humane) convention of not driving-while-shitfaced, could you hide the evidence of your drunken attempts at vehicular manslaughter?

Idiots.

Musings: Ah, Gouranga, you big galoot.

Bizarre email in the junk-mail folder at work today, sent from someone called Neateye, and reading as such:

Call out Gouranga be happy
Gouranga Gouranga Gouranga!
That which brings the highest happiness

Needless to say, I was intrigued, and did some googling--ah, my procrastination knows no bounds!--and discovered that I have been enfolded into an Internet-wide phenomenon: http://www.joewein.de/sw/spam-neateye-gouranga.htm#example.

Speaking of Internet-wide phenomena, I am searching high and low without success for an mp3 of John R. Butler's "The Hand of the Almighty," which may be the funniest country song I've ever heard. Where oh where oh where?

Musings: 100 Days of Curmudgeonly Sentiments Continuing--

Things to keep a prematurely grumpy old man grumpy as September wears on:

1. Academic departments that decide suddenly to ration out how much paper each faculty member receives each semester. "Um. Pardon me for printing out drafts of the academic articles, book chapters, short stories, reviews and lecture notes that lie at the heart of my job description and tenure expectations."

2. Nose-diving first-place baseball teams that seem determined to relinquish their lead just before playoff time.

3. Any vehicle with "F-150, F-250, or F-450" in its name.

4. Bigoted politicians who don't attend AIDS conventions ostensibly because it will link them publicly to a "queer" cause.

5. Fantasy football draftees who underperform. Yeah, I might be talking 'bout you, Cedric Wilson.

6. Thirty-dollar mp3 player covers supposedly designed for certain models of mp3 players but which don't fit properly.

7. The jerk campus police officer who ticketed my car when I was parked illegally to play basketball. The lot was half empty, dude!

So we beat on, boats against the current, and all that--

Musings: Serendipitous Weekends

So, the Whining Stranger walked into a serendipitous proposition this weekend, my friends. My two serious homebrewer friends invited me to be a judge for a regional beer-brewing competition. That's right: a weekend of sipping porters and California commons and altbiers and filling out comment sheets, in which I scored each beverage on its appearance, its flavor, its aroma, and its "intangibles." Granted it's been a long time since the WS started drinking in the a.m. hours (ah, for my lost salad days), so pacing was a bit of an issue, but overall it was a swimmingly pleasant weekend of foam and hops and good food (prime rib dinner on Saturday night!). A charmed life.

Today though I need to start filling this 30GB of mp3 player space. Any recommendations for must-have songs? Upbeat suggestions are especially welcome since this technological investment was especially made in the interest of charging me up on morning walks to campus, before I go teach. The mp3 player-filling is, of course, another procrastinatory measure when I should be doing scads of backed-up academic work. But all I really want to do is pile into my easy chair with headphones on and a Haruki Murakami novel in my lap. Sigh.

Oh, and go Tigers. Two weeks left to the season and then cling to the AL Central division lead.

Musings: On Mortality, Mine

Debated for a while today whether or not I'd write about this, but then talked myself into it, if only to fashion a procrastinatory measure that keeps me from addressing the five-item to-do list on my desk here at work.

This morning I went to the doctor for a follow-up visit, in part to talk about test results from an MRI I had a couple weeks ago. My doctor recommended the MRI because of my father's death--as a relatively young man, from a brain aneurysm he didn't know he had. The MRI itself was a new (and unwelcome) experience for me, a here's-what-it-feels-like-to-be-shoved-in-a-coffin-for-forty-five-minutes revelation, but with more clanky sound effects than the dead usually have to endure. But whatever. I had the test and pushed it to the back of my mind, to be left aside until today's follow-up.

On the drive though, I--of course, being an imaginative sort--let my mind wander a bit into what-if territory. "So, Whining Stranger, odds are if there was anything really irregular she'd have called you right away, but on the other hand, she may have needed a couple weeks to think of how to let you know that you're in grave danger, that there's an aneurysm in your head, waiting to send you careening toward an early exit." Now, you might think that an anxiety sufferer like me would be sent into pre-emptive convulsions over traveling down such a hypothetical path. (Remember that scene in Hannah and Her Sisters, when Woody Allen sits waiting for test results, convinced that he's about to learn he has an inoperable brain tumor...?) Oddly enough, though, I didn't feel that expected tightness in the chest or nausea in the belly. Instead, mostly calm. A settled searching through the "These are the things I'd do" if I were staring eye to eye with the Fella in the Brite Nitegown.

I'd probably want to quit teaching. (Sorry, kids, but I hope you understand.)
I'd commit myself to writing more. Maybe dash off two or three more inconsequential stories in my remaining days.
I'd make sure that the people I love know how much I love them.
I'd eat sushi every day damn day, and let the dog eat steak.

As it turns out though, everything's OK in my head. (Well, on the aneurysm front, anyway-- I'm still an anxious cat, but that's not terminal.)

And rather than spend the morning thinking about final wishes, I cruised home with the windows down, singing "Louie, Louie" loudly with the stereo. And my partner was waiting with a hug when I arrived.

Shoo, Grim Reaper. I got things to do.

Musings: Conversations, Welcome Correspondence and Frothy Ales

Cool autumnal rains made Labor Day weekend a time of acceptable transition. Summer is over, school has begun, I am lost to books and classrooms and sharpened pencils and striped ties again for the better part of the next four months. On Friday we celebrated with dinner out at a favorite restaurant. On Saturday we attended films on campus, and then went for a dinner and drinks get-together at a colleague's that took us into the early morning hours and carried us home with ample wine and beer in our bellies. Sunday saw me at a beer-tasting. (Yes, you read that right.) I drank different style beers all afternoon before we headed out for Thai food and more beer and wine with other friends, till 3 a.m.

Sunday afternoon we walked the dog in the rain. I napped on the couch. We had tilapia and green beans and couscous and salad. Sunday evening saw me smoking and reading Ralph Ellison in a comfy chair and drinking scotch and listening to the patter of rain and the swell of jazz from the radio.

And this weekend I found out that another story of mine has been accepted for publication.

Life.
Is.
Good.

Will decide on the winner of the Summer Writing contest soon and decide on a prize for said victor. I'm still open to late-entries if you get 'em in quickly.

Musings: On Poll Results and First Weeks of Teaching

So the poll results are in for August. Apparently nobody (but me) gives a rat's ass whether the Tigers win the World Series or whether Barry Sonnefield makes the right casting choice for Jack Gladney in White Noise or if Philip Roth gets his Nobel laureate due. But you do care about fixing that mess down in D.C. that's contributed to our world getting progressively more miserable since early in 2001. (Not to mention that some of you think I'm underpaid. I am. Criminally.)

Meanwhile, your old pal, The Whining Stranger, survived his first week of teaching without too many public speaking panic attacks or confrontations with water-balloon-toting or vodka-swilling hyenas. I was a bit put off by one student in one of my classes who confidently announced to me in his introduction that he doesn't like using intelligent words to discuss literature nor does he find much joy in sitting around talking about books. I told him I expect plenty of both, so hopefully there won't be too much trouble there. Otherwise, the student population in my classes seems eager so far, though my jokes are only earning resounding laughter about 62% of the time thus far. The generation gap is widening, I fear. I need to incorporate more physical comedy into my schtick. Nothing goes better with a good literary discussion than a well-timed pratfall.

And Mom called this morning to say that she scored free tickets to see Steely Dan and Michael McDonald. I'm happy for her. She was envious when she heard my glowing review back in July.

Musings: Cast your vote; break the tie.

Look at the August poll--now just about over--in the sidebar to the right. 6 voters. 3 who think America should be saved by the Democratic dream team, and 3 who think I deserve better pay. Cast your vote. Break the tie. The gods are listening.

Musings: Ah, a simpler time, then.

And you think the pharmaceutical industry is nutty now. Recall this popular children's cough remedy, available between 1898 and 1910. Robitussen just can't compare.

Musings: What a week, what a week--

So Jonbenet's "confessed" killer goes free, The Office (thankfully) wins "Best Comedy" at the Emmys, the Tigers try to rally themselves before the brutal stretch run of September, and I survive my first day of teaching yesterday.

Another earnest group of students, another fifteen-week run through reading and grading and nervous lectures and ironing my shirts in a rush before I take off to campus, and feeling like I'll never get caught up, and asking over and over and over, "How soon till Thanksgiving break?" before finally it's Christmas and I'm on a plane back home and I've made it through another term.

Whew.

More coffee, please.

Musings: Ah, scholars--

"Autum, to me the most congenial of seasons: the University, to me the most congenial of lives." --Robertson Davies, The Rebel Angels (1981)

Now, understand this from the get-go: most days I love my job and enjoy the neighborhood in which I live. I love being a professor. I like being close to campus. I like the morning walk that takes me from my home to the university at which I teach. I like greeting the day by passing stately brick buildings and eventually entering the stately brick building that houses my office and the classrooms in which I teach.

But I also fear that I'm becoming a curmudgeon at age thirty-two. I find myself frustrated often by the undergraduates that surround me. I forgot about it over the summer, I think, but with their return to town en masse over the past week that frustration has re-emerged. Part of the problem might be that I entered this career expecting that undergraduates would tend to be the way I was as an undergraduate: that is, not insanely ambitious, but at least intellectually curious. The type of kids who read The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald on the weekends not because it's been assigned to them, but because it's fun to read. Students who check out Ingmar Bergman films when they show near campus because it's exciting to discover great art...

Alas--

Last night, walking the dog in the early evening, I saw a pile of undergraduates piling into an SUV with an open bottle of vodka and uncapped beers all around. (And this in a college town that--as I posted earlier--seems to lead the universe in drunk-driving catastrophes.) Then turning back onto my own street, I saw my neighbors from two doors down amusing themselves with a giant water balloon slingshot, taking turns dousing each other with the explosive splash of landing-balloons-plus-gravity, laughing like hyenas all the while.

Sigh.

Trust me, I wasn't a prudish undergrad. (Rather, I was enamored with the idea of a "studious by day, dissolute by night" Byronic balance.) Nor was I a humorless student. But I did aspire to be smart, cool, thoughtful.

Maybe it's narcissism, certainly it's idealistic, but I continue to search the neighborhood and the campus for visions of a younger me.

Musings: Three Reasons to Smile

1. The cover of the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.



2. A new graduate student in my department told me the other day that, bearded, I am a dead ringer for Johnny Damon. I imagine this kid was just sucking up as he'd heard me say earlier that I'm a lifelong baseball fan who would have loved to play centerfield in the majors, but still--



3. The film version of the Amy Sedaris-Stephen Colbert-Paul Dinello vehicle, Strangers with Candy, which I saw last night, and which made me laugh so much that my stomach hurt.

Musings: This is the best 80 cent lunch ever

Trust me. It's unreal how good this for such a ridiculously low price. Thank you, Big Lots!

Musings: Five Great Beards for the Ages

As I take another break, mid-afternoon, here on campus, and run my fingers through two-weeks of new beard growth, I find myself contemplating the great hirsute icons who've inspired me to put the razor away again.

So, Casey Kasem-style, in reverse order, here they are:

5. Croatian tennis great Goran Ivanisevic



Goran tried to revive the Bjorn Borg look in the 1990s, long after the Ice Man had retired from the game.

4. Soul music legend Marvin Gaye



If I had to choose which vision of Marvin to put on a stamp, I'd pick this one. "Let's Get It On"-era Marvin. Never has somebody who embodied virility so thoroughly been able to hit notes so high.

3. All-Star outfielder Johnny Damon (pre-Bronx makeover)



When Johnny Damon first arrived in Spring Training for the Boston Red Sox with full beard and long hair flying out of his cap, I thought baseball had finally again discovered a quirky superstar in the best Mark Fidrych vein. Then Johnny got famous and got interviewed and I realized he's, sadly, a lout. Then he joined the Yankees and went clean-cut. Still, look at that beard. It was a good run for a while.

2. Tintin's seafaring buddy Captain Haddock




Slubberdegullions! That's some kickass facial hair.

1. Inventer of modern fiction Ernest Hemingway



You know this was coming. Pretend to be surprised.