Incongruities
My dress shoes finally stopped squeaking. I just noticed this fact the other day; I was able to walk down the hall without people plugging their ears and rolling on the floor in agony, for the awful spine-tingling, bladder-releasing sonic vulgarity of the squeak was no more.
* * * * *
People clothe themselves in signs. This ratty pair of jeans means I’m rockstar cool, this all black ensemble with the ridiculous chains and ropes means I’m expressing my hurt through goth; i.e. the blackness of my outturned soul, etc. You know how it works; you’re covered in signs too. But sometimes the signs are slightly harder to decipher, that is, someone’s appearance is so “interesting” that you inadvertently wonder what they are trying to communicate, and why. This is certainly the case with one individual I happened to meet the other day. He is a pudgy man, not fat, of course, but stocky enough–evenly-spaced stocky, like a wide pillar capped by a head. The most evident sign on this pillar was a large shiny belt-buckle tagged with the unmistakable nomenclature of Gucci. The rest of his ensemble consisted of normal, if rather bland, clothes from Kohls (or perhaps Target). I must confess that such a combination of apparel put my mind into such a tizzy that every sight of that Belt caused my eyes to nearly bug out. Pillars and Kohls and Gucci are clearly incompatible signs, they’re contradictory language games–it’s like saying “red light go” or having Pat Robertson keep his mouth shut on national television. Such incongruities can only mean one thing: the universe must be near the breaking point, and I need to go to the bathroom.
He is a pudgy man, not fat, of course, but stocky enough—evenly-spaced stocky, like a wide pillar capped by a head. The most evident sign on this pillar was a large shiny belt-buckle tagged with the unmistakable nomenclature of Gucci.
For a second there, I thought you were talking about me. Then you said Gucci, and I knew better. You could also have said “balder than Lex Luthor after a dip in an acid bathtub.”
My joy at a new post was surpassed only by my joy at this line:
He is a pudgy man, not fat, of course, but stocky enough—evenly-spaced stocky, like a wide pillar capped by a head.
Of course, no one is fat these days. My sorties into style appraisal have revealed that, occasionally, the party in question really has no clue.
“This ratty pare of jeans…”
Is there some hidden significance in spelling pair, pare?
Your Brother
My dear brother, you must be mistaken, as anyone can plainly see I have spelled “pair” as “pair.”
However, if I had spelled it “pare” the significance, no doubt, would be that the ratty jeans had holes in them as if cut with a paring knife.
Sasquatch: you wouldn’t dream of wearing Gucci, and this character had hair.
Ariel: You are too kind to the parties in question
Ariel … I’m fat! But I am slightly less so with each passing moment.
My shoes are all clackety-clak
down the corridors–especially the WS corridors where I’m suppose to wear tennis shoes to signify my rebellion against feminine norms.