type 2 Homo sapiens: the fashion-conscious being

type 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

I would never powder my face as they did in courtly circles, but I exfoliate and moisturize, and here and there I dab a special rejuvenating ointment that costs several hundred dollars a deciliter. I would not say that I am ready to use all available modern techniques, but I do what must be done.

I am no longer what you would call “young”. This is a disadvantage in every regard except one: my wardrobe has matured with me. It spans the shoulder-padded jackets of the early eighties, to the skinny jeans and décolleté t-shirts of today. Whatever is suddenly “retro” or “vintage” I generally already own. There I have an advantage over the young man who must go out and find that item of clothing that is no longer being produced, but that everyone is looking for.

In the days of Cocktail my hair was combed back with mouse and a touch of brilliantine. Today it is longish and finger-brushed across my eyes in a style I have dubbed: windswept. It is fashionable, but difficult to maintain. I am told I am often touching it – my hair – probably for this reason, but this is not something I am ever fully aware of.

On a regular day I'll be wearing my black Ray Ban Wayfarers – I do not believe in all these new colors – and a cute little gillet cardigan I’ve owned for fifteen years. For a long time I wore only black Converse All Stars, but recently, from one day to the next, I switched to Vans and I haven’t looked back since.

Overall, I am friendly, well informed and anxious [sic] to learn about new cultures. I am ready to talk about most things, but I will not waste my time speculating on what cannot be proven one way or the other. Extraterrestrials, ESP, the Great Yeti. I will not waste my time and I will not waste yours. And please do not suggest, as others have done, that the ointment I use on my face is such a “speculative” subject.

the Great Picture Show

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, boors and sophisticates, see the falling stars, see the crescent moon, see the coyotes in the desert, see the brute slap his wife, see the bimbo bop her boobs, see the cop chomp on tacos and the statesman pick is nose. See the great orchestrations, scientific, musical, sociological; see the machinations, ladies and gentlemen, political, psychological, military. See them in vivid color. See them with your nose right up against them. See them sitting down, on your feet or crouched strangely, clothed or naked. See them as you wish. And reach in with your hands like in a grab-bag and feel. You may grunt, roar and express all that you experience (Note: in most venues you will be free to do so; in others there are specific prohibitions. Please read the fine print). You will see a thousand men in bullet trains, you will see a thousand elderly sequestered, you will see a million lights blinking, and you will see darkness too. You can become a star-player, a man or woman of repute, performing great feats, physical and mental. But you can also crawl the gutter like a cockroach and taste only the most extreme and gut-wrenching sensations for which you need no qualifications at all except the blood in your veins and skin on your back. All free of charge, ladies and gentlemen. And it makes no difference to me whether you fuck yourself up completely, whether you piss on this great stage, do cartwheels or wax lyrical in the throes of love: it’s The Great Picture Show for this reason, great because it can accommodate you, me, the rat, the ruler, the rake, the great magistrate, the man with four wives, the man with one, the clerk, the laborer, the asshole, the courtesan, the monk, the dancer, the breast- and bottle-fed, the daring and the cowardly. Do as you wish. Do everything you wish, but do something. One thing you cannot do is just watch. You can try, it’s not forbidden, but… you will see.

elements of manhood

First I drop a fist down on that psychotic little gadget that lets you snooze for ten minutes at a time. But the damage is done. I am awake, which means, gentlemen, that as we speak, a trillion plus brain cells are scrambling off their skinny hind-ends to serve their master.

In the meantime, I’ve opened my eyes and I am looking out across the expanse of a king-size bed. And I am dumbfounded! It seems I am ALONE, gentlemen. How the heck can this be? Is she being coy under the duvet? I thrust out my arm to inspect, but right and left is all empty space.

We skip forward.

I'm on my feet now, on a tiled floor, thrusting croutons, bacon, egg, and dairy product into my open mouth. My manhood is pendulous, but this is not unusual when I’m eating early in the morning.

We skip forward.

I’m dressed, on a sidewalk, thrusting quarters into a machine so that I may be permitted to park my three thousand-plus pounds of vehicle in this goddamn fiefdom they call a free country. I drop my fist down on this slotted machine, thinking that if I had a club or a bat I’d knock quarters out a hundred miles wide.

Instead, I draw back to deliver a headbutt that would do honor even to the great Zinedine Zidane, but a breeze hits me in the neck and I sneeze!

Hatchoum!

A completely involuntary reaction leaves me folded in two and not quite in control. I look around to see if anyone has witnessed this spasm, especially – God forbid – a woman.

We skip forward.

Near a cafe I thrust my hand into the pocket nearest my manhood. Out comes a second gadget. I press numbers. A female voice answers the call. We communicate is sparse terms: desires, options, locales. She is not coy. We agree to meet.

We skip forward.

I thrust my…

We skip forward.

Back home I thrust the remote control between the seat pillow and the armrest so that I can operate it without holding it in my hands, which are otherwise occupied. Until I fall asleep.

We skip forward.

I drop a fist down on that psychotic little gadget that lets you snooze…