SLEEVELESS IN SEATTLE

by Hugo de Mare

I wonder if I’ll ever have the guts to wear a sleeveless shirt in public.

The fact that I even have a couple shows the old order is crumbling fast.  But here’s this fit dude shooting stick in a sleeveless shirt, got them musclely arms, sinew and sweat man, that’s what them ladies want.  But I’m pretty sure I don’t ever want to have anything in common with him from a fashion standpoint.  If it takes wearing a bandanna on your head and a sleeveless shirt to get laid, I’ll die alone.  But I been liftin at the gym, got them nice lanky arms that rockers roll with, got my own tattoo. I bet I could. Then I try that shit on and look in the mirror and it’s like who invited this fag into my room? 

Man, I’ll tell ya though, the erosion of what I thought was other people has sure kicked into high gear recently. I have Tommy Hilfiger shoes and I just drank a vitamin water. Mind you, I got the shoes at some ghetto warehouse because they were red and cheap, and I drank the water because I’d had my caffeine fill by the time I got to the coffee house to write my limp-wristed arty farty column.  But still.  I had my first smoothie this week.  And my second and my third within 24 hours.  Smoothie.  Fuck you.  Call it a damn shake, would you? 

Some of us are trying to preserve our integrity.  ‘I’ll have a strawberry wheat grass surprise.’  Surprise!  You’re no longer a man.

I console myself by not wearing sunglasses indoors and hating U2 and R.E.M.  That’s about all I have left. Can you keep a secret?  I bought a pair of women’s trousers when I was in London.  What can I say?  They don’t make nice pants for guys, and unfortunately I look good in bell bottoms.  I know, I’m an asshole.

It gets worse.  I have a regular espresso drink now.  A fucking vanilla goddamned latte! How emasculating can you get?  I used to hit people just for saying shit like that, now I’m the bitch that drinks it.  I’m from Ohio, dammit!  Ain’t supposed to be wearing women’s clothes and ordering a goddamned vanilla latte. 

My only vestige of self-respect lies in my refusal to acknowledge Starbucks’ eurotrash size demarcation.  That’ll be a MEDIUM vanilla latte, you ponce. No grande latte for this man’s man.  Still a rebel at heart.  Born to cry, live to hide.