Tuesday, December 19, 2006

a bit of rambling half assedly

There was a troubling moment early yesterday when I noticed that half my ass had fallen asleep. If the few times I’ve impersonated a doctor have taught me anything it’s that I know very little about medicine and health and whatnot, but finding myself in a literally half-assed condition didn’t seem to be normal. So it was that I stood and felt about my backside. The ass—what there is of it—was indeed still there, yet the coupling of my ever-fattening wallet and an unforgivingly unpadded desk chair had worked to slowly choke the life out of said buttcheek. It was not money that fattened the wallet, unfortunately. People seem to want to give me their business cards as if I were the sort of person who transacted business or called people or didn’t dive into the closet with a blunt object at the ready every time somebody rings the doorbell. I politely take the business cards and file them away until they become painful, and yesterday seems to have been that point.

However, a recollection of my early years then popped into my head as unburdened the wallet and switched it to a front pocket.

Some friends and I began driving to Nashville from our little Alabamian around the age of seventeen. We’d come up for a night here and there to catch shows at 328 or the Exit/In or just to walk around west end or downtown. Nashville was the “big city”, as it were, and we treated these weekends like shore leave. We smoked out in the open without fear of being caught by our parents or their friends and would sneak bottles of vodka or PGA in to augment our drinks as we walked around at Summer Lights or just up and down Broadway.

“Big cities” can be scary places, but that’s part of the allure. We—or I, at least—always half expected to be mugged or stabbed or kidnapped and then sold into white slavery when walking around downtown or from Elliston Place down to Lucy’s Record Shop. Sadly, this never happened.

But the tidbit that had escaped me until the wallet constricted my hind quarters half to death yesterday was the fact that the very first thing we always did when arriving in Nashville was to switch our wallets to our front pockets. This was obviously done to avoid pickpocketing and probably would have bit a useless defense against the kidnapped for slavery thing, but the defensive measure was so engrained on a Pavlovian level that for the longest time I would immediately check my front pocket when I thought of Nashville.

Anyway, I hadn’t thought about that for a while.

Also, this has for some reason reminded me of the short-lived rap duo of Kris Kross (comprised, if you will recall, of the Mac Daddy and Daddy Mac) and their gimmick of wearing their clothes backward. Trends often elude and even trouble me, but there was something about their particular attempt at trend setting that I found especially disturbing. I don’t know why.

I didn’t much care for Christopher Cross either, but at least the man knew how to put on a pair of pants.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

That's a REAL half assed post, Rex. And, brilliant as always.

Men/boys sure do have an obsession with their pockets. I'm just sayin'.

5:52 PM  
Blogger John H said...

love the ending...the rest ain't so bad either..

9:25 PM  
Anonymous joe lance said...

I've carried my wallet in a front pocket ever since traveling overseas many years ago. (I was paranoid of having my pocket picked in Rome.) I got really used to not sitting on it. They say it takes three weeks to form a habit, and that's about how long I was traveling each time.

9:37 PM  
Blogger Rex L. Camino said...

Gracias Lynnster and Hutch.

I did the same thing while in Spain and Morocco, Joe. The hotel where we stayed in Tangiers was supposed to be the only safe place from pickpockets and such, yet a coupl of women still had their purses stolen on the elevator. We, I mean, They would cut the straps and slowly pull them from their shoulders.

7:48 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

By the way, I did the math (your 3rd grade in 1983) and was somewhat relieved that your West End-hopping days were in the '90s, since there's no possibility that I contributed to your delinquency as a minor since I left in 1988, whew.

Now who those other 17-year-old boys that talked me into buying PGA for them were, I know not.

1:02 PM  
Blogger Rex L. Camino said...

Indeed. Missed you by a couple of years.

3:52 PM  
Anonymous sista said...

Gosh, but you make me feel old using all those years and stuff.

9:21 PM  

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