Sexy, Flirty, Girly

When you come of age in a house with older sisters, they get "Victoria's Secret" catalogues mailed to them, and life is good.

I don't know how they settled on the name "Victoria" to be the emblem of enigmatic sexiness and playful roll-around-on-the-bed-ness. I mean, when I think of "Victoria," I think of this:

Which probably isn't the visual Victoria's Secret is going for.

Nevertheless, the brand has been wildly successful, not just with females-- their target audience-- but with burgeoning young males, semen practically leaking out their ears. I don't know if 14-year-old boys still get all kinds of jazzed up upon their first laying-on-of-eyes at a "Victoria's Secret" catalogue, now that the internet has made pornography as accessible as a wheelchair van, but there is no denying the utterly seductive power of those suggestive poses, those languidly draped legs, the come hither eyes, the mirage-like nipple protrusion from beneath a paper-thin camisole.

The pouting.

The hair.

In Spring, 2011, the most recent Victoria's Secret catalogue (that arrives at our house with comforting regularity after I purchased a delicious summer-weight bathrobe for my wife) there isn't a single model with hair shorter than below shoulder-length. Which says a lot, I think.

By the way, it's awfully difficult to focus on what I'm trying to talk about with the catalogue opened to page 67. There are eight, count 'em, eight photographs of barely-dressed vixens all vying for my undivided attention, which is, of course, divided by eight, if not sixteen if we're counting all the breasts.

Okay. I turned the page. I'm okay now. Well, sort of.

So, right-- the hair. While there are no models with short hair at all, anywhere to be seen, I was happy to note the inclusion of an incredibly hot Indian model, who looks great in the upper right-hand photograph on page 69 (sorry, that's really the page number, I can't do anything about it). So, while short-haired pixie-ladies may very well be sorely under-represented, at least Victoria's Secret is getting a little bit more international in flavor.

You know, when I set out to write this post, there were actually some intelligent points I knew I wanted to make, and I knew I was going to have to use the photographs in the catalogue to support my contentions, but, now that I've been leafing through this thing again, I'm sorry to report that my brain has turned to chili. I'm just another manschlub, staring at countless photographs of seductive, inaccessible women, while my wife crafts at the table across from me, and I feel dirty, horny, stupid, uneducated, ill-equipped to engage in reality-based thoughts or pursuits, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the point is that these catalogues, at the very worst, sell unrealistic ideas of sexuality to men and encourage women to hate their bodies, and, at the very best, they sell poorly-constructed, mass-manufactured sexschlock.

Hmpf...

I wonder what kind of bra Queen Victoria used to wear.

It's My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers!

Okay, asshats, here's the deal:

To increase weekend readership, I have decided to whore my bloody, ravaged little cockmeister out on y'alls and have a giveaway. I know, I know: giveaways are the Chlamydia of the blogosphere, but, hey, don't say I never gave ya nothin'.

Now, I know I've gotten a reputation around these here parts as being somewhat anti, well, everything that's popular, but, let's face it: I'm not as antidisestablishmentarian as I drink you am. I mean, I was all over the 90-minute season premiere of "Runway" on Thursday night. I'm so fucking into it, I even call it "Runway," for Christ's sake. "Project Runway" is for the non-initiated and disaffected. True, I was not digging Heidi's bangs necessarily, nor was I into the social fuckdiot wearing the bowler hat, but I am all about "Runway," and that's popular, I guess.

Still, I haven't seen "Titanic" or "Moulin Rouge" yet, nor have I heard a Carrie Underpants song all the way through, and you'll never catch me playing Beer Pong. Maybe I'd referee, if I could wear a cool, short-sleeved uniform shirt and charcoal grey trousers.

Nevertheless, children, try as one might, it is nigh impossible to eschew everything that's popular. And, it is in the spirit of that sentiment that I have decided, against my better judgment, to host the first ever, lunar module, domestically charged, animal controlled

MY MASONIC APRON'S TOTES AWESOMESAUCE GIVEAWAY, MOTHERFUCKERS

Here's how it works:

I treat you like a Salvation Army drop-off location and dump every shitty, worthless, dust-covered, possibly irreparable item on my desk on you. You compete for the honor of winning it by jumping through a series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops. After you have jumped successfully through the series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops, I will just randomly pick whoever the fuck I want as the winner, and send them all my shit.

Ready? Here's what I'm giving away. Open wide, bitches:

One (1) shoulder pad, covered in two distinctly different kinds (gray & coarse, blonde & fine) of dog hair.

One (1) empty Zip-Loc baggie (purple & pink make whatever)

One (1) Original Broadway cast recording of "Into the Woods" (Baker = Chip Zien, Baker's Wife = Joanna Gleason, Mysterious Man/Narrator = Tom Aldredge). Also covered in dog hair x2.

Two (2) AA Energizer alkaline batteries (good until 03-2015!!!)

One (1) squishy stress brain (gray).

August, 2010 edition of "Reader's Digest" and before you say, "That faggot reads 'Reader's Digest'?!!!" stop yourself-- it's my wife's, and her psychologically questionable uncle gave her the subscription as a "gift."

A handwritten list of how much money we spent on fixing the PT Cruiser in the past three years. Curious? Here's the details:

Door Locks Crazily Locking & Unlocking Themselves = $50.29

Crack in the aluminum wheel = $47.70

Tire replacement = $127.20

Oxygen sensor = $285.56

Tire replacement = $108.12

Busticated tie-rod = $395.38

Beschmoigied bushings = $412.02

Bumfucked ignition wires = $100.00

Tire replacement = $137.80

Snapped off dog-bone suspension = $180.73

(Total? = $1,800, more or less. Yeah... we fuck up our tires a lot. And they always seem to cost a different amount to replace. Funny. That's what happens when Israelis fix your car.)

One (1) NYC Metrocard (exp. 08/31-- there's still time!!!) May actually have money or something on it. Who wants to see a show?!

One (1) pamphlet advertising the "Jim Henson's Fantastic World" at Michener Art Museum in Doylestown. Slightly creased.

One (1) postcard from San Francisco from Mrs. Apron's brother upon which he scrawled, "HAPPY SAN FRANCISCO!" A real four-star communicator there.

One (1) half-used tube of Neosporin.

Now, here's what you have to do to get the swag:

1.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (WE HEART COMMENTS!) write three haikus on the following subjects: 1.) The aesthetic virtues of the original "Pink Panther" film, 2.) The aesthetic virtues of my scrotal area, 3.) Seal-clubbing.

2.) Carve a 1/18th-scale rendering of Herbie, the Love Bug in exacting detail out of alabaster

and send it to the American Embassy in the United Arab Emirates. (I will arrange for them to send to me-- I don't trust you with my home address.)

3.) Eat nothing but hard-boiled eggs and mortadella for a period of ten weeks, keep an exacting journal of your bowel movements and send photostatic copies of your notations to the Chinese Embassy in Uganda. (I will arrange for them to send to those motherfuckers in the U.A.E.)

4.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (COMMENTS ARE FARKING HAWT!) write a list of seventeen compelling reasons why I should be named The Free State of Saxony's Man-of-the-Year.

5.) Take off all your clothes and run around your neighborhood like a fucking idiot screaming "ALL I WANT IS A MASONIC APRON AND/OR A SMALL TEDDY BEAR TO WIPE MY ASS WITH!"

6.) Get arrested. If you do #5, this one should come pretty easy.

7.) Write me a love letter. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

8.) Write me legal subpoena. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

9.) Go to a Quaker Meeting for Worship. Fart. Loudly blame the elderly lady sitting next to you named Fran.

10.) Smile, because it's Saturday, and, hey, you're cool in your Ray Bans and madras shorts.

Hey, thanks for participating in "My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers." I'll be sure to contact the lucky winner whenever I feel like it. And, if you're really lucky, I'll throw in a crumpled Post-It note with the username and password for my father's business Facebook account that I created for him last year and then forgot to ever update.

I "Like"

You know me.

I have acquired, I think, somewhat of a reputation for being a Negative Nellie. I don't know quite how it started. I'd like to blame Dear Apron, but this persona was firmly established before Dear Apron was formed in the womb.

It's an aura that's surrounded me since, well, I was fourteen or so.

I don't know exactly how it happened. Maybe it's because I'm "snarky" or because I "tell it like it is."

(Vom through my schnozz.)

Regardless of how it began, I think we can all agree that "negative" is as good an adjective to use to describe me as any, right up there with "sickly" and "deformed."

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, if you ever catch yourself thinking that I'm a nice guy, keep in mind that this is my favorite cartoon:

Want another thousand words? This is my favorite picture:

My eldest sister sent me this picture maybe four years ago in an attachment to an email, and I am forever grateful. I was sad for some reason, I can't remember which calamity it was at the time, but, regardless-- she wanted it to brighten up my day. I laughed so hard when I opened the attachment that I thought my colon was going to explode. And I wouldn't have cared if it had. Every now and then, when I'm really down, I just open up this file and I laugh until I need my inhaler.

I mean-- the Izod shirt. The corduroy blazer. The chubbiness. The gleeful expression. The CROSSED double-deuce... and he's eating fucking sushi and there's fucking sushi in his MOUTH, for Christ's sake! Genius.

Mother. Fucking. Genius.

So, even though I think I've done this before (would be interesting to compare the two posts, if one had the energy/interest) I thought I'd compile a short list of things that I like. You know, it's like Facebook, but without the cute little thumbie.

I LIKE....

Maritime Music

I don’t know how it started. I guess with Stan Rogers—a long time ago. If you’ve never given him the time of day, well, now’s the time. Fire up Pandora and open up her box, you’ll be very happy you did. Unless you like Diddy or some shit. While I may be tooling around in my used Volvo in reality, in my head, I’m Rollin’ Down to Old Maui, or decidedly bound for the Rio (pronounced “Rye-oh”) Grande, or pulling in that “Bully in the Alley.” I know the sight of a mustachioed 30-year-old Jewish guy built like a twig singing old maritime music to himself doesn’t make much sense, but, in my life, what does? It gets decidedly awkward when I forget myself and lustily sing out Ewan MacColl’s “Blow, Boys, Blow” while walking from my car to the Post Office, and not just because of the title, but because it contains choice edible accoutrements “monkey ass” and “donkey liver” as well as the trusty old “N-word.”

Broccoli

Ew, right?

I know, hating broccoli is the biggest social-loafing device that exists in the world, and I’m actually grateful that it exists to be so universally vilified. The Israelis and the Palestinians and Helen Thomas should all try hating broccoli together—they’ll be fast fucking friends. There’ll be massive amounts of Shalom-ness everywhere. Trust me.

I love broccoli, and it’s not just because I’ve sworn to do the opposite of whatever’s popular. I really love it. We’re actually growing some in our side-yard microgarden, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ll eat it cooked, but raw is best. I like the floret and I like the stem. Our dog, Finley, goes fucking bananas for broccoli. If we so much as open the crisper drawer, he stares at us like a strung-out crackhead. I guess he gets that from me. You could say that I don’t actually like broccoli itself, because I don’t eat it by itself—it requires ranch dressing. Barring that, the only other acceptable slather must come from my wife’s specially-prepared garlic sauce. I have been known to consume an entire (very very large) bowl of raw broccoli and garlic sauce for dinner.

And this is where you thank God that you know me from afar.

Being Early

I think I’ve figured out what I love about being early. It has nothing to do with respect for another person’s time (I don’t) and it has nothing to do with my self-image or my impatience, and it has nothing to do with my perception of reality or my inability to accurately gauge my relationship between time and space:

It’s an addiction.

It’s fucking chemical.

I LOVE the way it feels, in my body and in my brain, when I am early. It’s no different, presumably, than the high a junkie shitskin gets when he injects heroin or battery acid or rat shit directly into his bloodstream. It feels FUCKING AMAZING to know that I’ve beaten The Clock at its sole purpose: inserting its hour and minute hands in my cornhole.

No. I won’t let you. I love my cornhole. It’s small and cute and hour hands and chopsticks and Parker pens do not go up there. No.

Blogging

Surprised? Oh, come now—don’t be coy.

Another blogger I know recently wrote to me that, for her, blogging had begun to be “a chore.” This made me quite sad. First of all—she’s a very good writer, and for her to feel that blogging had become a chore is definitely an unfortunate thing, because people generally don’t especially like chores (notice, “Chores” are not on my list of Likes) and so I think we may reasonably assume that, if blogging for this individual is a chore, it has become something she no longer “likes.”

Well, shit. That’s not good, kids.

Of course, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s one of those chores that we actually receive some kind of internal gratification from. Like taking out the trash. It’s a pain in the balls, no? I have, like, five trashcans in our small, three-bedroom house. What the fuck is that about? I feel like such an asshole, dragging that big trash-bag (it’s never quite big enough, actually) all over the goddamn house every Tuesday morning, but the reward is that there is no longer trash in the house.

Dishes? Sure, doing dishes is annoying for most people—but I love it. It’s an easy way for an inept man to feel accomplished, and, after it’s all done, the sink smells like orangey yum-yum goodness and not like a Bavarian octogenarian’s anus.

Children

It’s an annoying truth about our society that lots of people are suspicious of men who work with children. Of course, people are more than willing to ignore the fact of the seemingly endless parade of hot middle and high school female teachers busted for assigning their male students “XXXtra credit,” but, hey—what do I know? Never happened to me when I was in middle or high school.

I enjoy working with children, and, after my time at my current job is up at the end of August, I’m going to miss it. Children are honest, even when they’re not, and their perspectives and perceptions never cease to amaze and amuse me, and not in that patronizing way, either, even though it probably came out that way.

I love talking to children—- especially the socially awkward ones—- probably because they remind me of me, the old me and the young me. During a recent rehearsal for “Peter Pan” the ten-year-old boy playing Michael Darling approached me to complain that his flying harness was irritating his “Congo Delta Region.”

When I stopped laughing, I said,

“I think that’s a problem for somebody who isn’t me to deal with.”

You

How could I leave you off the list of likes? Some of you have been here for a hell of a long time. You deserve a medal or a cash settlement or something—and all you get are more blog posts.

Glutton.

I Like Sad Songs

Oh, Eva Cassidy. You kill me.

And it can't be easy for a dead woman to kill a living man-- but you do it, and you do it swiftly, surely, but without an ounce of cruelty or malice. To be killed beautifully by your air-like voice is a blessing, a fate I accept with open arms. Your renditions of "Dark Eyed Molly" and "Fields of Gold," well, they're quite simply too much.

I like sad stories.

I like to read about Roger Ebert battling oral cancer, bereft of his voice (thank you for posting that, Adam) but never his words. I like to read about people, far braver than I, doing battle with demons in the dark and trudging their way through an unfair, mean, shitty world. I like reading about people who are introspective and sensitive and maybe even a little brooding. I like these people, and I like their stories. I like it when they triumph, and I like it when they fail. I doubt they do, though.

I like religious paintings.

I don't exactly know why, but I do. I'm not religious, and I'm certainly not the religion of most paintings that are featured in art galleries. One time I went to the National Gallery in Washington D.C. and I fell in love with a painting called "St. Jerome & the Angel" by Simon Vouet. There's St. Jerome, old as hell, sitting at a desk and trying to write, and there's this angel bothering him, trying to get his attention, and Jerome is giving him this look like, "Jesus Christ, will you leave me the fuck alone already? I'm trying to write a shopping list here and I've forgotten whether I want brown eggs or white eggs. Now fuck off already."

I love that painting. For some reason, I also love paintings where some saint or whatever is collapsing in the arms of some beautiful woman. There's a lot of those in art museums, and I love every one of them.

I can't stand depictions of the crucifixion, though. It's like-- enough already with that shit.

I like winter clothes.

I'm not particularly fond of winter as a thing by itself, but I do love that the temperature necessitates that we bust out our corduroys and our sweater vests and our blazers and our overcoats and our hats. In the summertime, I look like I have an eating-disorder. In the winter, well, I can wear what I really love to wear. I don't like that the world's boobies are all hidden away, but it's okay, because I have a toggle-coat from Brooks Brothers, and wearing it makes up for that.

I like old cars.

You've heard this rant before, so I'll spare you. All I'll say is that I don't care that they're inefficient and unsafe and unreliable. Fuck that, man. Fuck all that.

I like who I was.

I was a very sweet boy. When I was a little boy, I was very sweet, and the world made sense. The only thing I was really ever scared of was my parents dying, or me dying, and I was able to be reassured that this wouldn't happen for a long, long, long time. Today, I'm scared of everything, and nothing placates me anymore. My wife's arms and legs wrapped tightly around me under flannel covers at night is a big help, though.

I like blogging.

Sometimes it's a challenge to come up with new material every day, but not often, and this is a very good substitute for never making it as a paid writer. Nobody tells me what to do or when to do it, and, though most people recognize this blog as "funny," I don't feel any particular pressure to be funny, or to shield my blogdience from the tenderer moments of life. In fact, I don't feel any pressure at all.

I like my house.

Sure, the dishwasher is from 1964 and there's a hole in the kitchen ceiling, and the 1st floor toilet makes funny sounds when it flushes, and the lilac tree was felled by the blizzard, and they painted our bedroom the wrong color, but when my key slips into the lock after a day of work, it's like Eva Cassidy is singing, right through my heart.