Jess was a cat again, and I was a clown from the neck up.

Before the first flock of trick-or-treaters took to the streets, I entered the bathroom just as Jess, cat ears already intact, was drawing on the last of her whiskers. She had also done up her nose the color of a maraschino cherry.  

“Your turn,” she said.

I took a seat on the toilet lid, which made for a nice impromptu beauty station. Blue and red were Jess’ primary colors of choice, and before I could say the sort of clown I hoped to be, she said, “All done.”

Perhaps I was a clown from the Great Depression, back when circus budgets were tight and clown make-up had to last, because Jess had applied only the strict bare essentials. My cheeks had smudges of peacock blue, and my mouth at rest wore a thin lipstick smile. The rest of my face bore the color of my own ruddy complexion. But add the rainbow wig and sponge nose, and, technically, I guess, I passed for a clown. Although, I wondered if more serious clowns, like Ronald McDonald, might argue this point. Which brings me to a deeper, perhaps, more philosophical question: are all clowns equal?  

Take for instance Batman’s clownish arch-nemesis, the Joker, namely the one played by Heath Ledger in the latest Batman movie. This costume was the most popular one of the night, though some were better than others. In fact, I got a laugh-snort when I confided in a pair of Jokers who were at our door wanting candy that I was dressed as the Joker, too. Evidently, my clown costume failed to meet the criteria of the cool, deranged, PG-13 Joker. Even Jess seemed ashamed.

“No he’s not,” she reassured the Joker twins. “He’s not the Joker.” Then she dropped candy into each of their bags as if to smooth things over.

What was the big deal? The Joker’s a clown. I’m a clown. You’re a clown. We’re all clowns here, aren’t we? Or are we?

After the Joker twins left, I became insecure about my clownliness, or lack there of. But this soon wore off when I noticed that some of the smaller trick-or-treaters refused to take candy from me. Instead, they eyed me warily from behind their parents’ legs. Maybe I wasn’t the Joker, but there is something to be said about a grown man-clown who strikes fear in the souls of two-year-olds.  

“His dad never liked clowns either,” barked one’s grandma, laughing like a lunatic as she towed her mute grandson to the next house. Ironically, I was frightened of her. And that’s when it hit me: does the makeup make the clown? Because this woman wore only her God-given face. Not that she was ugly; she just had that wild, Halloween clown look about her that even the best Jokers of the night couldn’t capture.

I may never find the true answers to these clown questions. But now that I’ve been a clown, I like to think that I can better relate to their culture. They’re people, too. Just like you or I. 

Concerning cats, I don’t think Jess put that much thought into her costume. And our small dog, who dressed up as a ladybug, probably had no idea she even was a ladybug.

Categories: Culture, Fashion, Philosophy
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In the small town where I grew up, Daisy Dukes for men made a real splash (or at least they did in my case). For four misguided years I swaggered through the halls of my high school showing off more leg than a can-can dancer. I cannot remember if I tucked my T-shirts in nicely, or let them hang out and devour the length of my tiny frayed shorts. I do know, however, that my bottom half was never complete without my black suede leather high-top sneakers. And since ankle socks had not yet reached the country corners of the Midwest – or if they had it’s news to me – it was nothing to also catch me shin deep in a pair of sparkling white tube socks. 

I also had this I.O.U. sweatshirt the color of grape-flavored Bubble Yum. It had no hood but draw strings that passed through the bulk of an extended collar that stopped tantalizingly short of a turtleneck. All stops pulled, I strode right into my freshman year of college with it, along with the rest of my country apparel. Chest out, I felt cool and confident walking on campus, knowing that beneath the buckle of my braided belt was hidden the loudest pair of cheetah print underwear since Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan.  

It wasn’t long before I made some dorm friends who were of the more metropolitan regions of Ohio. Whether it was because they pitied me or were just curious to see what I’d put on next, they remained silent on the subject of my clothes. Although, it seems possible they would discuss it wildly behind my back. Surely someone had to get the burning image of my pegged stone-washed jeans and boat shoes off his chest. I was oblivious to what my trendy peers were wearing: Timberlands with wool speckled socks, cargo shorts, all of 1994′s latest fashions. But one kid finally broke, and for the first time I was forced to question my plush Bugle Boy polo with the turned-apple-colored front and the checkered long sleeves. 

One day, through a series of networking and by the fortune of being in the right place at the right time, we won an invitation to participate in a co-ed football game on West Green somewhere. Co-ed – that meant chances were good that girls would be there. I dressed to impress. The night air was just crisp enough for bringing out the grape I.O.U. sweatshirt. Having gone through several washes, it was beginning to ride up on me a bit. Down the hall to grab my friend, I kept stretching the bottom of my sweatshirt past the waistline of my loud, little Umbros. When my friend opened the door, he erupted into surprised laughter, as if I’d punched him in the gut with a whoopee cushion. I stood there in my Bubble Yum sweatshirt, taking it. ”You look so cool,” was all he could get out. Then, knowing it was all out in the open, he laughed harder and more freely. I heard it all the way down the hall to my room.

Inside the safety of my room, I looked in the mirror that stood between my dresser and the harsh dorm light. It was as though I were seeing myself for the first time. I tried to pick out the abhorrent elements of my shirt that had turned my friend into a jerk. Could it possibly be because the draw strings had no hood? I couldn’t tell. I suddenly felt illiterate. The stubby turtleneck stared back at me like a foreign cuss word. I opened my drawer, freshly skeptical of the clothes that lay innocently there, waiting to make me look stupid. You mean my forest green windbreaker, too? And my outdated mountain boots I got for a good price? What a dreadful revelation this was! I couldn’t have been more shocked than if my parents had told me I was Chinese.      

For a year I was severely overwhelmed by my dearth of fashion sense. I couldn’t tell what went with what. I even developed a mysterious rash on my face, but that could have equally been from living in a cloud of my roommate’s secondhand smoke all year and never washing my pillow case. But, nonetheless, I set my mind on learning what others were wearing. As my eye grew keener, I started trading my jean shorts for khaki ones. But I’d always just miss the mark, returning from home with a shopping bag full of prim and proper dress shorts instead of the cool baggy Abercrombie ones guys were wearing. I’d never even heard of Ambercrombie.       

By winter quarter, I noticed that guys were cool who wore their hair in their faces. They’d sit with their dorm doors wide open, picking sour notes on their beat-up guitars, with nothing but a burning cigarette poking through their perfectly messy locks. I’d march right over to Saturday’s Family Hair Care on Court Street and explain to the exasperated hair stylist that I wanted my hair to look like Brad Pitt’s in Legends of the Fall. If she couldn’t do that then make it similar to the late Kurt Cobain’s. But my hair was fuzzy and thick and wouldn’t budge. Sweating and flushed, my hair stylist spun me around to face the mirror. I considered the broccoli sprout haircut I’d just been given. ”You’ll have to give it time to grow past that awkward stage,” she said. There was nothing I could do; my whole hair was an awkward stage, defying gravity, always growing up and out, never down and cool.  It would be a few years yet before Justin Timberlake invaded the Hollywood scene, bringing my strain of hair back in style. So I was stuck all alone with a head of hay that matched my ridiculous wardrobe. 

Whenever I’d complain about this back home, my mom would try to coax me into letting her style it. At first, I refused; especially when I found out a hairdryer would be involved. But finally I gave in. She used the mirror and dresser in my bedroom as her beauty station. Mom laid out her tools: my sisters’ hairdryer and the oversized, thick-bristled hairbrush Mom bought before I was born. I felt the hot breath of the hairdryer on my face and nape. Using long, ponderous strokes, she brushed my hair back nice and squirrelly, until it rose like a souffle. When Mom’s work was complete, my hair had the dry, bristly look of a beaver pelt. And it seemed I had more forehead than I remembered. “There,” my mom said, still touching up the sides. Staring back at me in the mirror was the spitting image of Ted Danson.  

Everything changed during winter break of my sophmore year when I discovered Mom’s bottle of Paul Mitchell hair conditioning gel on the bathroom sink. Something otherwordly prompted me just to try it. But it’s for girls, I argued with myself. Just try it. I was desperate and no one was home. So I squeezed a blue dab of it into my hand and ran it through my hair. It was amazing! My hair drank it up greedily. It was so thirsty; I had no idea. I felt like a bad parent. I threw a little more in. Working my fingers frantically like combs, I watched my hair transform into a magical new do. No longer did it behave like a crappy swimming cap. It pieced and clumped, and cool, curly tufts emerged. My hair obeyed my every whim, and it stuck wherever I told it. Catching my breath, I moved back to take a look at myself. My hair actually looked, well, cool.    

When I returned to school with my new hair and an endless supply of Paul Mitchell, friends showered me with compliments. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” said one, “but you look different, cooler.” Girls laughed harder at my jokes. I received more co-ed football invitations. I was practically invincible, like a modern day Samson. Not even the damage of putting on a pair of guy Daisy Dukes could hinder me — though I dared not try it.

Shortly thereafter, the day came when I knew I had finally arrived. I was hanging out with a group of buddies, when I saw a highbrow acquaintance of mine from the suburbs of Cleveland coming toward us. He wore a navy button down with a thin red checkered pattern that looked oddly familiar to me.

“Hey,” I said to him, “Nice shirt…I have a pair of boxers that look just like it.” And, the truth is, I did.  

I let out a good hard, freeing laugh. My buddies laughed with me. I can’t remember what the guy with the shirt did. He probably just thought I was a jerk. And, at that moment, I was. But I could afford to be, because I was wearing a deadly combination of cargo pants and Birkenstocks.    

Categories: Culture, Fashion
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Underoos were the bee’s knees when I was a kid. Cartoon underwear fashioned after superhero suits–what kid wouldn’t beg his mom for a pair? Let’s see, they had Superman, Batman, and Spiderman (my favorite), and, oh yeah, Wonderwoman, too, so not to leave out the girls. I wore Batman and Spiderman.    

Around the same time I donned these flashy undergarments, I was also heavily in to watching Saturday morning cartoons. Every Saturday from 9a.m. to noon, kids had somehow managed to gain complete control over all the TV stations in the world. I dabbled a bit in Smurfs and School House Rock, but the main attraction, hands down, was Superfriends. No normal kid could stand to sit still after absorbing a half-hour’s worth of the Superfriends (including the Wonder Twins with sidekick, Gleek, the caped space monkey) foiling, once again, the evil plans of Lex Luther and his Legion of Doom. So, after my cartoon fill, I’d suit up in my Underoos, dart outside like the Flash, and take to the skies in pretend flight through the neighborhood.  

Barefoot, half-naked, and unashamed, I fought crime in a pair of snug blue briefs and a Spiderman T-shirt. Often, an imaginary spiderweb did the trick for getting me around. I’d breeze through the summer lawns as Spiderman would the streets of New York. Whenever I reached the length of my web, I’d perch myself on an old, termite-ridden log that had rolled off our backyard woodpile onto the grass. A log always made for a nice imaginary flagpole, especially one that hung from the 50th story of the Daily Bugle. Up there, I’d ponder the crime-filled streets below. When it came time to move on, I’d flip my wrists over, bend them just slightly so, and emit two suddens bursts of sound: psst, psst. In my opinion, these sounds–a sort of hiss placed between a “p” and a stong ”t”–most accurately described my shooting webs from my wrists. Once my web grabbed hold of something sturdy, like a skyscraper, a radio tower, or a large man’s back, I’d give the web a tug for good measure, then sail off to my next destination.  

Sometimes it became necessary to set a web trap for the bad guys. This took a lot of psst’s. A neighbor curious to see what the fuss was about could look outside in time to see a streak of legs disappear around his house corner or behind a wall of trees. The same neighbor might also have wondered just who had taught this odd little boy how to run with his hands clasped in a ball above his head. It was like he hung from an invisible thread. He’d never play sports. 

One day, I had the Joker and his villainous cronies on the run. My plan was to cut them off in a back alley somewhere. So, I took a short-cut through my backyard and, to my dismay, landed my barefoot on an angry bee collecting dandelion pollen. A sharp pain shot up my foot. It worked on me like Kryptonite (blasted Joker!). But instead of falling weak and listless to the ground in typical Superman fashion, I burst into tears and bawled like the 4-year-old I was. Finally, I collected myself enough to hop home on my good foot. Mom doctored my war-torn foot and, although I didn’t quite know it yet, I had learned something: justice is not always embraced in this world.    

Later, after my Underoos grew too tight, my mom hit up Jo-Ann Fabrics, and I upgraded my superhero wardrobe to capes. I had a Batman one and Superman one. They both were very cool and did wonders for my crime-fighting. Although, as I got older I grew tired of pretend flying. I wanted to fly for real. So, one gray day, I tied on my Superman cape, went outside, and started jumping, both arms out, with the intent that I might eventually stick in the air. When my efforts failed, I turned to God.

“Please, God, give me the ability to fly.” Jump. Crash. Then again, “Please, God, I want to fly.” Jump. Crash, again.

I carried on like this for nearly an hour. Eventually my bones started to ache, and I realized (could it be?) I was a victim of unaswered prayer. Or worse, a prayer forever answered with a disquieting ”no”. 

What’s with this not letting me fly stuff? I mean, am I missing something? Is this not a noble request? 

I was mad. I had prayed really hard, with my eyes shut and everything. The thing was, I’d been to Sunday school and knew that God was all-powerful. If He wanted me to fly, then I could fly. It was clear that He just refused to let me.

In my teens and early twenties, I would sometimes look back at that day and think what a cute but silly prayer it was. It was a little-boy-with-an-overworked-imagination prayer. Of course God wasn’t going to let me fly. Why would He?  No one could fly, except Superman, and he, first of all, was a sun-powered alien, not a human, and, second, wasn’t even real. The whole thing made me laugh at myself. My prayer wasn’t practical, it wasn’t scientific, it wasn’t…wasn’t important, what with half the world starving the way it is.

But the funny thing is, now I see things in a different light. That little boy with the Superman cape may have known what he was doing. As I read the Book of Isaiah, I find a new answer to my boyish prayer. And the suspected answer may not have been ”no”. Nor do I believe God blew me off with a light, good-natured chuckle. But instead, if I’m reading Scripture correctly, I believe God’s answer was “wait”:

[B]ut those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles (Isaiah 40:31).   

 And besides, Superman is not the only person who can fly. According to Luke, Jesus flew up to Heaven. And if Jesus is the prototype of the resurrected man, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that I should fly too someday. With that said, Jess has a sewing machine in the basement, and it looks like I have a date with Jo-Ann Fabrics. And maybe this time I’ll swing by DSW for some superboots, to ward off any Kryptonite bee stings.

Categories: Christianity, Fashion, Television
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“I’m buying new jeans!” I announced to Jess one morning after realizing I full-blown dreaded “Jeans Day” at work. It was a startling realization, indeed, but admitting there’s a problem is the first step to recovery. 

Jean’s Day came every Friday and served as the employees’ lone reward for making it through the work week. It allowed us little people to break free the protocol fetters of corporate dress, ditch the Khakis and throw on a nice, comfortable pair of denim. It was the unspoken substitute for a raise, and yet, I found myself staring at my closet, yearning to slide on a pair of dress pants instead. What was the matter with me?

After dismissing the Freudian blaim-the-parents theory, I made a loose review of my jean situation. There, I discovered the source of these ailing emotions. Basically, I had three pair left to my name – my Abercrombie’s, my Gap’s and my Plato’s Closet Abercrombie Super Flairs, cut an inch too short. Now, three’s not a bad number, but, the problem was, they were all on their last leg – no pun intended.

I ran all three in an even rotation, washing only when necessary. My Abercrombie jeans, however, developed a hole in the knee which grew bigger by the day and I was down to two I could wear confidently in public. 

To be fair to the reader, it must be mentioned here that I do own a fourth pair of Abercrombie jeans. These have seen Clinton’s presidency. Three months ago, without warning, all the denim blew out in them, thankfully leaving intact the zipper and seat for me to work with. It was as if all the thread went on strike at once. When I wear them, a distance observer may question if I’m even wearing pants, for a fair amount of skin shows. It’s not unusual for a pocket of car keys to swing out the fashionable hole in the thigh, banging in perfect measure on the outside of my pants as I walk. Now, the ragged bottoms are buried in my dresser drawer, sprung free only for roofing projects.    

My two remaining jeans neither feel nor look cool. My “Super Flairs”, well, let’s be honest, are just a dumb pair of jeans. They’re stupidly cut and their bell bottoms could devour the thickest of walking casts. It also has the annoying habit of exposing the entire length of the white of my sock as well as revealing a pale sliver of leg whenever I sit.

My Gap jeans are equally annoying in that the leg cuffs have somehow disintegrated, leaving holes big enough to loop the heels of my shoes. An overly bouncy step is greeted with a tug in back.

Anway, I hadn’t bought new jeans in over five years. Strangely, it made me nervous. I wasn’t exactly up-to-date on the jean fashion, and it pained me to waste a $100 on a pair. I’d given up on buying second hand clothing, which were always an odd fit anway, broken and stretched as they were by the bulges and curves of the original wearer. 

So, in an effort to avoid the mistake of buying jeans I’d later become embarrassed about wearing, I conducted a secret (and somewhat disturbing) market research analysis. I spent much time in crowds eye-balling the backs of men – never in a weird way, mind you, but strictly for the gathering of data.

In church, my most effective studies took place during the meet-and-greet, when people stood up. I’d shake their hands – “good morning” – then once they turned I’d go right to work absorbing their backsides, taking extensive mental notes. Although, it likely made everyone involved quite uncomfortable (this couldn’t be helped), it was necessary to discover the brand of jeans guys my age were wearing these days. 

After weeks of reading the butts of men, the belt soon became my greatest enemy. It hid the brand names, making the process most tedious and bothersome. It took several extra glances and a problem-solving mind to piece together the information that was only half-showing that I so desperately needed.   

But finally, after weeks of living like this, I concluded my research and felt happy with the results. I headed over to Macy’s to find some Levi’s. When I first got there, Jess spotted a table of some with cool washes and cuts. Having done my research, I knew the style now leaned toward a tighter, straighter leg look. I excitedly grabbed a pair of what was called the ”skinny” fit in my size and made a beeline for the dressing rooms. Jess thought I needed the boot fit. To this, I insisted that she get with the times.

The legs of these pants tappered so hard that I could barely get them on over my socks. After a good five minute struggle, I finally got them zipped and buttoned. I faced the dressing room mirror, and staring back at me was a sight so ridiculous that it had to be illegal. I busted out laughing. It was nothing short of denim spandex. Jess hurried in to see and buckled in laughter. I didn’t know I had a gut… 

“You really need the boot fit,” she said. This time I agreed.    

Miraculously I peeled the things off. In the end, the boot fit was what worked. They fit perfectly, and jeans never felt so good. Jess gave the thumbs up and we both drove home with smiles on our faces.

Now I need to find some shorts for summer that fit. Just do yourself and me a favor, will ya? Email me the brand and style of shorts you wear and we’ll just call it the day.   

Categories: Fashion
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There is a little secret hanging in my closet. It has sleeves, a collar, and buttons, and it never, ever gets wrinkled. Give up? It’s my magical wrinkle-free shirt. I found it folded on a table in Kohls for $19.99 one rainy, February day. An iron has never touched it, which has automatically improved my life. I hate to iron, and my wrinkle-free shirt hates to get wrinkled – the relationship works. I mean, it could spend the night wadded up in the dumpster, and after a gentle shake and a light dusting off – BAM – it’d look fresh from the dry cleaners. Remarkable! If I could get away with it, I’d wear it every single day. But since that would be dirty, I keep it handy throughout the week for emergencies, like when I’m running late for work. My advice for those who are down in the dumps: get yourself a wrinke-free shirt, and if you can, get it in black, so it hides stains – double bonus!

Categories: Fashion
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