Worst pickup line ever?

A few weeks ago MP and I were in New York City, and we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with some friends. You could actually spend an entire week there and still not see everything (we tried it), so if you only have two hours, you need to be very, very targeted in what you want to see. We went to the Arms and Armor section,whereupon our little group went its separate ways. I think that's because when a group of more than 3 people tries to stay together, it starts to feel like a field trip, and once you've graduated from middle school, that's just weird.

I went to the Japanese section. Seeing the daishō (both large and small swords, the the katana and the wakizashi, respectively) is interesting, but I like to look at the tsuba and menuki (the sword guards, which are removable, and the small decorative objects generally woven into the silk binding on the hilt). Generally speaking a separate set of craftsmen created these items, as opposed to the craftsmen who created the actual blades, and I could go on at great length about the artistry, etc. involved in all these pieces, but that's not what this post is about. But if you're interested, absolutely go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

These items are separate from the main collection for two reasons: because they're Asian (as opposed to European) and because, being Asian, they often have textile elements (the silk wrappings) which need to be under special low lighting conditions. Wandering the Asian collection is very private and quiet and... well, gloomy.

I was absolutely absorbed by a priceless set of swords, complete with a helmet, bearing a rabbit motif, when a voice next to me asked, "Have you ever thought about how many people they've killed?"

I turned to regard the questioner. No American man can tie his tie that perfectly unless he's military, and the dark blue (green? It's dark in that display) sweater and slacks with the stripe confirmed that.

My first thought was, "Dude, they've got bunnies all over them." But the Japanese don't see design elements in quite the same way, and after all, a razor-sharp blade with cherry-blossoms on it is still razor sharp.

My next thought was just exactly how to interpret the question. Because the truth is, I have thought about it. You can't look at those beautifully crafted blades gleaming in the dim light and not think about it. It's an object of art which has the sole purpose of dealing out death. Does such an object become imbued with some part of the lives it has taken, or the personality of all who have wielded it? What is it like to hold such a blade in your hand? Does it whisper words, a history, that only another swordsman could understand?

This man was military. But for time and culture, the swords behind the glass might have been his. He had trained for combat; had he trained for the sword? I don't see how you can serve in the Armed Forces and not think about mortality. Was he back from somewhere? Going somewhere?

More importantly, when a man and a woman are strangers alone in a darkened room and he asks her such a question, is it a vaguely creepy moment or the worst pickup line ever?

Saying something pithy about weapons as beautiful objects, I sidestepped the question and I sidestepped him. I didn't sense any particular harm to him, but I didn't want to find out. As a rule I don't strike up conversations, and especially not when the opening line is so fraught with creepy ambiguities. I give him credit, though, for saying what was on his mind. Some day I'd like to be able to ask random strangers for the answers to all those things I've always wanted to know — but that wasn't one of them.

Putting Pants on Your Truck

While running some errand this weekend with MP, we pulled up at a stoplight behind a large Ford truck. Something appeared to be swinging from somewhere behind the trailer hitch.

A scrotum. With testicles.

I said, “MP, am I really seeing this?”

“Classy…” he confirmed.

“Where do you buy something like that?”

“Trust me, you don’t want that catalog.”

But I did. Because I am curious. Because someone needs to explore these weird cultural topics without prejudice or vulgarity. But mostly because I cannot fathom why you would put testes on your truck.

It didn’t take me long to find a website that sold – nay, was proud to bring me “America’s favorite novelty testicles.” (My God – what was the ranking system?) Apparently, I need to get out more, because these have been popular for some time. They come in a variety of colors (blue is a favorite) and materials, including chrome, steel, and brass (how, um… “Clever”). Some of the models could even be lit up, because everything is way cooler with an LED in it. This site – which I am not going to link to because I want in no way to be karmically entwined with it – has quite a number of videos on it featuring David, who is happy to demonstrate all the colors available as well as how to affix your purchase to the vehicle of your choice - because yes, you can put these on your motorcycle, too.

I will spare you the reviews and customer “teste-monials.” One involved an unfortunate incident with an armadillo late at night that I am still trying to scrub from my brain. I find it sufficient to say that people who wish to exercise their freedom of speech by hanging novelty testicles from the back of their motor vehicles probably need to get out more.

But here’s the thing – There’s at least one Virginia lawmaker who also needs to get out more. He’s introduced a bill in the state legislature to get automotive novelty testicles banned, or declared a misdemeanor with fines up to $250. His reasoning is that he would not know how to explain them to his 5 year old granddaughter, and he would not want her to be embarrassed.

Why do adults fall apart when children ask questions about reproductive biology? It’s really easy people. Watch:

Child: What’s hanging on that truck?
Possible replies (choose one, depending on age of child: It’s somebody’s idea of a joke that really isn’t that funny.
It’s a grown up being silly.
It’s somebody making their truck look like a boy cow (yes I know, but let’s not give them too much to handle at once, okay?)
Child: Why would somebody do that?
Parent: Because they’re silly.

Watching David crow ecstatically that he is able to offer novelty testicles in such a bright array of colors, I think he would be the first one to agree: My God, yes – we are silly! And any kid old enough to know that they’re seeing injection-molded male private parts is going to be more embarrassed for the truck’s owner than for themselves.

Once upon a long ago, far away time, I worked in corporate America on the web team of a Fortune 500 company. One day an employee called, furious. Who did we think we were publishing such vulgar pictures on our website, and with children in them? We were supposed to stand for family values (which was news to me), so how could we put these picture up in front of the world?

I got him calmed down enough to send me a link so I could see what he looking at. He wasn’t even on the web. He was looking at a page on our intranet (which was not my department, but at that time nobody could talk or spell or knew the difference between the Internet and a company’s private intranet) from the recent family day at a farm. A group of maybe ten kids were standing in front of a huge draft horse while a woman talked about the horse and held his head. Other pictures showed the kids reaching out to pat the horse’s nose or shoulder.

It took me a while to realize he objected to the horse’s penis.

“I’m sorry, are you objecting to the horse’s penis?” I asked. (When dealing with customer service and complaints, one needs a clear understanding of the problem before a solution can be found.)

But I guess that was the wrong thing to say, because I never did get him calmed down after that, even when I promised to remove the pictures. I hung up on him while he was still muttering about “moral turpitude.”

Horses don’t wear pants. Neither do trucks – though I guess whether or not they should is up for debate in Virginia – but these facts aside, the truth is that one of these days, at a farm, a zoo, an art museum, you or your child will see a naked testicle. It is assured.

So take a deep breath, relax, and remember: everybody knows that naked women are beautiful, while naked men are hysterically funny.

File-Card Method

Happy New Year, Happy New Blog. I'm thinking about the history of Café Tor and recalling some of my more... interesting café experiences. Being the last stop between reality and invention, there are bound to be strange people wandering between the tables. For your enjoyment, here's a little tidbit that got slashed from my novel. Just remember, don't get too wrapped up between what is real and what is fiction; there comes a point when the distinction is immaterial.
*****

Sometimes sitting in the apartment is a comfort, but sometimes the voices of my stuff press in on me, and I can’t think. Café Tor, at least, offers escape. I suppose that’s why I wrote my Master’s thesis here.

I took notes using the tried and true File Card Method, as taught to me in English class my junior year of high school at Sacred Heart. Every time you find a valuable reference in one of your sources, you write it on a 3 x 5” note-card. When you compile enough notes, you take the file cards, sort them by subject matter, then order them into what, with complete sentences and transitional phrasing, becomes the rough draft of the thesis. Though I had a pretty good system of numbering, cross-referencing, and tracking the cards, you do this for six hours straight and you realize that coffee is not a luxury, it is an imperative. Nevertheless, the strategy of writing in Café Tor didn’t always work. Some days writing was too much, and I fell to looking at the other patrons, sipping my cappuccino and wondering who they were in their real lives.

The down side of doing mind-numbing things in a public place is that it’s… Well, it’s mind numbing. At times while writing my thesis, I became so involved in my work that I failed to notice who and what was happening around me – the kind of events that, if you were paying attention to them, cause you to drain your cappuccino immediately and seek shelter elsewhere.

Thus was the case when he walked in.

He made his presence known by materializing before me, leaning over my table and saying, “Excuse me…”

Deep into ferreting out references to Darwinian theory as expressed in Frank Norris’ Vandover and the Brute and fascinated how the advancing stages of syphilis plunged the main character into an animalistic regression akin to lycanthropy, the phrase, “Excuse me” uttered softly into my ear not only derailed my train of thought, but also sent it crashing down a steep cliff with all sixteen fully-laden cars of coal behind it. It took me a few seconds to recall where I was and to focus my eyes.

His face was stubbled, scarred by pockmarks as if his skin had been sandblasted. A dusty, well-worn, black leather jacket squeaked slightly as he held his hovering pose. Somewhere past thirty or thirty-five, he had all the appearances of benign friendliness. Then he smiled down at me and revealed long, simian, nicotine-stained teeth.

It was the teeth that caught my gaze, and I froze.

“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing you sitting here, and I was wondering… I’ve got some weed back in my truck. Would you like to come with me and smoke up?”

Despite the best of her intentions, there was no part of Nancy Regan’s “Just Say No to Drugs” campaign that prepared me for this moment in my life.

I did not stand up shouting with moral indignation that I was not that kind of girl. I did not slap him, or tell him to get lost, or scream. Abruptly pulled from my scholarly research and still reeling from the disorientation his question caused, I reacted reflexively with scholastic methodology and asked myself, “What are the probable consequences of going with this man to smoke dope?”

With scholarly precision, probable events unfolded. I saw myself becoming stoned, then sodomized in every conceivable way. I saw myself as a footnote in the crime pages of the campus paper. I saw myself plunged into an animalistic regression akin to lycanthropy caused by the advancing stages of syphilis.

I smiled vapidly and answered truthfully, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to study.”

He returned my smile politely, regretfully, as any gentleman would. “Oh. Well then. That’s okay.” And turning, he walked out the door.

I want to know the stories people can tell, but even I know when to stop.