ofREH

Recently, A friend of mine Chad, wrote a very interesting piece about brand loyalty.

It got me thinking about my own penchant for certain items and brands. Though in truth, brand is incidental. If I happen across a particular thing that I enjoy, or become fond of, I become very loyal to that item. So much so, in fact, that I’ve been known to buy that same item in bulk, if possible. Not an outrageous consideration, right? Well…perhaps just a tad outrageous. Outrageous because when I really like something, really am fond of it…I wont use it, wear it, or even take it out of it’s packaging (at least the surplus ones) If that isn’t outrageous enough…stay tuned.

My biggest fear is that if I covet an object, and use it, that I won’t be able to replace it once it’s worn or empty… That they will make no more.

Chad’s piece had me thinking on some of these things. My favorite things.

Moleskins are a good example. I’m a huge fan. I love how simple and utilitarian they are. I enjoy that they include such a rich history that is documented in every one, on an insert. Write in them?? Heavens no! I would only muddy up their perfection. They remain blank, and I continue to buy them.

French Army Button Fly Khaki’s. Years ago, I had a pair. One. I loved them. They were coarse, baggy, and over stitched. I wore them thread bare. I looked for replacements for decades. then…the internet and…mother-lode.One hundred and twenty pair. Khaki’s for life. Outrageous. Told you.

Still though, I can’t imagine having to break into the bottom trunks for replacements as the others wear thin. Even when I’m to old and feeble to put them on myself.

Some things, cannot be replaced. Usually in the form of gifts. These things are even more precious and see even less light of day because of the increased level of anxiety over their possible loss or destruction.

I’ve had many nice lighters over the years but these two are my favorites. Both were gifts. The closest is aNimrod Pipe Lighter. Given me by my Father. As a child, I had stolen another one he had and lost it. That he gave me this one, having that certain knowledge, makes it all the more precious. The farthest one, is a Ronson Lighter with the raised medallion of St Christopher. Given me by someone very special and in the vein of “She who cannot be named!,” will not be named.

Some items may not have been that significant at their beginning, only to have grown so after time. This Skull Cap was in this fashion. I wore it for quite some time before it’s retirement and it’s held up very well, considering.

The Muslim whom knitted it, did fine work. I wish he’d had two on him when I came across him.

Another cap of huge consequence, is this Woolen Flat Cap. Again, an irreplaceable item and gift.

A treasure from the most wonderful, proverbial English man of memory, my Grandad.

The artifact it adorns though…

An authentic Golliwogg. The only item I still have from my childhood. Those unfamiliar with it’s history might be interested to learn that for may years in Britain, the Robertson’s Marmalade Company offered coupons on the side of their labels that one could redeem for one of these stuffed figures. So it came to pass that my Brother and I both got one. I believe the offer was in affect till the late seventies, surprisingly enough.

Hardly an art aficionado or collector. My very blunt tastes direct me usually to Angels and Nudes.Fortunately for me, they are in abundance by sculpture, if not in life.

I have certain affinity for hidden things or hiding places. Hoping, even, someday to have a swinging bookcase wall to curtain a study. For now though, as space permits, these Fake Classic Book Box‘s will need suffice.

Hidden deep in those very classics, reside my lifetime supply of 

Of which, they no longer produce, By the by.

In the realm of shaving, it is this set of Crabtree & Evelyn Brush and Soap and Soap Dish. Nomad scent only. Merkur Futur Razor, as well. For home use. For away…

I shave…alot. I shave alot as I travel. I DO NOT use an electric razor. The very thought. These two brushes are favorites. The Crabtree & Evelyn Travel Brush is what I use currently and the one shown is an…extra. The other is a wonderful Self Contained, Stainless, Inscribed Travel Brush and was also a gift from unnamed sources.

There’s no place like home and to feel at home, I employ this Metal Penitentiary Compartmentalized Tray. Also inscribed. I got this gem from the Iraqis, after having been invited to dine in their chow hall. I made mention of the tray with some astonishment that I’d not seen one for some time and viola!

Put my cobbler in any other place than the triangle at the top and you’ll find my Titanium Sporkjutting from your neck. Promise.. I change wallet’s as I do lighters. Per occasion. I rarely use this Banana Republic Leather Billfold, but thrill (yes thrill) at the prospect.

Cardinal, Venal, or Mortal?

I distinctly recall my Father leaving for a Vietnam. When he did, I remember his carrying a Black Faux Leather with White Stitching Overnight Bag exactly like this one. Everyone in the Military carried them at the time. I couldn’t find one for years and still look, to no avail. This will not be used. Nor will the other. A brown version of the first.

Ahhh. Shoes. Perhaps my one gender confusion other than an insistence for high tread count when purchasing linen. These Earth Shoes (Yes, that correct, the very same parodied by Robin Williams when identifying a Lesbian) of course, have never been worn and still retain the cardboard form Keepers inside. A shame really, as the beauty in these shoes is how they wear. Not so much a shame to actually wear them though. Again, no longer made.

Pre Zappo’s Dr. Martin Wingtips I say Pre Zappo’s because before the internet they were hard as fuck to get my hands on. I do wear them but only for certain occasions and so am confident they will last.

Pre China Dr. Martins.I say pre China because until the last decade the factory was a mile from my Mothers home in England. Where, she would purchase “irregulars” for pocket change at the outlet attached to the factory and open to the public. Then sending them on to America to the hands of her grateful Son. These two pair are survivors of that era. I still happily wear the Steel Toe Three Hole Shoes but not the Baddass Blue Seven Hole Boots

Dont ask. I have a thing for Abby Cups. I have always had an eye for miniatures. At one time I have the huge one as well, big enough to put a small palm tree in. It broke. No longer made. Should have bought a dozen.

A doppio without a saucer is no doppio for me Even more so in this Cobalt Fiesta Ware Cup and Saucer

I dig Cobalt. I dig oil lamps as well. When I came across a crafts store that sold ceramic wicks that just fit in the top of bottles…I bought a few.

Mr. and Mrs. Bose Dock. Of course I have matching iPods! Or did…but gave the white one to another will not be named (You know who you are) Mr. Bose is lonely and looking for a replacement.

My proud and coveted, if limited, collection of End of Days, Apocalyptic DVD‘s. A personal favorite of reading and film.

I imagine everyone likes and wants to be appreciated

While I might prefer the more subtle approach, being as this is the only Certificate of Appreciation I’ve ever received and that it was from the greatest group of individuals…is humbling rather than grandiloquent.

Dad was a cop. Cops wear Badges. Dad wore his proudly and his Son is proud to inherit them. They wont make more. Not that could ever fit him anyway.

My retired Handmade Name Bracelet

Of gifts, it is those borne of hands that are most meaningful. This burgundy knitted scarf is just so. Given me by someone dear, I cannot wear it without considering the time and thought that is weaved throughout. It just happens to also look quite dashing with my black Cashmere coat.

The Pen.

Not any pen, mind you, but the very fountain, to the watershed, at the backside of my eyes.

A pen so gracious and subdued. Plain, and as such, elegant.

Writing very little in my own hand these days, it may have been this neglect that had her leave me for another. So like the residue of any lover of consequence, I am reminded that it was her that had my illegible hand made legible. A perfect fit. A consummate match. Only made more obvious by her absence. Reveling though, that I might still see her from time to time, in photographs such as this (thanks to the generosity and efforts of another) or in person. When, I’ll hope to mask the desolation but also wishing her well.

This reminds me of an espresso machine I once knew. Man, what a dame!

But I digress…

This Pen remains, and will remain, my absolute among favorites.

I simply remember my favorite things and then I don’t feel so bad.

Discovering trees, in the forest.

It’s the sound of wood burning, or the smell of it. Desert sand after a transient rain. It’s crisp cold air, driving with the windows down but the heat on. It’s most Women and a few Men. It’s my bed and her in it.

Very early mornings and mid-day napping. It’s likely the roar of ocean surf or Surf detergent. It’s also line dried 501′s, it’s her wearing them. Maybe Apple products, most photography, Secrets kept and secrets revealed. It’s the crack of pool balls.

Bunkbeds and it’s story tellers. Falling asleep last and waking up first. Black coffee and it’s companion, a cigarette. Perhaps it’s resounding vocal harmony or the harmony of spirit. It’s certainly meatloaf and mashy tay tay’s. It’s been fresh two lane blacktop, sharp curves, her curves. It’s abandoned buildings, ruins and the history they suggest. Packages in plain brown wrappers, tied with plain white string, postcards, the cello.

It’s still my Mom and yes, hers. It’s always Fall and the leaves and colours that reveal its coming. It’s been lightning and thunder, oaths and the written word. My first name and hopefully my last. The past and the present. It has been missing her.

'scuse me...could you pass me some paper?

So.
I wish they could.
If I had my way, everyone would serve in some capacity. The young, the old, infirm and healthy. Men, Women and transgender.
If I had my way, it would be compulsory. Want an higher education? Cool!…sign here. Like that heath care? Awesome!…drop and give me two…years.
I wouldn’t insist on the Military, there are many ways to give back to the society and Nation that has seen so thoroughly to you.
If Gays want to join the Military and join the ranks of so many that have fought for us, protected us, given for us, sacrificed. If they care to be enlisted with those other brave and honorable souls deployed domestically and abroad, apart from Families and Friends, living in less than optimum conditions. If they want to be Patriots, I say…let em!!
Ahhh…but there’s a problem isn’t there?
Women.

As far as I can tell, the greatest concern and the single barrier to Gays serving openly is what the Pentagon has tactfully dubbed “Morale concerns”.
I read this to be that in light of the communal habitat environment that is inherent to military life, straight Men, and some Women, are wary of co-habitating, showering and performing daily and essential ablutions, with another that might, possibly ~gasp~ peek.
I know better. I’ve been in many such situations. Military and…uh…confinement. Both were shared by openly gay and assuredly, closeted, Gay Men. I can’t recall ever feeling as if I were being cruised or spied and certainly never assaulted.
That either speaks to my lack of desirability or to the outright absurdity of the argument.
Yet…
That’s done nothing to have the showers and restrooms of Women flung open in welcome to me.
Yea. Fat chance.

The Military is restricted in the field to it’s resources. With the advent of Women in theater, the Military had to dramatically adjust and accommodate. Some would argue, at the cost of effectiveness. I don’t agree but if Gays are allowed to serve openly, The same accommodations would have to be considered. Or…all facilities must be co-ed. Right?
Ladies?
~crickets~
Exactly.
For the record, I’ve no interest in sharing washrooms with Women. I’ve worked in too many clubs and seen the disparity in waiting times for Men and Women’s restrooms, but I do think that I should be allowed the same discriminations as are afforded them.

Lo.
To whom will you turn, California?
In the end, who will recreate the miracle of fish and loaves, your standard of feeding the multitudes?
Having preserved the fish only to squander the loaves. No amber waves of grain, the tide having retreated. The bread, in basket, wilting in the Central Valley sun.
Having affected the grandest of immigration reform…a stalled economy.
What no fence or border could manage, you’ve produced.. To your chagrin.
Leaving in it’s wake, those who would not seek a proffered or tenable dream but instead suckle on a already drawn and unreplenished welfare.
Will you in turn abandon this host, seeking another, like just so many parasites? Many have. Fled to more accommodating pastures, having worn their own so thin, but only finding their insatiable appetites stunted by the cost to themselves and an inhospitable host.
There being no place like you. In the World. You would see it finished and the rest of us robbed. Having us bleed from the purchase of nails that were your votes.
Had you opened your eyes though, if you had ever looked beyond your own tiny hovels of political correctness, the need to assuage guilt, garner acceptance, pursue bumper-sticker ideology…you might have noticed the rest of the Country taking an alternate route.
The very Country you will hope see you rescued.
Had you noticed anyone else, you might well have seen the other path, one not as easily traversed, one with limits, consequences, and trials but one which leads to prosperity and independence.
As you’ve treated your own, so you might expect to be treated but your path has lead you to desolation.
Your vote will leave you lone.
Those you robbed of your stunning shorelines, your snow capped mountains and deep, clear volcanic lakes. Those denied your pristine golden valley’s and their countless roiling, twisting rivers. The theft of vast, harsh, yet fragile deserts, of lush and verdant landscapes of vine, will not, can not, be absolved.
By your vote, California, you’ve robbed me of these things. By your vote and those preceding, you’ve put California out of reach of those you, so loudly and with deliberate hauteur, professed union.
You will not be forgiven your trespasses. Debts to come due, cannot be assumed by those you have spurned with callous indifference. Those that plowed your fields and built your homes. We, in wanting to participate and enjoy your once plentiful and promised bounty, were held in scorn and derision. Succumbing to the burden of support for those who would do nothing for themselves, much less for anyone else.
So we flee, taking our pursuit of success, our businesses and ingenuity into the wilderness. So also, the support it provided.
You, left plagued, seeing the locust cloud, need follow but will be turned back. In the end, envious and hungry.

The fish.

Let them eat Smelt.

Wish in one hand...

So.

Some years ago in San Francisco, I remember a bold headline on a local Onion-esco circulation that read “The Homeless Can Eat Shit!!” Amused, my companions and I adopted it as our own anthem.

Not surprising really, if one had ever spent any time in the City during the early and mid Nineties. Where the homeless and panhandlers could seriously wear a fella out.
Never outwardly cruel or violent (some were) towards them, I certainly made no attempt to mask my scorn and NEVER gave spare change, offering instead a sneering “change comes from within, Brother”.

Some years later, having been exposed to a spattering of Eastern philosophies and religion, my outlook is modified.
I give.
But God help me, I hate to! Noticeably.
One part, “there but for the Grace…” Two parts, presuming on God’s Grace.
Fear and desire, Baby.
Obviously not out of any overwhelming benevolence,
Therein lies the riddle.
I answer it thus:
This ain’t Calcutta, Y’all. Where the poor are starving. Where beggars, lunatics and bovine are revered. This is Rome.
Here, like the days of yore in San Francisco, the beggars are professional. Usually from the Baltics, this brand is ruthless. Relentless. Here, alms is almost extortion. Protection money. If one turns a blind eye, one stands a chance of being followed and robbed at knife point or worse.
Still, not really why I’ve changed my ways.
I give…for me.
Why you need it, what you do with it, is not my concern.
Add it to your crack fund, buy some cheap grappa and drink yourself into a stupor so that you don’t wake at the freeze. One less mouth.
See…I care less now than I did when I refused to give. Then, I wouldn’t give out of some ridiculous notion that I was enabling bad habits.
Now…I do us both a favor. Win win.
Not very Christian of me, arguably.
One must adapt and this, my adaptation to an age old ritual. My concession. Take it or leave it.
You might understand my visible and audible scowl as I trickle euros into your proverbial outstretched hands.
It can wear a fella out.

So.
What little attention spared for school as a child, was hardly spent on mathematics. Never having learned long division, much less algebra. Keeping instead, my mind and eyes, fixed to reading.
Looking back, I wonder if having devoted so much to novels, worlds and lives of others, the tragedy and triumphs, easily removed from and just as easily condemned or heralded, instead of an abacus, has left me at the mercy of a common denominator. Myself.
Having failed at every instance and variety of personal relationship, I could wish for the fiction that would have me deny the true nature of numbers. After the dust settles from the inevitable subtraction, I remain.
This lesson, even so late, has no rebuttal. Like any other equation, the factors leading to an outcome, are finite. I remain the sum and final aggregate. The reason. The cause.
It doesn’t change a thing.
Knowing, as I do, my role, has no affect. Realizing my inability to pair, affords me no tools or insight to change it.
I’d been instructed that in some worlds, acceptance is a step. To what? Having accepted responsibility for this deficit, where is the total?

I own it but it’s to let.