In yesterday’s funnies I featured a meme which contained the following pic:
Am I the only guy who hates this “style” with a passion? It’s a modern one — it certainly doesn’t appear in any art or photographs before the 20th century — and I can only think that whoever first came up with it must have hated women, a lot.
Dalrymple talks about how everyone’s all concerned about self-esteem, but completely lacking in self-respect.
Not only do people fail to make the most of themselves, they seem determined to make the worst of themselves, as if they were setting a challenge to others not to remark on them or pass a judgment about the way they look.
Actually, it’s worse than that. People are so caught up in their self-esteem that they think it’s more important than self-respect — in other words, that how they feel about themselves is more important than how others feel about them, and missing the point that both are important.
T.D. talks about clothing:
In England, fat young women (of whom there are lamentably many) squeeze themselves into unbecomingly tight costumes, like toothpaste into a tube. It is as if they were intimidating you into not noticing how hideous they look.
Well, yes; it’s the classic mark of the narcissist. And that attitude is just as prevalent in these here United States.
Look, I understand all that: goths, hippies, biker gangs, Mods ‘n Rockers (yeah, I’m dating myself badly here) and all the so-called fashion trends that bedevil every generation.
All of them, however, have one thing in common: they denote that the wearers are societal misfits.
Since I passed the age of adolescence, where such nonsense was important, I’ve always had one or the other of these self-imposed restraints on myself whenever I leave the house: would my Mom / wife / grandfather be ashamed to be seen in public with me, dressed as I am?
If the answer is even marginally “yes”, I change my outfit.
And quite frankly, if there’s anyone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of me, that would be me. But I care, deeply, about what my close family and -friends think of me, and that reflects itself in many aspects of not only my dress but also in my behavior.
Alone with my male buddies, I’m a total lout. In polite company, I’m a different person altogether.
It is the habit of a lifetime, drilled into me by parents, boarding school, the army and wives; and frankly, I’m too old to change my ways now.
In a business setting, for example, I’m always well-dressed (suit, tie, polished shoes and all that) and likewise groomed (neat hair, trimmed beard, clean-shaven and nice-smelling).
So when I go to a company and see a bunch of men with scraggly beards, clothing which looks like they were slept in and with body odor to gag a vulture, I honestly don’t care about their self-esteem; I just find them repulsive — and no matter what, I can’t take them seriously.
Judgmental? You bet your fucking life I am.
What to do with “found money”? Read this little story, and then go beneath the fold for my take.
Seen SOTI, addressed to all the pro-Hamas campers on college campuses:
Of course, that’s assuming that all the pro-Hamas protesters were students — which they weren’t.
What does Monday mean, again? Oh yeah, it’s back to work time:
So to take the rough edges off the day:
And on that saintly note, some not-very-saintly totty:
Now off to work you go. Just don’t forget your clothes:
A while ago I stumbled onto a website that featured a series of early Playboy Magazine stuff, and looking at it, I couldn’t but wonder at how innocent it all was.
I know, calling Playboy “innocent” creates something of a cognitive dissonance in the typical reader, because the whole “Playboy” ethos was anything but that in the 1950s (and even -60s). At the time, of course, it was disturbing, outrageous, even pornographic to the eyes of the time. I mean, inviting a Black person (Sammy Davis Jr.) to perform on Hefner’s TV show, and treating him like an actual person instead of some second-class citizen — okay, nigger, to use a common term for his type back then. That, and Hef’s love of avant-garde jazz (“nigger”) music… I mean, it was just terrible.
But looking back at Playboy today, I find myself yearning for that era, because it really was an innocent time — although nowadays it’s easy to see that its permissiveness was, just as gloomily foretold, very much the thin end of the licentiousness wedge.
Compare, if you will, a typical Playboy cartoon of that era:
…with its more vulgar counterpart from the vile Larry Flynt’s Hustler:
(…which, by the way, I find screamingly funny, but that’s just me.)
Anyway, I thought I’d just use all the above as an excuse to show a few of those Playboy cartoons, and some of their models too. Enjoy.