Some of you know me very little and some of you know me not at all. Therefore, from time to time I like to pose and answer a question about myself to let you know why people always say, “Keep a blog’s distance away from that man”.
John, explain to me again, why it is you don’t have a winter jacket yet and we’re one full week through December.
As I’ve explained to a number of people, I had a jacket. A jacket with mojo. One that, admittedly, had a number of tears in the stitching and was missing a button – and there was something funky going on with the faux fur hood (it was a military parka) – but the thing had style. It oozed it.
Mostly, however, I was proud because I had paid a mere fourteen bucks for it. And I lorded that fact over my friend Cortez who had an identical coat for which he had paid upwards of … well, let’s say it was many more fourteen’s than that (about one per reindeer).
But, sadly, after two years, the Lifeforce began fading from the jacket. I knew that I could wear it for another year if I absolutely needed to – if a second ice age demanded it, say. But we – the jacket and I, that is -- both knew that to hold on would be to spit in the face of the Inevitable. Plus, I was starting to look like ass in it.
There were two directions I could go:
One was to a) hold on to the jacket until b) a suitable replacement could be found.
And two was to a) ditch the jacket and thus b) force myself to buy a new one.
I knew myself well enough that were I to follow option one, a suitable replacement would never be found for the simple reason that it would never be looked for. Every time the subject would be broached by one side of the brain, the other would retort, “But we have a jacket. What we don’t have is the new Uriah Heep box set.” And this back-and-forth would continue until about the third or fourth time my tattered jacket and I were offered money to appear as hobo No. 10 in a police lineup:
“That’s him, officer. No. 10.”“No. 10, would you step forward, please.”“But I’m not a hobo!”“Shut up, hobo.”
And thus the decision was made to chuck the jacket. So that I would –
This is really more of an answer than we needed.
Just shut up. I’m getting there.
And thus the decision was made to chuck the jacket and replace it with something as cool and as cheap, but not as cheap-looking.
That was the end of May, when I moved from Park Slope to Greenpoint in Brooklyn.
Since then, there have been committee reports and independent studies and the occasional surfing of the eBay whilst on the phone with family and friends – but no jacket ever has been produced to justify the original strategy.
And so now we must answer the question: Who’s to blame?
I assign failure in this episode to a lack of understanding by analysts of the deep disregard in which I hold shopping. Had they examined my underwear and sock drawer or taken into account the number of delivery menus on my coffee table, they would no doubt come to the conclusion that I'm a tough dog to move off the couch.
Furthermore, I see now that the alternate plan, wherein I would keep the jacket until a suitable replacement could be found, had the merit of the ass-jacket as ever-present reminder of its own assedness. Friends, family, and gawkers of all sort no doubt would voice critical opinions on the matter. And enough scared looks from enough drunk women would be the wax that sealed the envelope that sat on the log that was over the hole at the bottom of the sea.
Of course, with only my fall jacket to guard me against the harsh New York winter, I currently am in a scramble to find a cheap, winter jacket, with mojo and a decided lack of hobo-osity. Several sources are under advisement and eBay is always under watch. But if anyone in the land of Hot Johnny readers has a suggestion, please feel free to comment below.
And, while we’re on the subject -- and, just for curiosity’s sake -- what do you know about gloves, a hat, and winter boots, too?
Today’s lesson: The fall jacket I have needs a good cleaning, though. You can smell smoke from the Giuliani administration in that thing.
