1982. That says it all.
How young and dumb and tragically clueless and inexperienced could I possibly have been.
Entering adulthood. Like a frightened animal entering
a strange area but nevertheless tempted in the face of danger
only because of the large tasty slab of meat laying on the ground.
That was me, a frightened animal driven forward by the
temptation of meat, female meat. Basically new to grooming, new to creating an appetizing spectacle of myself, but I had
I flailed helplessly
behind bad hair
insignificant behavior…I call it that because to call it “bad” may mistakenly give the wrong impression for there was nothing “bad” at all about my behavior.
Just insignificant and un-noteworthy.
Just trying in all my impotent post-adolescent way to make a splash in the adult mating arena.
And that is why I showered myself with
the cologne, the cheap and smelly and turpentine-like cologne
which could free dried paint from your hands.
It came in a bottle the shape of a boot!!!!! In keeping with its Wild West cowboy image,
Stetson has modernized and change its image:
No more molded-glass boot-shaped bottles for Stetson, not like 1982 when image was less refined and less cynical and you
could get away with stupid shit like glass cowboy boots. How far we’ve come and how
easily we find it to
demean the past.
That boot was a nice conversation item, I realize it now, in 2009, when I do a google image search and find nothing resembling that shit-kicking boot from 1982 I shoulda held on to that!
But there I was babe, splashing that Stetson gasoline all over my freshly shaven face and I didn’t really take notice (nor apparently care) that I smelled like the dumping ground outside a cologne-manufacturing plant as I ran out the house in
all my fledgling wannabe testosteronized go-get-em aggression that Saturday morning back in 1982. Running to my weekend mailroom job at the Bank of America in West Covina, California.
To a job staffed entirely by 18-year-old (it seemed) miscreants looking to minimize the doomed impact of a weekend job on our pscyhe, working when we should be sleeping or drinking or smoking or fucking or cruising. The mailroom, all guys, while on the outside we had a floor, a staff of paper-pushing young girls who sat there all weekend day
punching adding machines, writing, copying, 1982, computers not quite as ubiquitous or a standard part
of working life.
All a bunch of cute and giggly 18-year-old girls. I wanted
them to smell my Stetson damnit!!!!
Notice me bitches I yelled with the toxic cloud I wore that day, for I didn’t just want the girls nearby to smell me, but also the girls who were a mile away
such was the deep pungency of my aroma.
And when as luck would have it I hopped into an elevator alone with about 3 or 4 of those girls and I saw 2 of them make “pewww” gestures with their hands as if to waft away a dire scent, I did not take it personally!
I was 18
and self-delusion is a great thing
for a young man looking to
make a Stetson splash.