Letter to Tobias

My Dear Tobias,

I would begin this missive inquiring as to the state of your lumbago, but as you know I have a horror of encouraging hypochondriatic tendencies in others at any level, so I will instead wish you well and, as the merest side note, inquire as to whether you know of a reliable remedy for red toe spots? They may not itch at present, but I am sure it will develop into something quite serious.

 You were right, of course, to refer your nephew to me regarding Life Advice. Knowing your penchant for spending time with books over the type of society that spills coffee on one’s rugs, I was not surprised when you confessed to feeling less than up for the task of informing his life decisions. I need hardly mention your sister and his mother, Gertrude, has always struck me as a person inspiring about as much trust as a confidant in one’s private affairs as a wild tusked pig (no reflection, of course, on her personal appearance). I was happy, therefore, to step in with any possible assistance, and am writing you today to summarize my response to the letter I received from young Phillip only last week.     

As you are probably aware, your nephew’s question related to the development of personhood that occurs as a gentleman begins his college career, a step into the adult world for which many young people are underprepared. He wondered—rightly—how to become the sort of fellow he envisions in his head—what does one do to become a certain way? And why do other fellows turn out the way they do? Following, then, is the essence of my response:

I told him the key sits within a central area of life—his friends. Choose the friends, I said, that exemplify what it is you want to be. Proverbs 12:26 points out rather clearly: “The righteous should choose his friends carefully, for the way of the wicked leads them astray.” One will become as one’s friends already are—this is an unchanging life law. Young Phillips, I said, what do you want to be? Natty? Find the gentlemen that are unashamed of the daily collared shirt, quiet slacks, and tasteful shoes, and then stick to them like flypaper. Kind? Frolic over to the nearest soup kitchen and swap cards with the first fellow lending a hand to the ladle. Smart? Drag a stack of Russian authors and biology textbooks to the nearest library, and note who gives you a recommendation for further recreational reading. Stupid? Wear white socks and stand in the decorative goldfish pond while preparing to use an electric hair dryer—those with similar tendencies will flock around. Poor? Spend time with the fellows who introduce themselves and then ask for a spot of cash; an alternative would be to make friends with the ladies. Known for wearing colorful, striking socks? Grab a few available chumps and head en masse to buy several pairs and put them on—forewarned, of course, that this may not spark wide-ranging admiration. Popular? Pass out sandwiches to the college’s social Who’s Who members, and shine the shoes of the student body president when he pauses by the street pickle vendor.

The principle stressed, of course, is that one will not develop climbing skills by spending time with cows—one merely learns the value of reprocessing foods and operating four personal digestive zones. Just because one finds oneself among the bovine does not mean one must stick around, for drifting along passively will make one just as they are. Take action, young Phillips (I said), by first deciding what sort of man you want to be, and then spend your time with the people who are already being thing. As an extra Life Tip, I also mentioned that he should by no means befriend any student who insists against all advice on wearing white socks to a formal event—such a man is a hopeless case who will give nothing but a negative influence.

As always, old chum, I send this with my sincerest regards. On further thought, may I request that you use this letter as your evening fire-starter after perusing its contents—knowing Gertrude I realize the perilous nature of my position should she spot the earlier reference to herself, and I would sleep more easily if this risk were duly abated. 

Am popping off to research toe remedies. Scratch Pongo behind the ear for me.

Yours, &c.,

Joe Post

Memorandum

To: All Men

Subject: Independence Day Propriety

Gentlemen,

Reflecting on the ways in which we wish our great country its 237th Many Happy Returns of the Day, I realized that our great writers are already waxing eloquent on “Liberty vs. Privilege,” “Our Country’s Birth and Subsequent Baby Pictures,” and “Another Prediction of Our Country’s Crashing Future.” Few, I felt, would touch on other applicable topics: “Can Men Bring Fancy Jell-O to Potlucks?” “Firecracker Tips for Bearded Men,” “Patriotic Tie Etiquette.” It is in hopes of remedying this oversight, therefore, that I set pen to paper, sharing a few humble lines given in reply to gentlemen’s questions published in the esteemed “Dear Augustus” advice column, for which I had the privilege of covering during a period of lymph node irritation besetting the usual author. Below, then, one may find advice to guide the Correct Gentleman through this year’s Independence Day festivities.

Gentlemen, I present my humble counsel, wishing you a Happy Independence Day while remaining

Yours, &c.,

Joe Post

Dear Augustus:

My well-intentioned cousin’s friend invited me to their annual 4th of July potluck-style barbeque, and for some reason I volunteered to bring a dessert. I don’t cook–I open cans of bean chili for dinner and follow that up with packaged Pop Tarts. Flipping through the dentist office’s copy of Better Homes & Gardens the other day, I saw an awesome recipe that inspired me to do something in the kitchen: a Jell-O American flag dessert! You know, the kind that involves massive amounts of Cool Whip and red and blue berries. I was about to tear the recipe out when I asked myself, Is this wise? Is this manly? I haven’t seen other dudes bring fancy desserts to potlucks–what should I do?

Sincerely,

Jell-O John

Dear Jell-O John,

May I first congratulate you on going to the dentist’s, and next on entering into the true American spirit of volunteerism–both worthy pursuits. Regarding your concern on the dessert dilemma: it is well-founded. Follow your intuition on this one. Consider, what does it tell the fellow guests of the gala about your interests and abilities? Is this, they would ask, a man who spends his time playing with Jell-O and Cool Whip and strawberries? Do his many talents lie within the realm of decorative desserts? Rather, I would suggest that you keep the ladies guessing and slide under the mocking men radar. Bring a platter of Pop Tarts, edged tastefully with parsley sprigs.

Best,

“Augustus”

Dear Augustus:

I’m in a pickle. My girlfriend’s family asked me to join them for their Independence Day get-together, which was nice of them. My girlfriend hinted, though, that I will be expected to light the firecrackers for the kiddos attending, which is not nice of them. I have a beard. Not usually a problem, but I’ve been waking up from nightmares of a flaming face and sneering snotty children laughing sardonically at my ineptitude. I don’t want my girlfriend to drop me like a hot potato just because I can’t light a stupid firecracker without lighting my beard–should I fake a flu?

Sincerely,

Fiery Fred

Dear Fiery Fred,

Save the flu for an emergency. I happen to be acquainted with my aunt’s doctor’s nephew, a fine gentleman who also happens to have both a beard and the questionable privilege of lighting the annual fireworks. He graciously shared a few face-saving tips with me: 1) Douse your beard with liquid before pulling out a match to ensure primary beard safety. This is best done subtly–perhaps pretend to save a child in the nearby pool or sneeze dramatically into a large iced punch bowl. 2) Buy the foot-long matches available in dollar stores. To disguise the fact that you are bringing foot-long matches for fear of close flames, also purchase an amateur Uncle Sam clown kit for the occasion. This will allow you to further protect your face with a mask and, should you actually and regrettably catch fire, your claim that the wild dancing and leaping was part of the show will be believed. 3) When the children and dusk begin gathering for the show, lock yourself in the bathroom for a healthy 30 minutes. By then, some other poor sap will be dragged into doing the honors.

Best Luck,

“Augustus”

Dear Augustus:     

I have amassed quite the set of ties over the years, and more recently a flashy patriotic piece has joined the collection, the kind that sparkles and plays “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” when squeezed. My aunt invited me to her annual formal evening Independence Day event, and I happen to know that a girl I am anxious to meet will also be there. Should I wear the tie to stand out and impress her?

Sincerely,

Glitter Glen

Dear, er, “Glitter Glen,”

I must assume the monstrosity masquerading as a “tie” was a gift from either your aunt or the young lady in question, or you would never have dreamed of wearing such a piece to a formal affair. If this is so and politics are an element of the equation, then bring up the outrageous tie casually in conversation with the guilty party, assuring her that you would have worn it with pleasure had you not already selected the quiet gray masterpiece adorning your front in respect to the formality of the event. If you are determined to stand out in your attire for the sake of gaining the young lady’s glances, a small oxblood bowtie would lie within reason, with the understanding that your suit be of quietly conservative persuasion. I would suggest, however, that you chiefly rely on using glittering conversation and amusing anecdotes to garner her affections. Save the tie for a casual barbeque or, even better, burn it.

Cheers,

“Augustus”

Letter to Tobias

My Dear Tobias,

            There are times in life when one stands at an impasse—equilibrium seems sadly attained, the light of inspiration fails to dawn. The greatest tragedy, of course, is that the post is so very slow, and by the time this missive reaches you I will have been compelled by the force of time alone to make a decision. Nevertheless, my consolation lies in writing you, and perchance the best path may open clearly to me as I pour out the woes tied to this subject of utmost importance.

            I allude, my friend, to ties.

            I have, you see, two ties equal in the resplendence required for the upcoming Easter morning service—one, a multicolored horizontal stripe highlighting warm shades of yellow and green; the second, a tasteful paisley of predominantly bold rose hue (you recognize this, surely, as your Aunt Bertha’s excellent gift presented on my birthday last). I need not mention they are both high on the natty scale and, anticipating your first questions, reassure you that the setting for such splendor consists of light blue shirt and suit of quiet grey. You readily note my quandary, then: the one occasion per year in which the tastefully bold and colorful is accepted on men—nay, expected!—is the Easter morning service. I find myself of a sudden the sad victim of the same system to which I lend my usual support, for the system that smiles on grey blazers and frowns on white socks dictates that I wear on any occasion but one tie. I must somehow, then, choose one of these beauties for the weekend and send the other on a yearlong sojourn in my closet.   

            You will think me frivolous.

            But is it mere frivolity, sir, that drives the fairer sex in hordes to hunt the depths of their wardrobes for the most celebratory garment in floral motif? Is it for frivolity’s sake the curls, the hats, the flower arrangements and special music all make their glorious appearance Easter Sunday? I submit that the time and care behind these various arrangements are used thus to honor and celebrate the greatest event in all history, and frankly I do not see why we men should not also reflectively prepare ourselves to honor and celebrate.

            Yes, my dear fellow, this preparation must consist of much more than a mere tie, but perhaps it ought to begin here. I personally think our culture has damaged our ability to properly honor by downplaying the need for care and ceremony. A man may preserve his comfort by casting on the first relatively wrinkle-free shirt to touch his fingers and dash off to church, just as he may heat and eat the closest can of food on the shelf for dinner. But would he feed that can to the Queen of England, and wear that shirt for their dinner date? Then what makes such lack of care sufficient preparation for an Easter service honoring the King of kings?  

            One must reflect, Tobias, on what Easter means for us. A Man, the Man, coming as the second Adam, was faced with a temptation involving, interestingly enough, another set of trees. Offered a shortcut instead of an apple, He conquered the tempter, and took on Himself through obedience the very curse brought about through man’s disobedience. “Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree…” (Gal. 3:13) “[He] bore our sins in His own body on the tree…” (1 Pet. 2:24) Adam gave in to the fruit of the tree of temptation and was refused the tree of life. Christ refused the fruit of the tree of temptation and became our Tree of Life. In Christ we are welcomed back into the garden of fellowship from which mankind was banished so long ago, for “He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.” (2 Cor. 5:21). The death that rocked the foundation of the world tore open the Way to God.

            Then He arose.

            Death was broken.

            We are free.

            So you see, most excellent Tobias, why I greet most earnestly this time of celebration. Easter—or, more appropriately, Resurrection Day—reminds me that I am a free man. Thus we prepare our hearts even as we take time to ponder our attire.

            And I was right—pouring into your ear has made clear the way I should go. Please let your Aunt Bertha know that she is, as usual, right; I will think fondly of her while marching out in full paisley tie on the morrow.

            Happy Resurrection Day, old fellow. My love to Pongo.

            Yours, &c.,

            Joe Post

 

Memorandum

To: All Men

Subject: The Christmas Gift Gaffe

Fellow Males,

I have kept my eye on the clock, and believe I may officially state that it is Too Late. For, you may ask, what? And yet you know, we all know, what: too late to do anything about the fact that, mere hours or even minutes ago, you presented your Significant Female with the Wrong Gift. She saw it under the tree. She squealed, she Oh Really, You Shouldn’t Have!-ed. She tore open that package wrapped with care and opened her mouth to gasp in delight.

She froze. That gasp of delight became a surprised Oh! She coughed. She sniffed. Really. You Shouldn’t Have. She raised the eyebrow. It dawned on you slowly that the Jiffy Insta-Juiceless Jerky Maker with Bonus Broccoli Boiler was a Bad Idea, and you shrank to the size of an empty Scotch tape roll.

Fortunately, you will only commit this blunder once, maybe twice, in your life, unless, of course, you are a particularly Thickheaded Chump. The once usually occurs within the first few Christmases with your S.F. The second will only occur if you fall prey to your S.F.’s suggestion that you do a “No Christmas Presents This Year.” (Know here and now that she does not mean it; even when she protests that she does mean it, she does not mean it.) If you have committed the former, or are tempted to fall prey to the latter, or even if you are a particularly Thickheaded Chump, read on. Following is a simple list of rules for selecting your S.F.’s gift for next year, since this year you are—face it like a man—Toast.

5 Gifts to Never, Ever Buy Your Significant Female:

1) Anything Useful. If it looks even mildly Useful, beat it off with a stick. Helpful examples include: power tools, vacuum cleaners, hand tools, kitchen implements, firewood, infomercial products, new toolboxes, toasters, band saws, etc.

2) Anything in Cheap Mass Quantities. She only wants one, maybe two. Not fifty. And definitely not Cheap. Ex: Super Special 12-pack of Sun Hats, Buy 30 Pairs of Wool Socks & Get 31^st Pair Free, 10 Faux Bear Rugs For The Price of 3, etc.

3) Anything related to her Personal Appearance. Only her Gal Pals are allowed in that arena. What I mean is this: you wish to communicate, I am giving you a tanning booth certificate because you said you wanted to try a tanning booth. She hears, You are giving me this tanning booth certificate because you think I am pale, and probably fat. You think, I am giving you this exercise video set because you said it sounded like fun. She thinks, You think I am lazy, possibly not exciting, and probably fat. You think, I am giving you this bathroom scale because yours is broken, and I forgot to read Rule #1. She thinks…Well, give this one a try and you will find out pretty quickly what she thinks.

4) Vacuum cleaners. Toasters. Power Tools. Do not buy these.

5) Anything your Best Bud advises you to buy. If he has already survived the aforementioned Gift Gaffe, trust me—he will not offer advice of any kind, at least not for free.

5 Gifts to Always Buy Your Significant Female:

1) Anything Sparkly. If it glitters, good. If it sparkles, swell. Helpful examples include: jewelry, sparkly shoes in the right size, jewelry, sparkly clothes in the right size, jewelry, diamonds, jewelry.

2) Anything about which she says, clearly and slowly while looking at you in the eye, “Wow, I would sure love to receive this for Christmas!” This, gentlemen, is that elusive feminine favorite known as a Hint.

3) Anything related to Exotic and Cultured Adventurous Lifestyles. Ex: tickets to concerts, tickets to the tropics, Top-Brand Travel or Hiking or Camping Gear, a talking parrot, jewelry that sparkles, a boat.

4) Sparkly Jewelry.

5) Anything that her sister or Gal Pal tells you—clearly and slowly while writing it down in bold letters in your day timer before waving said day timer in your face—that your S.F. would like.

Gentlemen, I submit my humble advice, wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas while remaining

Yours, &c.,

Joe Post

 

Chapter 2: Proper Behavior for Eating Out

Eating Out and Reasons For So Doing

Of all the formidable tasks facing the modern man, eating out is, perhaps, the most terrifying. Few undertakings strike more fear into a man’s heart than that of bringing a female to dine in a public place. However, despite its petrifying appearance, eating out can prove to be a rewarding task if done with prudence, punctuality, and propriety. “But why,” many men ask as they hide their wallets under the couch, “eat out at all? Expenses aside, it is tricky, uncomfortable, and potentially embarrassing.” Although they are quite right, there are many indisputable reasons supporting the necessity of eating out with a female, most of which I will not tell you because, frankly, I do not know what they are.

An important reason one ought to eat out has to do with communication. Many couples choose to eat out to express something to each other, such as “I love you,” or “I appreciate you,” or “Let’s break up.” There are also countless other reasons that are perhaps less sentimental, but are, nevertheless, extremely valid:  “Our hotel has a dining room,” “We have to meet these people for dinner,” or “I don’t know how to cook.” Of course, there are times when your Significant Female merely wants to waste money for the fun of it, but one must never try to catch when this is occurring, as she will, without fail, have an irrefutably good excuse veiling any true motives. Consider the intelligent elephant confronting the flea, and let us leave the image merely observing that your S.F. is, of the two, not the flea.       

An important tip which every Informed Gentleman, as opposed to the Ignorant Chump, knows: Keep in mind that when it comes to eating out, women will always consider this to be an Occasion, be it Birthday, Anniversary, or Official Date Night. If there is no obvious occasion, they will make one up, such as “The Study for the Nuclear Physics Mid-Term in Three Weeks Lunch,” “National Pickled Beets Day Brunch,” “Three-Month Anniversary of Our Fourth Date Dinner,” or “I Can’t Even Remember the Last Time We Ate Out.” One must never ridicule one’s companion’s choice of occasion, unless, of course, one was duped into taking Attila the Hun’s only direct female descendant on a blind date dinner and one wishes therefore to escape quickly and permanently from said companion. If that is the case, ridicule away, and best of luck. Otherwise, mock not the lady’s idea. This leads to another vital point. The most important thing that men must know about eating out is that everything is about HER. Regardless of the occasion, even if the occasion is about You, it is not really about You, it is really about Her. Your job is not to be the Black Hole of attention, but to provide the pocketbook, companionship, and compliments. Period.

Following soon will be the aforementioned three main areas—prudence, punctuality, propriety—which, if polished to perfection, will enable you to eat out in a mannerly way. Stand; square those shoulders and raise that eyebrow. Take the wallet out of the couch. With study, practice, and a good support group, you will easily be able to use these guidelines to master the art of eating out.

Proper Attire for All Occasions, Part V

Casual Attire

Finally, we arrive at that favorite category of dressing for males—the casual attire. This clothing choice sees man in his most natural state, disregarding the beloved Birthday Suit. Due to the variety in men’s tastes—or, more often, lack thereof—casual clothing is virtually impossible to summarize, for it may include anything from Hawaiian shirts and checkered shorts to old jeans to the favorite shirt that you have been together with for 20 years. A good rule of thumb: if something covers your top (sometimes optional) and something else covers your lower half (never optional), you are probably fine. However, generally avoid the following like the plague: small jogging shorts, spandex in any form, shirts that expose the tum, pants that are—to put it delicately—too large, European swimming apparel, fuchsia, net shirts, anything you sometimes mistake for a cleaning rag, white-rimmed sunglasses, shirts with a deep ‘V’ (TMCH—Too Much Chest Hair), shirts adorned with Writing That Is Stupid, and carpenter kilts (unless, of course, you are Scottish. Otherwise, when people ask, “Why?” what will you say? Consider.). Please note that all of the above is optional if you aspire to be a hermit in the Appalachians.   

Shoes, in some circumstances, are optional. (Tip: be aware that, should you choose “optional” for shirt and shoes when going to a public store, you default to “optional” for service.) At most casual-appropriate occasions, all types and colors are fair game. The casual category allows for ample tennis-shoe usage, along with the previously forbidden White Socks. Be aware, however, that one’s shoes continue to speak volumes about one’s personal tastes and, although one is being casual, use the following tips to avoid looking like the Ignorant Chump: 1) Do not wear black socks with white shoes. 2) Do not wear white socks with black shoes. 3) Do not wear “Hello Kitty” socks or toe socks, ever. 4) Do not wear socks with sandals, unless you are over 80, in which case leniency is allowed. 5) If people tend to shudder when they note your footwear, check in with a reliable female and do as told.     

Along with shoes, one may indulge in any form of hat for truly casual wear—from boat hats to beanies to the beloved baseball caps. Colors need not necessarily coordinate with anything else. As a mark of a taste and respect, continue to remove headwear when entering a building (note that tunnels are not included).

Essential Tip for Men Seeking an S.F.: When you begin demonstrating interest in a female, do not, repeat, DO NOT bring out your most casual clothing in the earlier stages of your relationship. Wait until you are at least an Official Item and, in some cases, until you have mailed the white-and-lavender wedding invitations before pulling out your favorite tee. Females can be rather delicate creatures, and only time will prepare them to see you in your Natural Clothing Choices.

Essential Tip for Married Men: Any time you bring out the most casual and your lady gasps, raising the eyebrow and shaking her head firmly, quickly shove the item back into the depths, pull out a new clothing item, and point out the lovely weather. Any resistance at this time will jeopardize the beloved item’s survival—at that point, what will run through your lady’s head is the It Is Time To Destroy And Replace That Thing, and you may even end up the victim of a spontaneous shopping trip.    

Occasions for the truly casual wear? Anywhere, of course, that your S.F. lets you get away with it. Men without an S.F.: See Parts II-IV, “Occasions.” Anything else is fair game.

Letter to Tobias

My Dear Tobias,

     You will be surprised, I know, receiving this letter so soon after my visit. You will sit in that tattered leather chair, wondering, has he so few friends? Does his list of Best and Brightest in Times of Need extend, beyond this name, not an iota? Without Tobias, does he trot about as did that famed Hans of the Star Wars epic—solo? Allay your fears, old chump, and extend the eager ear. I am writing you because a certain brain wave hit my cerebral cortex this morning, leaving my better pieces scattered amongst the sand and shells and seaweed blobs in various stages of decomposition.

     I have decided to write you a political opinion.

     I vowed this is something I would never do. Perhaps it was the urge to leave one’s friends’ opinions between their selves and the newspapers they choose to absorb with a morning brew. Perhaps it was the discovery that your politics extend to donning an Uncle Sam outfit for the parade on the annual 4^th, and that a presidential candidate (or any candidate, for that matter) wins your vote by winning a coin toss on your library rug the day before ballots are due. Needless to say, my Finer Senses sat around moping and generally refusing sustenance when I discovered this case of carelessness in Tobias. What a scandal.

     And then it hit me (the aforementioned brain wave, I mean). How perfect. You, caring not a wink about matters professing to be political in nature, are the ideal recipient of my political vents, the menacing verbal fist and raised eyebrow, if you will. It will be impossible to offend you, and later you may use the stationary to wrap Pongo’s lunch meats. In advance, I thank you.

     Here, then, is my complaint: My impression was that I had graduated from high school decades ago, yet here I am, along with millions of other Americans, participating yet again this year in a ritual that has become, at best, another prom king selection and, at worst, a series of “Survivor” reruns. Only this time, the contest runs at the national level, and the prize is the Presidency of our United States. Four years in luxury apartments! Bring the family! Try your hand at ruling the world, and while you’re at it, meet the Queen of England! In short, the process for choosing the next Leader of the People has devolved into an extended, expensive, popularity contest. Consider this year’s top contenders.

     On one side, we have a man who has achieved the status of international Rock Star, although many say this arises through no particular fault of his own, of course. On the other is a man whose chief claim to fame, other than surviving the Olympics and not being the Rock Star, is that he could probably purchase a few of the smaller states for summer homes, should he be so inclined. One is selling to movie stars high-end clothing, leather handbags, and doggie sweaters, all with self-promoting logos. The other is bopping around with other People Who Could Buy Several Small States If They Were So Inclined, everyone happily passing around wads of cash as if they were baseball trading cards. Neither candidate shows a fondness for taking too strong a stance on anything; both are at each other’s throat. Popularity is reflected in cash flow and is the focus of the campaigns, and important issues, such as a candidate’s character, are thrust out of sight. To those who would say, But the entire campaign is focused on candidates’ characters! Yes, it is—the other’s person’s character. Truly, the only action lacking nobility more than digging up old mud to smear on the name of one’s opponent is that of using other people’s money to fund what amounts to a personal feud. And we, the darling, volatile public, blithely sway one direction, and then another, playing the game of Let’s See Which One We Can Egg On the Furthest.

     The tendency is to blame the candidates themselves, pushing the responsibility from our more worthy Selves onto scapegoat politicians who merely, let us be honest, have learned to work a system of our own design (or, perhaps, the result of our losing sight of the design and making it up as we go along). One must remember that the modern professional politician, like our more beloved amphibians, undergoes an impressive transformation over time, beginning life as the Immature Idealist and degenerating, eventually, into the Mastermind Manipulator. In the early days, leaders were chosen based on qualities such as integrity, wisdom, and understanding of the times, qualities which we now prefer to see on an application form than in practical implementation. The moment We the People chose to turn a blind eye to moral failings in our leaders was the moment we turned aside toward the popularity model for candidacy.

     Was the freedom to depreciate morally, should we so choose, that for which our forefathers fought? The fact is that somewhere between the decline of “morality” as a socially-supported concept and the rise of “American Idol” and “Dancing with the Stars” we have developed into a nation with small children who select Famous Person over President as the hobby-of-choice for growing up. We do not want to have strong character; we want to win. We want to be popular, famous, and be friends with those who are. So, we go and buy a shirt and cast a vote to see whose star can keep from being eliminated on Election Day.

     I would rattle on, but I just noticed the time, chappie, and must dash to don my own Uncle Sam hat, as I’m sure you are doing at this moment. Did I mention that I won the local “Most Dapper Uncle Sam” contest? I get to walk in the parade and have my picture taken with the mayor. You really ought to have seen my campaign buttons—gave me quite the step above the other fellows. I’ll send you one later.

     Happy Independence Day, old man. Take it easy on the Jello-O.

     Yours, &c.,

     Joe Post

Letter to Tobias

My Dear Tobias,

Your letter inquiring as to my whereabouts has not, as you may have imagined, gone unnoticed. No, it reposed on my desk, a languid beacon of hope for Good Times Returning. Where, you rightly queried, have I been? My dear fellow, really! If I were to tell you I would, as a kind friend used to say, have to kill you. At the time I took the gentle hint and continued by asking for his strategies for the successful cultivation of nasturtiums, the evidence for which gracefully enfolded the post behind his head. Do likewise, being so good as the leave the matter alone, and I will not contradict your imagining that I have been hiding from mobs of beautiful women clamoring for my attention. What can I say if that is what you choose to think.  

Truly, old friend, what awakened my alarm enough to attach pen to paper was an article that smacked in the face as I attempted to enjoy my morning news with coffee. I nearly spilled the precious drink, if that speaks anything. “Police Pepper Spray Rowdy Shoe Shoppers in Seattle,” is the headline causing chaos. Fighting! Incarceration! How horrible, I thought to myself, if Tobias has been placed in such a compromising position! His age, his dignity! His love of warm Danish at eleven o’clock with Earl Grey minus sugar plus cream! All this, pitted against a pretentious pair of Air Jordans? Surely my breath failed me and my knees emulated the quivering reserved for Christmas puddings. Would he, I asked myself, have gone This Far? Is it possible that your footwear fetish could have become so colossal that it decrees you decorum, controls your conscience, rules your reason?

No, whispered the Voice of Reason, he hates crowds.

True. And, above all, he is a gentleman! And no gentleman would ever be up at four in the morning! At least, for a pair of overpriced sports shoes that can only be acceptably worn on a basketball court. A sale on Allen Edmonds Penny Loafers, maybe. But never for footwear unable be worn to at least three different types of occasions. We gentlemen have, after all, our Limits.

But really, old boy, this Christmas shopping-meets-pepper spray craze is getting out of hand. Does this, one asks, follow along the lines of the Truth of Christmas? (Which is, I was informed the other day, a pickle. No, no, not an enigma—the vinegarized crunch in your sandwich variety. It had something to do about a pickle hanging in one’s tree, something, something, the first duck to find it gets something, something, something. Hmm. Why a pickle? And does it drip on the packages? It is, of course, my personal opinion that when someone determined that pieces of the Lord’s Creation should be soaked in vinegar for extended periods of time, the purpose of this procedure was to provide edible enjoyment, not tree embellishments. Do correct me if I am wrong.) I am afraid, dear fellow, that I have trouble sympathizing with the throngs quarreling around the “true meaning” of Christmas—for goodness’ sakes, it’s a birthday, The Birthday, after all! What is there to debate? Celebrate and give thanks, for the Child is born—Immanuel!

Ah, I see that the post is almost come, so I will conclude my statements and eagerly await your reply confirming that my aforementioned fears were misplaced. I must say, it is good to be back in communication with the world.

Give your Aunt Bertha my sincerest thanks for the meatloaf—I am finding it most useful, as my previous doorstop was surreptitiously consumed by a visiting vegetarian. I am enclosing, along with the article link that gave me such cause for pause, a pinch of catnip to lighten Pongo’s holiday.          

I toast your health and prosperity. Merry Christmas.

            Yours, &c.,

            Joe Post

http://news.yahoo.com/police-pepper-spray-rowdy-shoe-shoppers-seattle-134554232.html

 

 

Memorandum

To: All Men

Subject: Where Have the Good Men Gone?

Fellow Males,

A rebuke has come to my attention that demands action, namely, a shame-driven tearing out of beard hairs and retreating to dark man hovels for the nursing of wounds. Or maybe we can take it like we should have in the first place—like Men.

Then again, we no longer seem to know how to do so.

I do not presume to include all males as responsible for this printed Face-Slap; however, based on personal and chagrined observation, I believe Ms. Hymowitz’s concerns are well-founded and correct.

Yes, women may be able to chant the Equality and Independence mantra standing on their heads—how many women have scorned the held door, and thereby Hurt Our Feelings? But I ask you, brothers, does this excuse our actions (or, rather, inactions)? Should we not rather rise to the occasion and, like water on the proverbial duck, let feminist rain roll off the gentleman’s back? Or should we sulk and slink back to our post-adolescent sandboxes?

I urge your immediate consideration of this matter, and remain

Yours, &c.,

Joe Post

The List

10 New Year Resolutions

Women seem to require some sort of List on which I Resolve to Do Things. I asked if I was expected to have it notarized, but they seem satisfied if I merely determine to achieve Self-Care (whatever that may be) and eat nasty White Soy Cheese.

1. Self-Care: Spend daily 15 minutes in Nothing Box. (Note to Self: Come up with better reply to Female inquiry regarding what I am thinking of while in the Nothing Box. “Nothing” invariably produces Suspicious Looks.)

2. Personal Challenge: Learn to Multi-Task. Begin with holding book while holding eyes open. Build up to napping with said open eyes.

3. Dressing: Throw away socks with holes. Throw away all white socks.

4. Buy a goldfish. Name the new denizen of the deep “Pete.”

5. Look up “parsimonious.” Give more to the Boy Scout Christmas Tree Disposal fund.

6. Change my pillowcase. Or maybe next year.

7. Develop a Knowing Look while Raising Eyebrow and Rubbing Chin Thoughtfully.

8. Buy copy of “War and Peace” for prominent bookshelf display. Learn to say, “Ah yes, Tolstoy!” without blinking. Practice with Knowing Look.

9. Place White Soy Cheese stick in lunch box. Wave it around at lunch time for observers. (Note: Will only need one—should last all year.)

10. Write New Year Resolutions before January 2.  February 2. 2012.