Charlie
06-13-2004, 08:49 PM
Last week I was spring cleaning (I know, it’s June--so I’m a little late). Part of the drill is replacing winter clothes for summer tee shirts and shorts. I dumped the storage box upside down into my drawer, so whatever was on the bottom now appeared on top. The next morning I grabbed the shirt on top and threw it on to buy a loaf of bread. It read ARMY in large, black letters, against a grey background. It was a freebie from when I worked in LA—we had shot a 30-second spot for the Armed Forces (“Be All That You Can Be!”). I always liked this tee—it was good quality, thick cotton, and when worn with black biker shorts, even a bit fashionable.
I happened to pop out of my doorway right in front of a lolling young tourist couple. They looked German or Dutch. Their eyes went directly to the shirt, then my face…they gave me a strange, quizzical look. As they walked past, they muttered something quietly that I couldn't understand.
Perhaps they thought I was Mallorcean, and thence odd that I was wearing something with English writing on it (although that’s everywhere now, part of wonderful Globalization). Equally likely, maybe they couldn’t understand why I was wearing a word that is synonymous in the European mind (at the moment, anyway) with death, torture and subjugation.
I continued walking to the bakery on the corner, the whole time pondering the fact that I had worn this shirt for the last six years, with never a second thought...
I returned home and leisurely ate my toast and coffee. Afterwards, I started my next spring chore: oiling the vigas, the wooden ceiling beams. Good quality cotton makes wonderful rags…
[ June 13, 2004, 09:53 PM: Message edited by: Charlie ]
I happened to pop out of my doorway right in front of a lolling young tourist couple. They looked German or Dutch. Their eyes went directly to the shirt, then my face…they gave me a strange, quizzical look. As they walked past, they muttered something quietly that I couldn't understand.
Perhaps they thought I was Mallorcean, and thence odd that I was wearing something with English writing on it (although that’s everywhere now, part of wonderful Globalization). Equally likely, maybe they couldn’t understand why I was wearing a word that is synonymous in the European mind (at the moment, anyway) with death, torture and subjugation.
I continued walking to the bakery on the corner, the whole time pondering the fact that I had worn this shirt for the last six years, with never a second thought...
I returned home and leisurely ate my toast and coffee. Afterwards, I started my next spring chore: oiling the vigas, the wooden ceiling beams. Good quality cotton makes wonderful rags…
[ June 13, 2004, 09:53 PM: Message edited by: Charlie ]