American Fez

The New Definitions #792

As every Baedeker-toting traveler knows, Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological condition in which an airline passenger slowly begins to love and trust the Terminal 4 Foodcourt at Arlander airport, simply because his scheduled flight is grounded there by a large cloud of volcanic ash in the sky. He will possibly be drawn to the fine array of Asian wok dishes, which he will devour greedily with plastic utensils while sitting on the floor inside a sort of makeshift sanctum constructed out of his long-suffering baggage.

Shaggy Eel Story

Despite a lifelong inability to tolerate submersion of my head in even the most tranquil of waters for more than a few panicky seconds, I am currently wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "Scuba Captain" It was a gift from a female admirer; although the exact identity of her snorkeling swain has always remained a mystery to me. How such an inappropriate garment came into my possession is a story of deceit, lust, cruelty, antiquities theft, tax evasion, spear fishing, buried shopping receipts at Rennes-le-Château, cryogenics, murder and wicked schadenfreude. But you would probably find it boring, since you already know that I get the "Scuba Captain" t-shirt in the end .

Doctor Samedi Will See You Now

For a long time now I have been studying the amazing similarities between Chinese acupuncture and Haitian voodoo. It is extraordinary that two such diverse cultures, so geographically distant, should both develop systems of healing that involves sticking huge pins into things. And there are other correspondences, for example: the voodoo priest has his vacant-eyed zombies and the acupuncturist has his  deluded disciples who sit on the floor in felt shoes while listening to endless, wheedling expositions of inscrutable concepts like ying and yang. If only these two ancient arts could combine their collected wisdom. Surely it would be simple matter for the acupuncturist to make a wax doll of his patient and skewer this image instead of painfully penetrating the body of an actual person. Using these animatistic techniquies, patients would not even need to be in the same room as the acupuncturist to receive the precision treatment that they require. If you ask me, Chaitian Acupuncture (CA) will make death panels a thing of the past.

Beginning Again

Monday morning: a calendrical equivalent of the kind of tepid, murky bathwater that Archimedes would definitely think twice about dipping a toe into. Monday is a Janusian day since it both marks an end and heralds a beginning of compartmentalized time, surveying the forthcoming sequence of working hours while still gazing over its shoulder at the retreating pleasures of the weekend. It has usurped Sunday's throne as the first day of the new week, relegating the sabbath to a diarized limbo between periods of productive activity. Frankly, I have always thought it surprising that Monday is named in honor of the moon, since it seems improbable that such a mysterious and beautiful figure as Luna would care for such an unprepossessing day as this one.

Slut Walk

Several years ago, a very provocatively dressed young woman yelled at me for staring at her body. She was clad, if you can possibly describe her so, in high heels and a spangled thong with only some sort of see-through fishnet sash tied around her breasts. We were in a cramped ATM booth at the time. She was right, I was staring; but it seemed absurd to pretend to examine the scattered deposit envelopes and mortgage ads on the wall when I was standing shoulder to shoulder with an extra from Showgirls. Nevertheless, I admitted guilt, apologised, and complimented her on her beauty as she pushed disdainfully by me and clattered out into the evening air.

After transacting my business at the bank, wishing my checking account contained more money than it did, I started the short walk home. My route took me past the entrance of a subterranean nightclub called Velcro: a pitch black portal guarded by two burly sentinels and a length of thick scarlet twine. The girl from the ATM was also there, chatting casually to the bouncers. She waved mockingly when she saw me, pouting and fluttering her fingers with a good deal of sarcasm, sharing her new-found amusement with her doorman friends who responded with wry smiles in my direction.

Was she a Strip-o-Gram hired for someone's birthday, a go-go dancer employed by the club to dance a cage, a salesgirl who strolls amongst the revellers offering tequila shots, or just a pretty tramp looking for attention solely from a specific sort of guy? I will never know, but the encounter still troubles me even after all these years: it seemed so unfair on me. Having said that, I wish the women of the current Slut Walk phenomenon well, even though I'd bet my last cash withdrawal that the ATM girl is walking with them, still dressed in next to nothing, scrutinizing the crowd on the sidewalk to see whom she can angrily accuse of checking her out. I just wish they had named their protest something else. "Slut Walk" alienates many people who might otherwise rally 'round the garter belt.

The Unworn Shirt

I can't imagine what I was thinking when I bought that dark blue and cyan striped shirt. It's just not me. The shirt obviously knew this before I did, and now broods on its hanger like Gesmas on his cross. The buttoned collar forming a deep and abiding frown; the cuffs aching to give me the finger if they could; even the washing instructions are seething.

Suffice it to say, the shirt undoubtedly believes it would be having a better time on someone else's shoulders. It is the sort of shirt you might wear while playing jazz piano at an after-hours nightclub; or you might roll the sleeves up when cooking beef bourguignon, taking occasional gulps from a glass filled with a variety of red wine that you always describe as "cheeky."

None of these things is my thing. Which is just as well, since I feel that it is the shirt of a popinjay; a womanising parvenu with bleached hair, cowboy boots and an earring. For some reason, the name Englebert Humperdink springs to mind, although I am sure that he is actually none of those things, either.

Fundamentally Unsound

Having made the rather unseemly boast recently that this blog will never die, I find it currently bedridden with a severe case of writer's bloc; an especially malignant malady no doubt brought on by unwisely wandering across a hubris infested expanse of dense egomania; or it could just be that nasty jinx bug that's been going around. The prose doctor has prescribed making lists. Very well, here is a list of interesting things I have done so far this week, possible empirical grist for my malfunctioning mill.

1. Purchased a small, half-tone cartoon of a seance by the Italian illustrator Sergio Tofano, circa 1929

2. Complained vociferously to my savings bank about the vast number of promotional offers they send me.

3. Watched an hour-long 16mm documentary about the Majdanek concentration camp

4. Began re-reading Auberon Waugh's Country Topics in tandem with Christopher Isherwood's Down There On A Visit, a book never previously opened by me.

5. Enjoyed a leisurely bus ride from Central Square to Central Street; rubbing shoulders with what Somerset Maugham would call "a lovely load of human litter."

6. Currently settling down to watch Real Madrid play Barcelona in a Champions League semi-final at the Nou Camp

7. Looking forward to our Nantucket excursion this weekend.

You might think I could construct a paragraph or three from one of those events, but apparently not. This desperate brain rattles around my skull like the last walnut in a gift basket, but alas, to no avail. I am very busy with work all day on Wednesday, so perhaps I'll have another bash on Thusday. "Light blogging until then," as we used to say in the rapidly diminishing Blogosphere.