August 21, 2009
An anecdote for your amusement (sic)
The standard line for women is “Hey, buddy, my face is up here”–standard, of course, because most men do indeed have a fascination with breasts. Well. Down here in the RV park in far south Texas, I mostly don’t wear a shirt because it’s too warm to need one, and neither I nor the laws of Texas consider male shirtlessness indecent. I am not beautiful, though I’m fairly fit for a 55-year-old, and I have noticed women here, when we’re conversing, glancing down at my chest. Is this because I have such stunning pectoral development? I think not. They almost always glance to their right, my left, which is where I have the greatest accumulation of white hair.
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I just look down when I speak. It’s probably psychological, but it gets me in trouble sometimes. I’m not necessarily looking at where my eyes are pointed, they just aren’t pointed at someone else’s eyes.
I had a college professor long ago who virtually never looked any of us in the eye. She looked up above our heads or over to the side.
I’m inclined to make eye contact with people. But I try not to scare them.
I can’t look at people’s eyes either. It feels weird. Like they’ll be able to tell that I’m looking at their eyes because I know I’m supposed to rather than for whatever reason you’re supposed to look people in the eye.
So you mean one side of your chest has more white hair than the other? Kinda weird. Can’t you just dye it all a nice medium brown?
Or, right when you meet these women say, “Yes, I know, I have a greater accumulation of white hair on the right side–my left side–of my chest.” This may make them laugh nervously, but then they will be at ease with your unusual feature and not stare so much.
I might look at your chest occasionally just to prove to myself that I wasn’t not looking at your chest. Legal or no, I find it very awkward to talk to shirtless men with whom I am not significantly othered.
But I often turn away when I talk to people, anyway. I think it depends on what I’m talking about and to whom I’m talking. I’m definitely more squirrelly when talking with boys, and probably more squirrelly when saying something embarrassing.
This kind of squirrely, India? She seems kinda ballsy.
It’s cold here in Ireland. I haven’t met any shirtless men, you know, hanging around, casually having conversations with me. I think it might be very interesting to gaze at a man’s white chest hair, were the opportunity to arise.
My cats have a lot of white chest hair, and they flaunt it all over the place. Gigolos.
In Texas there are lots of shirtless males of whatever age.
That sounds pleasant. Probably shirtless cats too. Gigolos.
I don’t think anyone mistakes me for a gigolo. Mostly I’m at my little homelet shirtless. I usually don’t put a shirt on to walk over to the mailboxes or the showers. So that’s about it. I’m not hanging out at the 19th hole shirtless.
And yes, Iron Fish, one side of my chest is more whitely haired than the other.
New term for it: Putin Putting
Coop, I’m wondering if this is more cultural? I know you are close to Mexico – is there a lot of shirtless males in Mexico to your knowledge, or indeed females? There’s no point in comparing with here as the temperatures vary somewhat, but, in Crete you hardly ever see shirtless males of the indigenous variety – in fact they stay wrapped up in temperatures that will kill most of us. You occasionally see Greek men in shorts but I always feel like the world is about to end when that happens.
Coop–
I hope my comment came off with a spirit of goofiness, as intended. I have a few white hairs. They are, as far as I can tell, rather evenly distributed.
Me too. I don’t know what the 19th hole is, but it is hard for me to be serious on a thread about white chest hair.
Ok, the ‘me too’ was not agreeing that I have ‘a few white hairs’, evenly distributed or otherwise. This is an important clarification.
Lucy, I didn’t realise that we had so much in common – a little under arm hair and now a little grey chest hair! Sadly, I don’t have as nice a voice as you, but, hey, Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad.
Nice, Phil. Cute.
We came across a similar man yesterday, visiting our old haunts in Tucson, ran into our old landlord, who was shirtless as always, nipple rings in each, barrel-chested and buff as Iggy Pop, and pushing 60+, so a mat of gray hair on his chest. I managed to escape incident with the requisite hug, but Jess (10 inches shorter than me) got slimed ala Ben Stiller in that Polly movie. So bad that we had to go to Buffalo Exchange after to get a brand new used shirt for her to change into, but the stench remained, in her hair, mixing with the 5 heads of garlic that we bought in Gilroy, CA a few days before, basking in 113 temperature.
So that Coop, is why you wear a shirt, for those surprise visits.
I was also bit by his old Chihuahua, a first for me, breaking the skin, kind of freaked me out (I have a phobia of things puncturing my skin which could be the subject of a whole nother post).
Maybe you had to be there. This is a man who had a room filled with dozens of penis statues of various sizes, some bigger than the one in clockwork orange. Whose been living HIV+ for some 25 years. Who when we called from the East Coast one time to check out a lunar eclipse was doing a time zone calculation in his head to figure out when it would be on in Tucson. Some of this wears off on you when you get Polly-slimed or bit by his Chihuahua.
There. You see. I’ve always been kind of drawn to Tucson, and now I hear it calling me. Derek, do you know whether your former landlord has anything for rent currently?
I know you can handle the slime and the penises, Sheila. But the yappy bitey dog? Are you sure?
Yappy bitey nekkid dog. No. We would have to arrive at an understanding about the dog.
But I want to see the dozens of penises. It sounds kind of religious.
Penis worship eh! I have one of those, only one, so does that make me a God?
Answers on a postcard please.
He does actually. That’s what he was doing was building more rooms or something. Everyone I know here has lived in one of his properties at some point, he’s like the old sealion beachmaster.
If you’re serious though about living here, let me know. I was hanging out with another old friend yesterday who has since become a Tucson landlord, and we were hanging out at one of his old houses, built in 1913 in the Craftsman style, with all these cool built in wood fixtures and all these weird tenants he has living in them and a huge fire pit in the backyard. If we hadn’t already lived here for most of the 90s I’d consider coming back.
What an amazing string of comments. You all do realize that when I talk about going shirtless, I am talking about here at “home”, either at my little houselet or in the RV park, not at Sears or Starbucks or morning mass?
There was a time, though, in the ’80s when I drove a convertible Suzuki Samurai (rendering A/C a kind of moot issue), and I often left the house then with a shirt in my hand. I put it on when I got where I was going.
The 19th hole.
And you receive no visitors?
Wait, i remember at AWP you were manning the table shirtless.
Why not at Sears?
Derek, did the lady writers and editors stare at Coop’s chest?
Were there also shirtless cats?
No, but where we are staying she has this cat and carpeting. Bad combination for those allergic to cats. My stache is itching.
Do you do evening mass shirtless?
Derek’s right: I had to man the AWP booth shirtless because he and Lopez chickened out and the rules require at least one shirtless editor or writer per aisle.
I don’t entertain, but folks do occasionally drop by. (This is when most of them see me shirtless.) I am usually sitting outside on the covered patio, and they know I will be shirtless because they can see me as they walk up.
I believe the new policy is that shirtlessness is okay at evening mass because it’s dark enough for no one to notice.
Cooper, never ever say that you do not entertain. Entertainment is your middle name.
Please forgive me if I have revealed something you’d have preferred remained hidden.
I’ve never been to AWP, but I just had an inspiration. I’d sure go if y’all instituted another rule in addition to the shirtless-writer-or-editor rule.
Each aisle should also feature at least one writer or editor worthy of inclusion in a sideshow — a flame-eater, an eyeball-popper, an armpit-rubber.
I would pay for entrance to that tent!
Microcephalic editors and writers.
There was nobody shirtless at the one AWP I attended, perhaps because it was in Baltimore, in a snowstorm. Richard Nash was wearing his leather pants, though. Is that in the rules, Coop?
Cooper Entertainment Renner says: I’ve only been to one conference myself, but it was in [name of Southern city occluded]. So yes, shirtlessness, OR leather pants, OR microcephalopods, OR 2-gallon cuspidors on each aisle.
Was it that city the Yankees set ablaze till it was gone with the you-know-what?
[...] Derek White: Maybe you had to be there. This is a man who had a room filled with dozens of penis statues of various sizes, some bigger than the one in clockwork orange. Whose been living HIV+ for some 25 years. Who when we called from the East Coast one time to check out a lunar eclipse was doing a time zone calculation in his head to figure out when it would be on in Tucson. Some of this wears off on you when you get Polly-slimed or bit by his Chihuahua. posted by Deron Bauman in animals, consciousness, from the comments, movies, travel | * | 1 comment [...]