Friday, March 07, 2003
Taking my cue from townie
Taking my cue from townie Matt, I will be leaving shortly on an invigorating late-winter ski trip. Matt has mad skilz [sic] and therefore has removed himself to the soaring frigid heights of Idaho, where mountains are rocky and men don’t hug. I have somewhat more lucid skilz, to employ the idiom, and out of respect for my fellow skiiers will travel instead to Ft. Lauderdale, where the land is flat and snow is enjoyed primarily via the nasal orifices. None of that for me, though - it’s time for a bat mitzvah and family reunion in the sultry spring break heat. I will be honing my ski skills with specific reference to brewskis. I understand they come with goggles sometimes, too.
The house is unnaturally quiet as I prepare for my trip. For the first time in at least 15 years, I am completely alone for hours on end. Kelly is already in Florida, regaling me with tales of topless sunbathers on the beaches of Miami and crotchety clients she’s visiting for work. The dog is in a kennel up in Marin and the cat is boarding with the vet so she can get her insulin. (As an aside, it’s costing us about $75 less to board the cat for 5+ days than it cost me to buy my freaking ticket to the east freaking coast. I better be getting major karma credit for this.) ANYWAY my point is that this house is strangely still as I’ve wandered repeatedly through it trying to undo the damage I may have caused, or neglected to prevent, over the past week or so. The place is looking pretty good, too; it will be pleasant to get back to such a clean, tidy, well-vacuumed domicile. I’ve made multiple sweeps to gather errant possessions and return them to their rightful hiding places. Now I’m down to one item with which I am having trouble dealing.
My green army surplus trenchcoat is biting the dust. I got it in 1982, which (can you stand it) was my freshman year of college. It was $25 at I. Goldbergs, and endowed its wearer with supernatural powers. It had (has) a zip-out wool liner, broad lapels that could deflect small-caliber bullets, a belt (suitable for belting), and deep capacious pockets with slits on the inside to enable one to put one’s hands in one’s pant pockets while the jacket was buttoned and cinched tight against the cruel west Philly winter winds. (You gotta believe me - it got freaky windy where I lived.) This jacket was so tough that, when I, a pale and undernourished undergrad, wore it around a tough neighborhood where I certainly did not belong, people got the hell out of my way with exclamations like, ‘yo, check the dude’ and ‘lookin tough.’ It followed me through the bad times and into the good times, and from Philly back to LA and up to SF. Where it went into a closet and languished for several years.
Several years later, like late last year, I pulled it back out of the closet. If anything, it was even cooler. It fit me better, had finally lost the army surplus smell, and had aged and weathered to a mellower shade of olive green. I started wearing it again. One stylish and articulate friend referred to it as a ‘serial killer coat’ - which pleased me no end. If I didn’t have my own, independent, attitude, at least I could wear some.
But now I really can’t anymore. The heavy wool of this trenchant coat has long since exceeded it’s useful life. As I wore it more often, I started tearing it. The edges of the cuffs were fraying fast; the belt showed signs of shred, and - most ignominious of all - those hyper-cool pockets that let me get to my pants from inside the coat, those wonderful pockets were ripping every time I pushed my hand into them. I have finally reconciled myself to the fact that I won’t be able to wear it any longer, and it’s slowly worked its way from the closet to the hallway to the foyer to a chair next to the front door. The final step will be to place it outside where someone who really needs to stay warm at night can get more use out of it. But I’m afraid my time with the big green coat is at an end. It’s hard to let go, sometimes.
See you all next week.