Thursday, June 29, 2017

Butt Crack That Ate Chicago

TV advertisements that gross me out, get my goat.
Like when watching a show on how to cook chicken peppered with paprika, and an ad comes on for a pharmaceutical to treat psoriasis. Of course they must show me a guy pulling up his t-shirt to expose a plateful of red, scaly skin, looking like paprika chicken.
Lately, a new television commercial riled me, which means the advertising folks succeeded because I remember it, right?
The ad’s for an everyday liquid product that unclogs sink drains. The ad shows people with their pants down far enough to expose an inch or so of their bare “butt crack.” It is based on a common American phrase, “plumber’s butt,” which describes a plumber bent down under a sink with his “butt crack” poking out of his jeans. In this TV commercial, after showing us a few male and female butt cracks, it proclaims, “there is a little plumber in all of us.”
Kids and likely a lot of adults get a chuckle out of seeing these butt cracks. Still, if I want to see butt cracks I’ll stroll sidewalks of Los Angeles or Chicago, where it seems, everybody under twenty-five is a plumber.
In the past few years it was just guys wearing pants low around their butts. A year ago, however, a young woman walked by me wearing her pants like that. She wore underwear, thankfully, but the sight still surprised me.
This fashion phenomena of wearing trousers down around the buttocks stems from the stylish haute couture of the maximum-security prison, where killers (after being treated for head lice) walk, holding up jail-pants because they don’t get belts either to hang themselves with or to strangle cellmates. At first, on the streets you’d see only gangster types wearing pants down around their butts. It never bothered me because I figured they couldn’t run from cops with their pants so low. But, even the little gangsters wore underwear, so while you could see outlines of their butts you never saw skin.
Not anymore. Today, the look of flashing the tush has not only spread to middle-class neighborhoods, people also seem to have jettisoned underwear, ala Mick Jagger, to help flash it alfresco. Thusly, with pants pulled down like a prisoner’s, naked butt cracks smile back at you like some happy ass.
I wouldn’t be writing this if bare butts hadn’t gotten closer and closer to home. Months ago at the local supermarket, we turned the cart down an aisle, and bang: a butt crack.
I turned away, but it was too late. I’d already been mooned.
In the aisle a woman wore tight, hot pants sizes too small for her rear, sans underwear. Her shorts were pulled down, and the world was allowed to view inches of bare and puckered butt crack.
Turning to my wife I deadpanned, “If it were the ass of a supermodel I probably wouldn’t complain.”
This was no supermodel’s rump. The woman bulged from her shorts in several spots, and frankly looked like a “before” photo in a Nutrisystem weight loss ad. Had I had a magic wand I would have “zapped” under panties on her.
This butt-crack incident happened in the supermarket’s produce section. You’ve all seen those misshapen gourds on YouTube. Well, ever since, I’ve sworn never eat a cantaloupe shaped like a person’s rear end.
Following this traumatic viewing, was another weeks later at Walmart, which seems apropos. Walking towards us in the store was a mother and her two daughters. The kids held up their britches with the backs pulled down around their prepubescent bottoms. God, they looked nine or ten!
I pointed them out to my wife and said, “That mother ought to put an end to that crap right now.”
My wife who often sobers me up with commonsense said, “It’s probably too late.”
What happened days ago brought it all home.
While I watered flowers in my yard, a neighbor’s nephew parked on the street across from me. He waved, and opened the back door of his car to get something, turning his back to me. His pants were so low on his hips that his butt shined in the sunlight. Rolling my eyes, I went on watering the irises.
Later I couldn’t escape even inside my house. That night, for the first time, I saw the “plumber’s butt” TV commercial for the liquid drain cleaner.
I had to write this blog.
Trends come and go. We can only hope this “butt-crack” fashion fad fades faster than a summertime moon.
Postscript: Last night, standing in front of the mirror I tried the “butt crack” look on myself, wrinkled skin and all. My wife shook her head no, and I agreed, pulling my PJ’s up around my waist. I never was much of a plumber.

Novelist R.D. Byron-Smith’s e-books and paperbacks are available at Amazon.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Blabber about a book blurb

Cloistered recently among the shelved books at Barnes & Noble, I read the jacket blurb of Nicholas Reynolds’s new book on Ernest Hemingway, Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy, and burst into laughter. When you laugh loudly at the publisher’s description of a book that isn’t supposed to be funny, it probably presages a problem for the author.
I wasn’t laughing at the author’s bona fides as they are impressive. That of being a historian at the CIA Museum and a onetime U.S. Marine Corps colonel and of having been trained at one of the world’s great universities, Oxford.
What made me laugh, and should be an embarrassment for Mr. Reynolds, is publisher William Morrow’s wet-behind-the-ears blurb-writer stating that the author “began to uncover clues” of Hemingway’s “spycraft” in 2010. One good thing about being old is possession of a long memory. Someone should tell the William Morrow blurb-writer that Hemingway’s work as a “spy” was disclosed in 1954(!) in an Associated Press story under the headline “Hemingway Helped Spy, Saboteur Hunt.” The story was widely carried in American newspapers. His publisher dim-wittingly made Nicholas Reynolds look at best like a Johnny-come-lately on the subject and at worst like a fool by boasting that he “began to uncover clues” of Hem’s spying in 2010, which, even if you suck at arithmetic, you can figure it's in excess of a half-century after it was disclosed.
For the author's sake let’s hope the publisher changes this sophomoric blurb in later editions.
I’d write a review of Mr. Reynolds’s book, which I am sure he worked diligently on, but cannot. I didn’t buy it because I noticed other “problems” in the blurb, which is supposed to entice you into buying the book not putting it back on the bookstore shelf. While these didn’t make me laugh they tended to suggest the book was too superficial for a person who has read a lot on Hemingway. For instance, the blurb mentioned material that can also be found in a 106-page confidential FBI file on Hemingway that author Jeffrey Meyers pried out of the agency in researching his 1985 biography, Hemingway. Much colorful detail about the great storyteller’s spying activities (for the U.S. government) still makes Meyers’s biography of particular interest. The new spy book’s blurb seems to rehash this FBI stuff, which reminds me of a rule of writing: if you know the dog is brown, does it really matter how many different ways you say it?
The blurb also suggests Hemingway might have been a commie spy by stating Reynolds discloses Hemingway’s “troubling recruitment by Soviet spies to work with the NKVD, the forerunner to the KGB.” Even in pre- and post-war America when J. Edgar Hoover suspected everybody of being a Red, the FBI was unable to unearth proof Hemingway was a communist, let alone spying for them. The bureau’s Hemingway file details his “associations” with communists. Which was understandable. Many fighters on the loyalist side against the fascists in the Spanish Civil War were communists who were supported by the Soviets, and Hemingway knew and drank with them. There is no question commie fronts in the U.S. duped Hemingway into signing petitions and lending his famous name to their letterheads. Which brings me to the main reason I passed on Mr. Reynolds’s Hemingway spy book, released in March. The blurb tried to boot-strap him into being a communist by making a big deal of his “wartime meeting in East Asia with communist leader Chou En-Lai, the future premier of the People’s Republic of China.”
Well, if he met a friend of Mao’s he’s a commie, right? Not hardly.
Anybody who reads the account of the Chou En-Lai meeting in Martha Gellhorn’s excellent (and funny) 1978 memoir, Travels with Myself and Another, knows she and husband Ernest Hemingway’s meeting with Chou was perfunctory. She recalls a lot of merriment happening but little substance because, as she puts it, “we didn’t know who Chou was.” Her husband showed scant interest in Chinese politics, and failed to ask Chou any salient questions about the communists. Plainly, at this time (1941), but for his encyclopedic knowledge of the Spanish Civil War (which he featured in For Whom the Bell Tolls), Hemingway didn’t give a rat's patoot about politics and communists, Chinese or otherwise. He didn't want to go to China but his journalist wife dragged him along, as she had been assigned to write a magazine story on it. 
Now for a nit picky footnote on the spy book. The full title of Nicholas Reynolds’s work is Ernest Hemingway’s Secret Adventures 1935-1961, Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy. I might mention that the only “secret” thing Hemingway did in 1961 was to quietly walk past his sleeping wife Mary’s bedroom on the morning of July 2, get his favorite Boss shotgun and kill himself. While I’m on it, how cleverly original is the title considering the title of the real spy classic by John le CarrĂ©, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy in 1974?