Welcome to Terrorism!

Welcome, everyone! Welcome to Terrorist Orientation and Training Camp!

I am Jim McCluskey, and I am here to “Soldier” you through the next few days! Get it? Soldier?

Anyhoo, let me tell you a little bit about myself.  I am the president and owner of McCluskey Human Resources Consulting out of Des Moines, Iowa, and this awesome terrorist group found me on the internet and flew me over here to oversee the program. And hey, a nice shout-out to the Peshawar Ramada Inn, who is letting us use their conference rooms FOR FREE! There must have been some crazy negotiations going on there!

So, who knew Pakistan was so awesome! I know I’m impressed, and my bodyguards have been super nice to me! I even got to take a walk outside yesterday! Thanks, Mustafa! Love you guys!

So, where are y’all from? Yemen? Okay, let’s have a big round of applause for Yemen? Any Somalians here? Oh, yeah, you got a bunch here! I see there’s a contingent from Boko Harum. Nice outfits, guys! Colorado? You’re from Colorado? Wow, a big round of applause! By the way, your parents are SUPER PISSED that you two snuck out, you were supposed to be at the mall!

And I see a few ladies here. Unfortunately, ladies, you will have to go to the female-only orientation, we don’t want you distracting the men by enflaming their loins with passion. Just exit through that door, where you will be assigned a burqua and a husband. But don’t feel bad! We need you to produce all the little jihadists you can!

Alright now, let’s do some housekeeping.

First of all, we need to assign your parking passes. Tanks have to park in parking lot C. Yeah, I know, it’s a long walk, but it will keep you in shape to fight the infidels! All livestock must be registered or will be eaten. And don’t forget about the bathhouse. We’re going to be cooped up in conference rooms all week, so a little soap will go a long way!

Now, does everybody have their information form and a number 2 pencil? That’s great!

First, fill in your real name, and then on the second line, you can fill out your new freedom fighter name.

Next, you will see where you can request assignments. Please mark them from 1 to 5, in order of preference. So, for example, if you really want to be an ammo clerk, mark that with a “one”. We are in special need of suicide bombers, so if you are into that, please request it! We seem to be running out of them.

And speaking of suicide bombers, remember! There’s 75 virgins waiting for you up there in the afterlife! Or 77. Or something. Anyway, you’ll have a heckuva good time!  And don’t forget, tonight the piano player in the Peshawar Lounge will be doing a special medley of old standards for you potential suicide bombers, including such hits as “I’m in Heaven” and “Fly Me to The Moon”.

When you are done, please hand in your forms, because it’s time for lunch! Everyone move to conference room 3, the “Death to America” room. I hear goat is on the menu! Chow down!

And remember, throughout the week, the most important thing is: Have Fun!

The Big Effing Thing

Ah, the holidays! The time when family gets together, and the adult children return to their childhood home to provide helpful suggestions to their parents on the status (and improvement) of the family home. In this instance, one of the Hotflash offspring was quite concerned about our lack of modern technology, in particular, our lack of flat screen TVs.

Now, I realize that flat screen televisions are attractive, lightweight, and high definition. But seeing as we mostly seem to watch “American Pickers” (Mr. Hotflash’s favorite show), do I really need to see Mike and Frank’s facial blemishes and stubble as they roam the backroads of America for rusty crap that they will sell to the suckers of America? I think not.

And my new favorite show, “Botched” (admittedly, a guilty pleasure), exhibits the bad plastic surgery of various idiot patients who got way too much filler in their lips and elsewhere. But I don’t need to see these imperfections up close and personal, I work in health care, and see plenty of bodily “variations” up close and personal.

Furthermore, we have sufficient technology for our television watching pleasure. For example, we have a 13 inch television in the “master suite” which has a built in VCR! Top that! And a lovely tube TV in the family room, which weighs about a thousand pounds and will never be moved again. We could probably put a sign up on the front door directing the burglars to both televisions, and I think they would run in disgust.

However, the real reason we don’t have a flat screen television is The Big Effing Thing. (Yes, this is a family blog). Lewis Black, a comedian, did a routine a few years ago about how the best cure to a bad economy is to build a Big Effing Thing. Examples are the Pyramids and the Hoover Dam. Puts lots of people to work, and if you build it, they will come. (see photo of my parents in front of a Big Effing Thing in Egypt).

Our Big Effing Thing, unfortunately, is our entertainment center. Built in the olden days when folks needed a place to put that thousand pound tube television set. It didn’t seem quite that large in the catalog that Tammy, our interior decorator, showed me. But when it arrived, oh my. It’s big. It’s really big. It's... monolithic.

So, you may think, just sell it! News flash, kids. Nobody wants an entertainment center. There are 765 entertainment centers listed on our local Craigslist today. So what to do?

We could have a bonfire in the back yard, with very expensive wood going up in flames. We could somehow cart it to an area where the homeless gather, under the assumption that a family of four could probably fit into it. However, I think this is a national problem.

If Obama wants to resurrect his image from all those awful things he has done, such as providing health insurance to those awful people who were previously uninsured, he should tackle this problem. I suggest a national decommissioning authority to take all the old entertainment centers and dispose of them, in the same way various countries “decommission” their old nuclear power plants. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuclear_decommissioning

Just like a pesky nuclear facility which needs to be buried under concrete, the government could pick up our entertainment centers and do something useful and ecologically correct with them. Or just burn those mofos. Either way, then I can purchase a lovely flat screen TV for my family room (or a specific Hotflash offspring can buy it for us).

Until then, we will continue to watch bad television on a bad cathode ray tube TV, with the option of watching old video tapes of our offspring in their younger years at swim meets and cheerleading competitions. Really, who needs more than 13 inches for that?

Naked Pictures!

One or more hackers recently stole naked pictures of various female celebrities, and posted them on the internet, thus creating quite a media kerfuffle. Besides the outrage of the various celebs, Lena Dunham (of the HBO show “Girls”, who peels down to not much at the blink of an eye) was uber-outraged! She huffs, “Remember, when you look at these pictures you are violating these women again and again. It's not okay.”

So, being weak and without moral compass, I must shamefully admit that I DILIGENTLY searched the internet to find these naked pictures. It was either that or do laundry.

Amazingly, Google Images is just chock full of naked celebrity pictures, all with aforesaid celebrities performing acts of various athletic prowess and undress. And all Photoshopped. I really doubt that Brad would let Angelina do that stuff with two other guys, I mean, Really. She, the mother of 6 (or 7 or whatever…)

So obviously some 12 year old boys have become proficient at Photoshop, which raises the question, why didn’t these celebs just laugh and say the pictures were just Photoshopped?

And this whole issue raises other questions. For example, are celebs just hanging around the mansion, wondering, “So, what should I do tonight? Go to the Apple Store? Torment the paparazzi?  I know, I’ll take naked photos of myself and post them on a pretty insecure internet site!”  Granted, these folks probably have much better bodies than the general populace, but couldn’t they be content with just gazing adoringly into a full length mirror?

And this involved SO MANY celebs. Why are so many people taking naked pictures of themselves? Did I miss the memo?  

I suggest their managers (or parents) sit them down and have a stern talk about being careful with their naked photos. I know, as Ms. Dunham has said, more or less, celebs have the right to “share their bodies however they want”. But except for the laundry bills, keeping your clothes on is just so much easier. But of course, that doesn’t make the news.  

Elf This!

Yes, it’s been a while since I have posted to my Hot Flash blog. Not to say that I haven’t had many profound thoughts and opinions, but life got in the way. But as the holiday season winds down, I become reflective, and think warmly of the various customs that the Hot Flash family celebrates from year to year.

 

Number 1: Lighting the tree

Every Christmas season, I harangue Mr. Hot Flash to bring the pre-lit, artificial tree up from the basement. As he sets it up, we wait breathlessly for the Christmas lights to spring to life, to twinkle, and to reflect the new hope we have for the season. A hope that the freakin’ lights will actually work for a change. This year, about 10% of the lights came to life, while the rest remained dark and annoying. However, Mr. Hot Flash, ignoring helpful suggestions from Ms. Hotflash that we just buy some damn lights at Walgreen’s, embarked on his journey toward Total Domination of the Christmas tree. Armed with numerous extra bulbs, a volt meter, and many bad words, he toiled and sweated for many hours while the rest of the family took cover. However, I heard the Good News when the shout, “Who’s your daddy! WHO’S your daddy??!” rang out from the living room, as Mr. Hotflash shouted at the tree in triumph, and the tree came to life, every bulb twinkling away.

 

Number 2: Making fun of other people’s customs

I find “Elf on the Shelf” disturbing. Yes, I said it. For those of you manning a scientific station in Antarctica, Elf on the Shelf is a scam perpetrated by a toy company to force parents into buying a scary looking elf doll (think spawn of Chucky), complete with instructions to pose the elf in various places around the house every night after the child goes to bed. Apparently Elf is just a stool pigeon who flies back to the North Pole to squeal on various family members regarding their naughty or niceness. But it requires Mom or Dad, who may be in various stages of holiday fatigue or hung-overness, to actually remember to move Elfie around every damn night. Seriously? Yes, you over-achieving mothers are into it, but what about the more casual mother?

Okay, I will admit, I was a more casual mother. I am truly thankful this Christmas season that Elf on the Shelf did not exist back when my kids were youngun’s. I don’t think of myself as lazy as much as just “preoccupied”. My (now adult) children remind me of my rather laissez faire approach to St. Nicholas day. Year one: “Hey! Put your shoes out! St Nick comes tonight!” Year two: “Mom, the other kids at school said St. Nick came LAST NIGHT”! “Oh, um, he’s coming tonight for sure. It sometimes takes him two nights!” (children roll eyes in disgust).

 

Number 3: Making fun of other people’s lawn displays

In our neighborhood, there are several post-modern Nativity lawn displays. Who knew that both Rudolph and Santa visited the Baby Jesus on Christmas night? People, at least separate your secular blow-up dolls from your inflatable Nativity scenes. And please take them down by Valentine’s Day.

But in all seriousness, I wish you best Christmas, New Year’s, Kwanzaa, and whatever Holiday Season I missed. Peace on earth and may all your pre-lit trees light the first time.

FAIR and BALANCED!

The 2012 conventions have adjourned, to the delight of television viewers everywhere, but our intrepid Hot Flash reporter was there, observing the suspenseful nomination process. Okay, well, maybe not there, and maybe asleep on the couch, but the television was on. And here are our fair and balanced observations:

We are either in deep doo-doo or marching forward toward the land of milk and honey. The Republicans displayed the ever increasing national debt on a nifty digital display throughout the convention, whereas the Democrats SHOULD have had a nifty digital display of the number of dumbass things the Republicans have said lately. (Legitimate rape, anyone?)

A Lassie Democrat

Full disclosure: I am what is referred to in my family as a “Lassie Democrat”, in that if Lassie ran for president as a Democrat, she/he would get my vote. I am not ashamed to admit that my allegiance to the Democratic party began in 2nd grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt grade school, where the nuns were beside themselves at the thought that a nice Irish Catholic boy might become president. And I thought John F. Kennedy was just really cute. The nuns were summarily overwhelmed with joy when he was elected, which is probably the closest to orgasm they ever got, seeing as both “impure thoughts” and “touching oneself impurely” could be mortal sins which might condemn you to hell for all eternity. Or not. It just depended. They never elaborated on exactly what it depended on, thus thrusting the students of Perpetual Guilt into a state of confusion, as well as a state of harboring impure thoughts, now that they were forbidden. ( Ha ha. I said “thrusting”.) But I digress.

 I’ll admit that I tried to watch the Republican convention, but kept falling asleep on the couch, missing not only the candidate’s speech, but the lively dialog between Clint Eastwood and a chair. Doesn’t the GOP have an advance team to vet the speeches of crotchety old men on national teevee? Or at least someone backstage to wrest the chair away from Dirty Harry?

I did stay awake for a lot of Democratic convention, however, and found Obama’s speech to be adequate, but mostly I watched Malia and Sasha look bored out of their minds. It must be hard to come of age in the White House, when your dad is up in front of a bunch of people BEING TOTALLY LAME instead of driving you to the mall like a normal dad. I was impressed that neither were caught picking their noses, scratching, or adjusting their underwear. They were probably briefed ahead of time that rolling of eyes, yawning, and texting were grounds for relocation to Guantanamo Bay, which, by the way, is still open.

My biggest problem, however, is Michelle Obama. Bitch. How DOES she obtain those sexy, well-toned arms? It’s all her fault that sleeveless dresses are still in fashion, which don’t flatter those of us of a certain age. I would do arm exercises, but I fear the subsequent rotator cuff surgery that would inevitably follow. At least the Republicans have had First Ladies that didn’t make me feel inferior. Barbara Bush, anyone?

The highlight of the Democratic convention, of course, was not Barack, but Bill. Oh, Bill, please, can’t you be president again? The constitution is just so problematic. Surely those term limits are just suggestions, not absolutes. We ladies want you back. That twinkle in your eye, the florid oratory. I know those were meant for me, you old horndog, you. I have a blue dress. Call me.

FIFTY SHADES OF STUPID

I am sitting in the airport, waiting for my interminably delayed flight. To pass the time, I buy a book at the bookstore, “Fifty Shades of Grey”. I begin to doze off, the book dropping into my lap…

I wake with a start to the luscious sensation of someone nibbling on my earlobe, as that someone whispers in my ear, “Ana, I only have desire for you. You intoxicate me. I am obsessed with you.” Holy crap! It’s Christian Grey, totally hot multibillionaire rich handsome rich brilliant rich young rich CEO, and I am in his luxury condo and his luxury arms!

I am swept away by the strange sensations sweeping over me. His touch is like a warm tidal wave, carrying me away to greater heights of ecstasy. His kisses to my nubile young body are like hot fudge to a scoop of ice cream, waking me from my cold and dismal being. He murmurs huskily, “Darling, I want you. I need you. Simply sign this master-slave contract, and we can begin our strange but erotic time together”. Swooning, I whisper, “Of course, Christian. Where’s the pen?’

Suddenly, I hear the familiar whirring of wings and a loud “Plop!” behind me. Dammit. It’s Fairy Godmother. She is always in my face.

“Hullo, Fairy Godmother”, I say sullenly to the rotund figure who has interrupted my lustful encounter with the handsome Mr. Grey. And rich. Did I mention rich?

“Ana, what the HELL are you doing?” she demands.

I roll my eyes. “Well, it’s none of your business, but if you must know, I am about to enter into a master/sex slave relationship with handsome and rich Mr. Grey.”

She frowns at me. “But what about all our training? You are a Disney Princess! And you realize, of course, that Mr. Grey is a sadist?”

“He’s not a sadist. He’s just really bossy”, I pout.

“What happened with Prince Charming? Why do I fix you up anyway?”

“Ewww, Prince Charming is so BORING. And besides that, I think he’s gay”.

Fairy Godmother looks at me peevishly. “He’s not gay, he just dresses really nice”.

“Well, I don’t think he has anything … Down There”, I say petulantly.

“Of course he does. You are thinking of Ken. So where did you meet this loser, anyway?” demand Fairy Godmother.

“At the Home Depot. He was looking for duct tape”. I blush prettily.

“Ana!” Christian says insistently. “Come ON! I’ve got my rumpus room ready for us!”

“Of course, dear” I tell him sweetly. “Fairly Godmother, take off, will you? I’ve new stuff to try”.

Christian roars, “That’s Mr. Grey, SIR! Don’t ever call me dear!”

Fairy Godmother looks at me with disgust, and takes flight. A little awkwardly, as she has put on a few pounds.

“Have fun at your weight watchers meeting!” I shout to her derisively, I turn to my master, as we begin our sensual, but sorta kinky, time together.

Suddenly, I am awakened with a start. The loudspeaker booms, “Flight 123 to Washington DC has been cancelled! Please go to the Customer Service center, where you will stand in line for 3 hours to be put on the next flight which will be delayed”.

Shit. Au revoir, my kinky, handsome billionaire dreamboat. And did I mention rich?

Fear of Flying

The airlines have become their own terrorist organization. Step into an airport with an e-ticket in hand, and you have now become a victim. Or better yet, a prisoner of war. Residents of Guantanamo Bay may have more rights than you do once you step foot in an airport. You will soon suffer the indignities of cancelled flights, delayed flights, rerouted flights, uncomprehending ticket agents, bad food, no food, surly flight attendants, etc. Waterboarding may become an acceptable alternative.

Recently, the Hotflash family flew to a faraway western state to watch child #2 actually graduate from college. In all fairness, I will not name the airline. I’ll just call it UA. UA decided that our pleasant direct flights clearly provided too much convenience and comfort, and so it casually eliminated these, and replaced them with bad connections and cancellations.

Yes, I know, everybody complains about the airlines. It’s sort of like childbirth: yes, it hurts, then it’s over, so shut up about it. But think about it: if your car doesn’t start in the morning, do you just call your boss and say the trip to work is cancelled? You had better just find another way to get your sorry ass to work.

Ms. Hotflash is usually a kind and patient person. But the airlines work on my last nerve.

THINGS THAT ANNOY ME ABOUT FLYING:

The TSA: The lady in the pink polyester pants with the T-shirt that says, “World’s Best Grandma” and a Disney World tote bag is probably not a terrorist. Chances are she is not a drug mule, either. She may have 3 ounces of dangerous Milk of Magnesia in her purse, however, which must be carefully scrutinized.

For those of you who prefer to opt out of the full body scan (in which your viscera is slowly fried by the “safe” amounts of radiation each time you pass through), you are in luck! You can spend a few intimate moments with a TSA agent who will probe your crotch for weapons of mass destruction.

Seating: There is a torture practice in which the victim is placed in a small cell, too short to stand up, too narrow to sit down. Airplane designers derived inspiration from this, and designed the seating arrangement in coach. Additional torment may be applied as the passenger in front of you leans his seat all the way back, shoving your laptop/drink into your face. Good times.

Luggage: Passengers haul their steamer-trunk sized bags on board, optimistically thinking they qualify as   carry-ons. They try to shove these items in the overhead bins, hoping to defy the laws of gravity, mass, and the space-time continuum. Other modestly sized baggage already stowed is pulverized. So much for the ceramic figurine you were bringing home to grandma.

Airline bathrooms: In a plane with 90 seats, there will be 1 bathroom for the 8 people in first class, and a single bathroom back in the bowels of coach for the rest of the great unwashed. One passenger usually decides to attend a major gastrointestinal event in that bathroom as the hordes are waiting in line outside, bladders crying out in anguish. Around this time, “the captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign! Please return to your seats!” The Marquis de Sade would be proud.

So I am led to wonder, how different is our treatment by the airlines to the treatment of a POW? I referred to the Geneva Convention Treaty on Treatment of Prisoners of War: 

Article 3b prohibits “The taking of hostages”. Just try to exit a plane that’s been sitting on the tarmac for 3 hours. I rest my case.

Article 3c prohibits “Outrages upon personal dignity, in particular, humiliating and degrading treatment”. (See Things that Annoy Me, Airline Bathrooms, above).

 Article 15 states: “The Power detaining prisoners of war shall be bound to provide free of charge for their maintenance and for the medical attention required by their state of health. “ I interpret this as FREE FOOD, not $9 nasty “snack boxes” foisted upon us. No, UA, a box of crackers, olives and hummus is NOT “tapas”.

Article 18 states: “All effects and articles of personal use …shall remain in the possession of prisoners of war”. This implies that the bag you checked to Cleveland SHALL NOT be sent to Dubai.

Oh, I could go on and on. But you get the point. On my next vacation, I shall just go to Guantanamo Bay. I’ll bet the flight will be direct, the food will be free, and I hear the weather’s quite nice in Cuba.

Coolness

I consider myself to be rather cool. Despite my vintage age, I pride myself on being up on the cool trends, down with the popular culture, even edgy. Yes, my coolness is one of my finer attributes.

For example, music. Just recently I discovered a new hot female singer. Her name is Lady Gaga. Her music has a good beat and is easy to dance to. I can floss my teeth in record time to “Bad Romance”. To boost my knowledge of this new phenom, I turned to that great warehouse of all knowledge, Wikipedia. Imagine my surprise that Lady Gaga has been around since at least 2008. Why was I not informed?

Not to be discouraged, I found another new talent by name of Adele. Plunging toilets or other unsavory activities are greatly enhanced by the driving rhythms of “Rumor Has It”. Again, I turn to Wikipedia, only to find that Adele has also been on the scene since 2008.

Recently, I watched a rerun of “Saturday Night Live”, and the host was enthusing about the musical guest, Robyn. Who the hell is Robyn? (I know, I know, Wikipedia says she’s been around since 1997).

Two questions disturb my sleep: First of all, why do I not know about these cultural trends? And secondly, why don’t these young ladies have last names? Lady Gaga, Adele, Robyn, Florence (and her machine), Bjork, etc.  Are they foundlings, dropped off at the orphanage by their unnamed parents, forced to go through life with only one name? Does this identity crisis fuel their music? Does it inform the inspiration for their art? Just like Cher?*

It’s not just musical trends that are passing me by. Social media is out of control, and needs to take a time out. I’ve got Facebook figured out, but what about Tumblr? Reddit, Pinterest? I went to the Tumblr web site. It says that “Tumblogs are the easiest way to share yourself”, but there are no instructions on their home page, preferably in a large font. My good friend Wiki tells me, “Tumblr is a microblogging platform and social networking website.” Umm…what?

Pinterest just pisses me off. I had to ask for an “invitation”. (Please sir, may I have another?) A few days later it came, but I was told I had to register through Facebook or Twitter. I refuse to do that, because then Mark Zuckerberg will take my personal information and sell to the Romanians, who are compiling a dossier on me under the heading of “Clueless Boomer”. So no pinboards for me. They would probably just be titled “Things that annoy me”.

So I have a proposal for any of you internet-savvy youngsters reading this. Create a web site for Baby Boomers such as myself who want to stay hip and happenin’. It can be funded by the rich assortment of companies wishing to market to us, hawking such products as Depends, Rascals, and catheters. You can have sections such as Music, Internet, Apparel (no mom jeans!), and Hair (so that we aren’t going around in the same hairdo we wore in the 70’s). It can be updated weekly, no more than that, because we need time to absorb new information. I will take a cut of the profits, of course for providing this great idea.

And use a large font, please. You’re Welcome.

* Cher, also a parentless child, expressed her anguish in the seminal recording, “Half Breed”.

THE ANTLER CHRONICLES

The folks at Restoration Hardware have obviously misjudged the design sense of the Hotflash household. We recently received a shrink-wrapped package of catalogs from them. I put it on the scale. It weighed 5 pounds. It was a set of 3 books, Indoor, Outdoor, and “Big Style, Small Spaces!”

The catalogs were full of fascinating objects. For example, on page 67, there was an iron stag’s head, complete with very large antlers.

Besides the obvious problems of heaving an iron head on the wall, this raises the burning question, “Who wants this?” Here in fly-over country, if you want a head on the wall, you just get a gun, kill a mammal, and slap it on the wall. But maybe those crazy kids on the coasts think this is just the shiznit. Plus it’s vegan.

On page 308, you can find the “Salvaged Wood Vintner's Hutch”. This appears to be a stack of old wood pallets, which does fit the definition of both salvaged and wood. However, this item costs $2995, whereas I know of a dumpster where you pick up old pallets for free.

Page 476 regales us with “French Rope Chandeliers”, which look like macramé on steroids.  I did macrame in the 70’s and it looked tacky then, too.

As I ponder the meaning of life at 2AM, I wonder,”Who designs this claptrap? What are they teaching the kids in design/art/interior decorating/marketing school these days? Is there no adult supervision? Who can afford to buy a salvaged wood vintner's hutch, and do guests say, ‘Hey! That looks like a pile of old wood pallets!’”

We also receive the J. Crew catalog. Again, their marketers have misjudged the denizens of the Hotflash household, thinking we might actually wear (or fit in) these clothes. The J. Crew catalog is full of teensy little girls in teensy little pants, with such whimsical names such as, “toothpick jean” and “matchstick jean”.

There is an exercise in the social sciences called the “windshield survey”, in which you drive around the neighborhood or town you are analyzing, getting a feel for the general lay of the land (not unlike high school when we got in the family station wagon and drove to the A&W Root Beer stand and then the local lover’s lane, where we would honk at our classmates who were actually getting some action). Obviously, the designers at J. Crew never did a windshield survey of my neck of the woods, or they would note that most folks are a tad more substantial than matchsticks. It’s not just my town. I was in Texas last week, and those folks are no toothpicks, either.   

The men’s clothing is no better. The models all look like they came home from college for a funeral and had to wear their little brothers' sportcoat.   Again, as I survey the landscape, I spot no one who could wear these skinny mini jackets. Even child #2, a slender but well-toned young man, could not fit into these clothes. Countless hours of mind-numbing laps as a member of various swim teams have graced him with lats and shoulders that prevent him from sporting that underfed but fashionable look. Apparently one must either have the nutritional status of a crackhead (but with nice teeth, please!) or a muscle-wasting disease in order to wear J. Crew menswear.

Then there are the Athleta and Title 9 catalogs. These catalogs are basically interchangeable. They are full of photos of muscular young women with six-packs and broad shoulders, hauling surf boards and large dogs around.  Many pages are devoted to supporting the racks of these fine young women. But yet again, as I scrutinize the local population, I see neither rippling calf muscles or six packs (except of the carbonated kind).

It is a national tragedy to see how our fashion and interior designers are so out of touch with the real world. I recommend they leave their rarified confines for a tour of Real America, complete with our large butts and Barca-loungers. What a surprise for them! They would skulk back to the coasts, thinking to themselves, "Those people have no taste at all". But then maybe they would make some pants with a little more fabric in them.  For us. Please.