CSotD: I left my heart with Francisco
Skip to comments
Start with a snippet from a thoughtful piece by Sara Lautman and Esther Werdiger at Lennyletter about seeing a tattoo that was more thought-provoking than the recipient probably intended, or, at least, it provoked thoughts she hadn't been trying to. The comic takes its name from the tat: "Property of Francisco" and there you have the core.
I sometimes have to sort my philosophical tendencies from my old-man-out-of-touch tendencies, but they overlap here because I remember back in the early 60s, before women got tattooes but wore those little ankle chains they called "slave bracelets."
There were other ways to show you were going steady, the best-remembered being wearing the guy's letter sweater, another being for the couple to exchange ID bracelets, or, more commonly, for her to wear his.
While I had two girlfriends in the course of high school, there was only one with whom I was formally in a "steady" relationship. The sense of security of everyone knowing I had a steady was pleasant.
Still, I remember seeing "slave bracelets" and thinking that the term was pushing the objectification and ownership thing over a line that had as much to do with self-image as with guys being possessive.
Similarly, the notion of a tat saying "Property of Francisco" justifies some extended graphic pondering. Go read that.
My old-man issue about tats is that, as the 60s were turning 70s, tattooes remained the nearly-exclusive demesne of sailors, marines, bikers and ex-cons, but the street scene was beginning to embrace the latter two and I thought about getting a tat.
My problem was mostly that, at 20, I couldn't think of anything I'd still want on my skin at 40 or 50.
There was a guy who had a Zig Zag Man on his forearm, and I knew I would probably outgrow that, plus, having spent some time within commuting distance of the Chicago police, I didn't think a "please search me" indicator was a good idea.
But having just looked for that logo, I find that "Zig Zag Man tattoo" is its own suggested category at Google Images and that right there is a whole second consideration.
At our wedding in March, 1970, we had the priest read "Desiderata," which was still fresh and inspiring for our Boulder friends and brand-new for our relatives, but, within weeks, the damn thing began popping up everywhere, mostly in the form of a drearily sincere Top-40 version by talk-show host Les Crane that was in such heavy rotation that the National Lampoon came up with their much better version.
I wouldn't want such an embarrassingly over-exposed cliche permanently inked on my arm.
I'll stand by that, but I'll readily admit that there is also an old-man element to be dismissed: My first real job after college was selling vacuum cleaners for a neighbor who had to wear long sleeves when making sales presentations himself because his arms proclaimed "This guy has spent a whole lot of time in the joint."
Tattooes don't mean that anymore. But there's still room to ponder the significance of "Property of Francisco."
And speaking of permanence, Pardon My Planet brings up something that was missing from the aforesaid courtship and wedding: A diamond ring.
It was no big deal at the time: We considered getting married at Annie Evans Lookout until we recognized the logistics of schlepping the elder relatives up there. But she made her own dress, I had to track down the band, who lived in two buses at 9,500 feet, and our celebrant was a priest who had either quit or been defrocked for his militant activism (a sympathetic Episcopal priest signed the license).
So the diamond didn't matter but in later years, when my writing began to earn a little money, I began to think about getting her a ring.
Instead, we got a divorce.
Though she called yesterday and we chatted for about 45 minutes. I'm also thinking about going to a high school reunion in a few weeks which is being organized by my ex-steady. Just because things change, you don't have to be a jerk.
Anyway, I still don't see the point of caving in to De Beers mythology. Diamonds may or may not be forever, but the payments are.
On the tangential topic of being an old man, John Deering tosses out a memory for those of us old enough to remember Ernie Kovacs, and does it in a cartoon that is funny even if you don't, which shows a deft touch.
Not his fault that, as a wee lad, I was completely freaked out by the Nairobi Trio.
I was good with clowns, but those guys gave me nightmares.
Now, where were we? Oh, yes.
Speaking of expensive things, Dogs of C-Kennel offers this cut-rate alternative to Alexa, who, by the way, was being deeply discounted yesterday during Amazon's Prime Day sale.
She's my go-to for all sorts of things and would be moreso if my life were more wired and connected. I should probably get an ID bracelet and loop it around her. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and "Alexa, play some Mark Knopfler," and wilderness were paradise enow.
Though she's more of a Mrs. Peel than a girlfriend. Smart, resourceful, capable and fashionably alluring in black.
If you have ever had — and lost — a Mrs. Peel at work, you know that they are much, much harder to replace than any romantic interest.
And much harder to retain, since if they are really that smart and resourceful and capable in the first place, well, being anybody's sidekick becomes a little boring. I lost one who, the day she left — the day she freaking left — began making more than twice what I did.
At which point she could buy her own damn diamonds, if she wanted them.
Now here's your Juxtaposition of Moments of Romantic Zen:
The Classic:
and the Contemporary:
Comments 4
Comments are closed.