"So, uh," Carol said, "Do you need some clothes, or what?"
It was a dumb question and as I stood there towering over her, the tip of my penis dangling like mistletoe over the top of her head, I let the frustration well up in an eye-roll before suppressing it with a long breath, which shook the pictures displayed on the shelf. Of course I needed clothes. "Yeah," I said, "But I don't think Big Pete's Big & Tall will cut it.
"Where did the Incredible Hulk get those purple jean shorts?"
Carol laughed but I wasn't really joking, and I thought about pinching her. Realizing a simple pinch would snap her arm like a tortilla chip, though, I settled for glaring angrily at her. After a few short phone calls to local merchants, she shrugged her shoulders at me.
It was only because we sprung for the two-story condo with high ceilings that the public hadn't yet seen my birthday suit, which I'd been wearing since the transformation lay waste to my favorite pearl-snap shirt and the only pair of jeans that makes my package look formidable in any way. Speaking of--
My penis, I measured, was now around a foot, give or take, in length--but, taking proportion into account, it was still nothing to brag about. Brobdingnagian me hadn't lost his sense of shame, so I refused to go out and told Carol to leave and not return until she had found me something to wear. She grabbed her keys and left in a huff. I just stood in the living room trying not to bump into anything.
When Carol returned three hours later, she carried a huge flat box. "Well," I said.
"It's all I could find."
I got ready to scold Carol, and she produced a massive American flag from the box, the sort that fly outside of car dealerships. She said she had bought it from "Slick" Danny Barfield at Barfield Motors. "It'll have to do," I said,"until we find something more permanent."
Carol cut a hole in the middle of the flag, and stitched up the sides where my hips would go. It looked a little like a hospital gown when I put it on, only brighter, and more disrespectful.
With some makeshift raiment covering my shame, we decided to go into town to continue our search for proper pants. After a few unsuccessful attempts at wriggling my way through the front door, I looked at Carol. "I'm just going to have to, you know... Go through it."
Carol thought about protesting, but didn't. There was no other way.
So much to the chagrin of the folks at Valley View Condominium Homes, I got a running start and smashed my way through the front of the building--which, to be perfectly honest, felt pretty good. Almost like I was finally acting like a giant. The trip into town was a bit less vindicating.
As we walked through the streets, eyes fixed constantly to my heaving, star-spangled back, a veteran took exception to my choice of clothing and spat whiskey on my ankle. "You goddamned liberal queer!" he yelled, tilting his head dramatically from his wheelchair. "Go back to Russia." Carol tried to politely explain our situation, and when that didn't calm him, she gave him a push in the opposite direction and he rolled away, flailing his arm.
We roamed around aimlessly for a few more blocks, and as a great crowd began to form behind me, realized that neither of us knew where we were going. As we turned to go home, a throng of dead-eyed rubberneckers staring up at me with camera phones in hand, a little girl on a big wheel came barreling toward me. I stood still for fear of crushing her.
She seemed oblivious to my presence as she rode between my legs. Then, from somewhere beneath my flag-gown, I heard a dreadful, piercing scream.
I knew immediately what had happened. The first casualty of my being a grotesque leviathan was the innocence of the girl's eyes. She saw an awful, awful thing that day, and when I saw the crowd, simultaneously reaching for their cell phones, pointing and screeching about a 22-foot anti-American pervert on the loose, I felt the urge to climb a tall building. "We better go," I said, and Carol agreed. A fat man I took for the girl's father put his phone away and began frantically punching the side of my knee. "You communist pervert!" he said. "I'll kill you!" I glanced down at him, and chuckled at his threat. For a moment, I thought about kicking him, going on a real rampage. But I was tired, and his punches didn't really hurt. The sirens began to wail then and, accepting begrudgingly that I couldn't really hide, I stood silent, my knees together, hoping no one else got a good view of my crank.
This was red letter day for the police department, whose greatest responsibility, generally speaking, was keeping drivers at a reasonable speed and removing unauthorized signs--advertising garage sales, lost pets, and once a prostitute--from utility poles. The officers had dusted off their previously untouched SWAT gear and fired up the cavalry by the time they arrived, careening onto the scene to find Carol and I standing in a pond of curious onlookers. "Put up your hands, Freak Show!"
I put on a brave front for the crowd, beating my chest and doing my imitation of Chewbaca that everyone likes so much, but it was then, as I knelt in the streets listening to the cops argue over how to detain a 22-foot perp, that I knew for sure. Being a giant sucks ass.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
People Who Are Not Here
It was June in Dallas, the month in which the heat and the humidity announce their presence and cause elderly women to faint at Six Flags. Cars started to line up outside Buck’s West Village loft, which sat on the third floor of the trendiest building in the trendiest neighborhood in the trendiest city in Texas.
Buck had started early, like he always did in those days, and his girlfriend, Sara, sat on the couch meticulously painting her toenails the color of Barney the Dinosaur. She finished one foot and started on the other as Buck talked to no one in particular and drank from a bottle of Old Crow. The doorbell rang and Sara’s friend Rebecca walked in with a new guy.
He was named Keith, a tall, skinny kid in tall skinny jeans and a shirt that ironically declared that he was a loser. His hair was spiked in the back, and swooped in the front so as to cover one of his eyes, and he wore a bandana, for no apparent reason, on his wrist. This was Dallas.
Buck looked over Keith as the girls began talking.
“Uh, you want some whiskey?”
“Yeah,” Keith said. “Do you have any mixers?”
“We might have some Coke,” Buck said, “But it’s pretty old.”
As Buck tried to relate to Keith’s life as a club promoter, a “dope” job, Sara and Rebecca stood against a wall, discussing someone who was not there.
When Karina walked in, Sara whispered something into Rebecca’s ear to a hearty guffaw. The new girl passed by in her rounds, and Rebecca said, “I love your outfit!”
“Oh, thanks,” said Karina. “You look so cute tonight!”
Karina turned and Sara rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, “She’s so fake.”
In the natural evolution of the party, Karina found herself standing in a silent circle with the two girls. Every once in a while, the girls would sip their margaritas or check their phones, but no one spoke until Monica showed up.
Monica was a petite trust fund princess from outside of Waco, who came to Dallas to be nearer to Northpark Mall. She was a lofty, too skinny brunette, and, according to Karina, a card-carrying slut--or would be, anyway, if all sluts were issued identification cards to confirm their status as such.
“You know what else,” Karina whispered, “She always talks behind people’s backs. I can’t stand people like that. I’m real, you know?”
The two-woman garrison stood down then and asserted, indeed, that they were real as well.
A new world order, built on sand.
Keith was loudly vomiting up the whiskey supplied him by Buck, who took a sip to the spectacle and, for a moment, enjoyed a feeling of superiority. Rebecca ran off to tend to her guest, and, maybe, Buck thought, hold his hair back. Buck chuckled inaudibly at his joke.
“Hey bitches,” Monica cackled, a drink held aloft, a purse the size of a doormat hanging from the crook of her arm.
“Hey,” the girls said.
“That sucks about Keith,” she said. “He never could hold his liquor.”
“Do you know him?” Karina said.
“Oh yeah,” Monica said, “I introduced the two.” Monica’s voice turned quiet and she cast a stare at the ground. “I know you’re her friend,” Monica said, cutting her eyes back up at Sara, “But seriously, what’s up with Rebecca’s hair?”
Monica and Karina laughed, then Sara joined in. “I don’t know,” she said. “I tried to tell her, but...” She let her words dry up, her mouth still open.
“I mean, I love the girl,” Monica stipulated, “But she looks like Charles Manson.”
The girls laughed a stifled laugh, and Keith emerged with Rebecca from the bathroom, looking pale.
“Hey girl,” they said when Rebecca returned.
The music had turned from Kid Cudi to Miles Davis, and only four remained in the trendiest loft in the trendiest part of the trendiest city in Texas. Keith slept sitting up as Buck sipped his whiskey dead-eyed, and Sara and Rebecca sat on the couch speaking at a slightly less frenetic pace about people who were no longer there. “I mean, Karina’s nice,” Sara said, “But...” She looked at Rebecca to smash the ball from its perch on the tee.
“She’s such a slut,” Rebecca swung, her face hinting at incredulity. “And Monica, it’s like...”
“She’s so fucking fake,” Sara deduced. “I hate that."
Buck had started early, like he always did in those days, and his girlfriend, Sara, sat on the couch meticulously painting her toenails the color of Barney the Dinosaur. She finished one foot and started on the other as Buck talked to no one in particular and drank from a bottle of Old Crow. The doorbell rang and Sara’s friend Rebecca walked in with a new guy.
He was named Keith, a tall, skinny kid in tall skinny jeans and a shirt that ironically declared that he was a loser. His hair was spiked in the back, and swooped in the front so as to cover one of his eyes, and he wore a bandana, for no apparent reason, on his wrist. This was Dallas.
Buck looked over Keith as the girls began talking.
“Uh, you want some whiskey?”
“Yeah,” Keith said. “Do you have any mixers?”
“We might have some Coke,” Buck said, “But it’s pretty old.”
As Buck tried to relate to Keith’s life as a club promoter, a “dope” job, Sara and Rebecca stood against a wall, discussing someone who was not there.
When Karina walked in, Sara whispered something into Rebecca’s ear to a hearty guffaw. The new girl passed by in her rounds, and Rebecca said, “I love your outfit!”
“Oh, thanks,” said Karina. “You look so cute tonight!”
Karina turned and Sara rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, “She’s so fake.”
In the natural evolution of the party, Karina found herself standing in a silent circle with the two girls. Every once in a while, the girls would sip their margaritas or check their phones, but no one spoke until Monica showed up.
Monica was a petite trust fund princess from outside of Waco, who came to Dallas to be nearer to Northpark Mall. She was a lofty, too skinny brunette, and, according to Karina, a card-carrying slut--or would be, anyway, if all sluts were issued identification cards to confirm their status as such.
“You know what else,” Karina whispered, “She always talks behind people’s backs. I can’t stand people like that. I’m real, you know?”
The two-woman garrison stood down then and asserted, indeed, that they were real as well.
A new world order, built on sand.
Keith was loudly vomiting up the whiskey supplied him by Buck, who took a sip to the spectacle and, for a moment, enjoyed a feeling of superiority. Rebecca ran off to tend to her guest, and, maybe, Buck thought, hold his hair back. Buck chuckled inaudibly at his joke.
“Hey bitches,” Monica cackled, a drink held aloft, a purse the size of a doormat hanging from the crook of her arm.
“Hey,” the girls said.
“That sucks about Keith,” she said. “He never could hold his liquor.”
“Do you know him?” Karina said.
“Oh yeah,” Monica said, “I introduced the two.” Monica’s voice turned quiet and she cast a stare at the ground. “I know you’re her friend,” Monica said, cutting her eyes back up at Sara, “But seriously, what’s up with Rebecca’s hair?”
Monica and Karina laughed, then Sara joined in. “I don’t know,” she said. “I tried to tell her, but...” She let her words dry up, her mouth still open.
“I mean, I love the girl,” Monica stipulated, “But she looks like Charles Manson.”
The girls laughed a stifled laugh, and Keith emerged with Rebecca from the bathroom, looking pale.
“Hey girl,” they said when Rebecca returned.
The music had turned from Kid Cudi to Miles Davis, and only four remained in the trendiest loft in the trendiest part of the trendiest city in Texas. Keith slept sitting up as Buck sipped his whiskey dead-eyed, and Sara and Rebecca sat on the couch speaking at a slightly less frenetic pace about people who were no longer there. “I mean, Karina’s nice,” Sara said, “But...” She looked at Rebecca to smash the ball from its perch on the tee.
“She’s such a slut,” Rebecca swung, her face hinting at incredulity. “And Monica, it’s like...”
“She’s so fucking fake,” Sara deduced. “I hate that."
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Bathroom Break
Jason and Dave bristled in their chairs, Jason’s fingers tapping in succession down on the table. Their martinis had gone dry fifteen minutes before, but the girls from Burleson were engaged in that screeching, cackle-laden brand of conversation wont of some girls at that age, and they failed to notice.
Dave thought he heard one of them say she had a fever, but she was just talking about Justin Bieber. He cut a glance at Jason, his eyebrows raised and said, “Well, I’m going to powder my nose.”
Jason leaped from his seat and grabbed his European shoulder pouch. It was not a purse.
Jason made a beeline for the stall, while Dave checked on the thickness of his chinstrap. In the world of chinstraps, after all, vigilance is as necessary as, say, a precision trimmer, or the audacity to go into public with a chinstrap.
From his position in the stall, Jason groaned a horrible, guttural groan. “This is going terribly,” he said, speaking over the Thompson gun discharging beneath him. “A couple of dead fish out there.”
“Yeah,” Dave agreed, pulling a pair of trimmers from his European shoulder pouch, which was in no way a purse. “And did you see that girl’s eyeliner? I didn’t know we were going out with a couple of raccoons.”
“So 2004,” Jason grunted.
The Thompson gun started up again and then cut off abruptly. It was jammed, maybe. Then—it sounded like a dying bear. It smelled like a long-dead bear.
“Did you see my girl’s handbag?” Dave said, carefully disposing of rogue stubble. “It’s like, ‘the seventh grade called, it wants its taste in accessories back.’”
“You’re such a bitch,” Jason muttered, his teeth grinding audibly. “I love it, dude.”
“Are you almost done in there?” Dave said.
“Almost,” Jason said cryptically.
Dave unplugged the clippers and wrapped the cord around his hand. From inside the stall, the Thompson gun rattled fiercely for a moment or two before giving way to a Howitzer blast and, finally, silence.
Outside, the girls from Burleson were gone.
“Well,” Dave said, “I feel kind of bad. We were in there for a long time.”
Jason nodded.
“Let’s go get some ice cream!”
Dave thought he heard one of them say she had a fever, but she was just talking about Justin Bieber. He cut a glance at Jason, his eyebrows raised and said, “Well, I’m going to powder my nose.”
Jason leaped from his seat and grabbed his European shoulder pouch. It was not a purse.
Jason made a beeline for the stall, while Dave checked on the thickness of his chinstrap. In the world of chinstraps, after all, vigilance is as necessary as, say, a precision trimmer, or the audacity to go into public with a chinstrap.
From his position in the stall, Jason groaned a horrible, guttural groan. “This is going terribly,” he said, speaking over the Thompson gun discharging beneath him. “A couple of dead fish out there.”
“Yeah,” Dave agreed, pulling a pair of trimmers from his European shoulder pouch, which was in no way a purse. “And did you see that girl’s eyeliner? I didn’t know we were going out with a couple of raccoons.”
“So 2004,” Jason grunted.
The Thompson gun started up again and then cut off abruptly. It was jammed, maybe. Then—it sounded like a dying bear. It smelled like a long-dead bear.
“Did you see my girl’s handbag?” Dave said, carefully disposing of rogue stubble. “It’s like, ‘the seventh grade called, it wants its taste in accessories back.’”
“You’re such a bitch,” Jason muttered, his teeth grinding audibly. “I love it, dude.”
“Are you almost done in there?” Dave said.
“Almost,” Jason said cryptically.
Dave unplugged the clippers and wrapped the cord around his hand. From inside the stall, the Thompson gun rattled fiercely for a moment or two before giving way to a Howitzer blast and, finally, silence.
Outside, the girls from Burleson were gone.
“Well,” Dave said, “I feel kind of bad. We were in there for a long time.”
Jason nodded.
“Let’s go get some ice cream!”
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Kids These Days
Oh sure, young man, you know it all. I guess you’ve just figured everything out. You know exactly what life has to offer. Yeah, I know. I’ve been there. But let me tell you something: You don’t know a thing.
Life isn’t about Playstation and trying to feel up young women. Those are nice things, sure, but you think that’s what life is? It’s not--and I know, son. I’ve been on this earth for 23 years, and I’ve learned a thing or two. No, no, life isn’t about Full House marathons, or two-for-a dollar tacos, which seems like a great deal until you find a pubic hair. Life is all about candiru fish. Oh, never heard of it, have you? Well, that’s surprising. I imagined Miley might have covered that in one of her songs.
Yeah, of course I’m being facetious you pubescent ignoramus. I wouldn’t know in the first place, and from all I can tell, her subject matter extends about as far as semi-threatening boys in old pickup trucks--so you know they have that ever-so-charming down-home quality to them. But shut up, kid, I’m not done. I’ll leave you plenty of time to get back to that Jonas Brothers concert. And that’s another thing: Back in my day, rock stars had unprotected sex with women of ill repute, and we loved them for it. But that’s beside the point.
Hey, go get me a beer so I can get my thoughts together...
(Several minutes later)
Thanks kid. Anyway—damn, that’s good—you want a beer? You’re 12? Never stopped me, but suit yourself.
Listen here: you don’t know a thing, regardless of what your TAAS test score might have me believe. Have you ever woken up in a gorilla suit, covered in blood? No? Yeah, exactly--you don’t know a thing. Have you ever bought a woman an engagement ring and proposed as part of an elaborate April Fool’s joke? No, that’s not mean—that’s life, kid.
Have you ever spit whiskey at an active member of congress? Ha. Then what do you know? What could you possibly know about life until you’ve been tazed by a Puerto Rican ice-head in a clown suit?
Have you ever written a beautiful script—set onboard an ill-fated steam liner, of a love so strong it transcends all economic and social barriers—only to find out that Titanic came out ten fucking years ago? I didn’t think so. But that’s what life is all about, kid. Well, that, and the candiru fish.
Oh, right, the candiru fish.
If you really want to know what life is all about, consider the candiru fish. It’s a small, parasitic fish native to the Amazon. Anyhow, it’s been known to swim up your urethra when you’re taking a piss. It gets lodged in there—in your pee hole—until a doctor removes it, which sometimes takes surgery. Stop crying—you’re almost a man. Start acting like it.
So you want to know what life is? Life is hanging out in a river, taking a piss, when all of a sudden a fish with spines on its back lodges itself in your urethra. Oh, it’s never happened to me personally, but this guy I know—he had to have surgery, and when they were done with him, it looked like he had a bunch of Slim Jims hanging from his lower torso.
I’m not saying it will happen to you. I’m just saying that it could; and if it doesn’t, something equally bad will happen—the candiru is just a metaphor, you see. It could be an ex-wife who lodges herself in your urethra—or the IRS—or a maybe a pushy 12-year-old. But at some point down the line, you’ll be the candiru fish, willfully swimming up someone else’s urethra. And that, young man, is what living is all about. Do you understand? Good. Now dry those eyes. It’s time for your Little League game.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Excerpts From "The Sexiest Vampire"
Dylan and Maria lay in Maria’s bed talking about nothing in particular. The sun was going down, and Dylan felt hungry for blood. Or Taco Bell, maybe. Maria got up to go to the bathroom, and Dylan feigned sleep. He knew that if he was asleep, he might be allowed to stay the night. Humans, unlike vampires, are hesitant to wake someone when they’re asleep--a charming attribute, Dylan thought.
Behind his closed eyes, he listened as the sink ran, and he went over his game plan. She’d lie down, and maybe try to rile him awake. He’d whimper and sort of roll around a little. Eventually, she’d accept it. Then it would be groping time.
The sink stopped and he let his mouth hang agape just a bit. He tried to pull air through his nasal passages to produce a snoring sound. Through his eyelids, he could see that the sun had almost set.
Dylan heard Maria walk into her room, but she didn’t shut the door. She sat on the bed, and shook him. “Dylan,” she said, whispering at first. “Dylan.”
She shook him harder, but he remained steadfast. “Dylan--,” she finally said. “My Dad said you have to leave.”
Dylan employed phase two, and rolled over gingerly. “What?” he groaned, “Did I fall asleep?”
“I guess,” said Maria. “But, um, aren’t you a vampire?”
“Of course I am,” whimpered Dylan, still holding tight to the plan.
“I thought vampires don’t sleep at night.”
“No, yeah, I know,” Dylan said, sitting up finally. “I just thought...”
“I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” she said, pulling him toward the door.
Dylan wanted to protest, but he couldn’t.
“Man, this is bullshit,” he finally said.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
Friday, April 2, 2010
Excerpts From "The Sexiest Vampire"
“Please,” said Maria. “I’m not asking you to give up your family. I’m asking you to love me.”
Dylan’s eyes stood on hers unflinching. Through her hand, he felt something virgin, something new. That rare and exhilarating feeling of going somewhere you don’t know—of watching something that you don’t quite understand.
Looking into her eyes, Maria was at a dramatic precipice. Dylan wanted to pull her back. He wanted to pull her into his arms and reassure her, protect her. But the feeling was so new, so powerful and so foreign that he balked at the idea. Is this love? he thought. Is this it?
These are the moments, the decisions, which will not be forgotten, for good or for ill. Strangely, Dylan recognized this. And as he walked away from Maria, as he saw that rare, anxious energy deflating, he held his head a little higher.
Dylan knew that it wasn’t love. No, Dylan knew that this strange feeling was not a real love for Maria, but rather a severe case of diarrhea.
Dylan hoped the kids would turn out all right. Then he started running, because it was really severe diarrhea.
Dylan’s eyes stood on hers unflinching. Through her hand, he felt something virgin, something new. That rare and exhilarating feeling of going somewhere you don’t know—of watching something that you don’t quite understand.
Looking into her eyes, Maria was at a dramatic precipice. Dylan wanted to pull her back. He wanted to pull her into his arms and reassure her, protect her. But the feeling was so new, so powerful and so foreign that he balked at the idea. Is this love? he thought. Is this it?
These are the moments, the decisions, which will not be forgotten, for good or for ill. Strangely, Dylan recognized this. And as he walked away from Maria, as he saw that rare, anxious energy deflating, he held his head a little higher.
Dylan knew that it wasn’t love. No, Dylan knew that this strange feeling was not a real love for Maria, but rather a severe case of diarrhea.
Dylan hoped the kids would turn out all right. Then he started running, because it was really severe diarrhea.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Reginald Pennyfarthing’s Golden Rules For Elegance, Success, and More Laudanum Than You Could Ever Handle
Vol. 1: Behaviour
1.Remember that being a Dandy, and thereby living a successful (if not always coherent) life, is about superiority. Do not attempt to find commonality with your underlings. Whether a Burger King employee or a savage on the island of Borneo, Reginald Pennyfarthing leaves no doubt as to who is the British gentleman and who is the very dross of society. Perhaps you shouldn’t either.
2.Treat ladies as ladies. Once, I was in a stagecoach passing through the interior of Siam, when I saw a young native woman on the side of the road. She looked rather tired and famished. Naturally, I was disgusted. However, Reginald Pennyfarthing is nothing if not a gentleman. I hit my driver with a crop whip and instructed him to halt. That he did, and for a mere three pence, I allowed the young woman to hold onto the side of our coach for most of the rest of her journey. If she wasn’t so filthy, I rather fancy I could’ve had her in my bedchamber that night. The lesson is, treat a lady like a lady.
3.Naguib Mahfouz, who I’d imagine is some sort of Indian guide, once said, “You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.” Well, that bit rings nice, but I’m here to tell you it’s utterly untrue. Dandies aren’t dandies because they ask questions; they are dandies because they ridicule those who do. Should you be asked a question to which you don’t have the answer, chuckle in such a condescending way that all those around you will find the asker to be a dullard not fit for your company.
4.There is never a situation ill suited for a drink. A funeral, a baby shower, even an alcoholics anonymous meeting—a true dandy does not turn down a drink, unless, of course, it is offered by an underling, in which case you deride him for whatever swill he is drinking. And then take it.
5.Thou shalt wear a moustache. This is an easy one. Of course, the moustache has gone out of fashion somewhat courtesy of your Cosmopolitans and Men’s Healths of the world, which distribute anti-moustache propaganda like the very Josef Goebbels of facial hair. But this shouldn’t stop you from cultivating your moustache with all the care of a newborn. And despite what women might say, know this: They love the bristly feel of a man’s ‘tache against their face.
Next: Vol. 2: Diet
1.Remember that being a Dandy, and thereby living a successful (if not always coherent) life, is about superiority. Do not attempt to find commonality with your underlings. Whether a Burger King employee or a savage on the island of Borneo, Reginald Pennyfarthing leaves no doubt as to who is the British gentleman and who is the very dross of society. Perhaps you shouldn’t either.
2.Treat ladies as ladies. Once, I was in a stagecoach passing through the interior of Siam, when I saw a young native woman on the side of the road. She looked rather tired and famished. Naturally, I was disgusted. However, Reginald Pennyfarthing is nothing if not a gentleman. I hit my driver with a crop whip and instructed him to halt. That he did, and for a mere three pence, I allowed the young woman to hold onto the side of our coach for most of the rest of her journey. If she wasn’t so filthy, I rather fancy I could’ve had her in my bedchamber that night. The lesson is, treat a lady like a lady.
3.Naguib Mahfouz, who I’d imagine is some sort of Indian guide, once said, “You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.” Well, that bit rings nice, but I’m here to tell you it’s utterly untrue. Dandies aren’t dandies because they ask questions; they are dandies because they ridicule those who do. Should you be asked a question to which you don’t have the answer, chuckle in such a condescending way that all those around you will find the asker to be a dullard not fit for your company.
4.There is never a situation ill suited for a drink. A funeral, a baby shower, even an alcoholics anonymous meeting—a true dandy does not turn down a drink, unless, of course, it is offered by an underling, in which case you deride him for whatever swill he is drinking. And then take it.
5.Thou shalt wear a moustache. This is an easy one. Of course, the moustache has gone out of fashion somewhat courtesy of your Cosmopolitans and Men’s Healths of the world, which distribute anti-moustache propaganda like the very Josef Goebbels of facial hair. But this shouldn’t stop you from cultivating your moustache with all the care of a newborn. And despite what women might say, know this: They love the bristly feel of a man’s ‘tache against their face.
Next: Vol. 2: Diet
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