Hi. I still have, in the "sentimental" section of the closet bar, a pair of tie-bleached Levis from 1968 that "did", or "almost did", get me kicked out of High School in Salt Lake City. The PROBLEM was the patches themselves, not their "content". Those bozos wouldn't know content from dis-content. (The "Zig-Zag Man", of rolling-papers fame, placed in an central-courtyard sidewalk painting we framed in a giant dollar bill rubbed on the concrete over days with little colored stones, like lunchtime prisoners ~ was announced over the P.A. system to be Fidel Castro.) Arrrgh. (It wasn't etched; the rain washed it off ~ but it was a beauty and it became a balming activity ~ we weren't into vandalism, never were. We were "good" kids, you see.)
Our wonderful girlfriends had begun to lovingly sew our Levis into bromides de bliss. They routinely went so far as to open the leg, by hand, all the way to the knee (believe me, "Mormon girls" know how to sew) to patch over the illegal disintegration from faded blue to flesh-pink kneecap within white-thread shoreline. (Something about "needing an open-arm machine" to do this engineering feat.) They scouted and found the most colorful materials, and then took the bus or the Fairlane over to the house to kiss (yum), and then ponder the choices with us boys. They sewed a double-quilt patch in some fine shape ~ lots of violet and carmines and paisleys were popular; some bright Mexican fabrics ~ then they sewed them back up; and two weeks later a new fissure would be appearing atop the new patch. We were conscious of not kneeling or abrading, but eventually you had a thighful; like beautiful badges and armor of honor.
(And it sure as **** meant you had a girl ~ FRIEND.) :o)
Rear-end patches were comparatively simple, and pretty abundant. On one of the pair I still have, above an iridescence of purple and oranges, is a bright black and white circular patch of Mr Natural. I spose they thought he was Father Time.
They were confused a lot.
MJ herself sewed him on for me; Now, that would be thirty years ago.
I got pulled down to the office, (you know this is important stuff out of 3,200 kids), and the slip was for The Principal, not the honest-to-god ex-marine sargent Vice Principal. Sometime earlier that year, the PhD himself had decided to start "handling my case." My classmates were freeking impressed; especially the young ladies.
He was in a big office, back behind bunkers of secretaries and phones and machines forming the coastal defenses. He hadn't "seen" the patches, which were my first set, ones my Mother had sewn on, in the summer, of a Hawaiian fabric ~ no, wait, apparently they were the School's first set ~ and I was kind of forced to turn around and show them to him. He took off his glasses and leaned over while I wondered how he'd even HEARD of them. He told me I could sit down, but I couldn't wear those pants anymore. I was amazed. I can still remember the conversation; my whole enquiry into The Minds of Culture.
I didn't realize til later how completely out-gunned he was, either.
He wound up calling me mother at home while I was there.
But the part that pissed me off, was one of his late fall-backs, after a series of truly pathetic, illogical, and blasphemously countered (I was soo... naive) explanations: "Anyone who lives on _______ Avenue, can AFFORD to wear pants without patches on them."
Jeez I was pissed.
What an attitude; what arrogance; what insensitivity to everyone. And what the hell kind of FBI was he running? (He even looked like Hoover.)
When it added up with everything else going on, WAR had been declared.
He lost.
(PS ~ "Calling Mom" was another mistake.)
(He wasn't having a good year.)
The year was kind of his-own personal Nam;
eye-opening;
and even though it wasn't Nam,
for him,
it was still "a series of crushing defeats".
Nam was for us; their "young people". |
