Here we go again: Snowmageddon, Deux.
Luckily, most of us survived the first one two weeks ago, but we are not likely to make it this time. Here we are supposed to get twenty inches with gale force winds. Run for your lives.
Housebound once again, I am more likely to die of boredom. Kathie is home today and cleaning closets and making to-do lists, so eventually I will be dragged from my hiding place and put to work.
If you are getting the impression that the only time I write to this page is when I am bored and have nothing else to do, you may be right.
So for now, in an effort to look busy and dodge hanging pictures in the living room, I am scanning the news on my AOL browser. You learn things here that you never see in the New York Times. At least you could learn them if you could just click on the headlines before they disappear. I, of course, cannot, so what information I can mine comes from the teasers. Here is a sampling
. TIGER WOODS IS A “SEX ADDICT.” Really? If I knew this was an option, I never would have settled for becoming an alcoholic.
. THERE ARE SUPRISING NEW WAYS TO USE LIP BALM ON YOUR FLOORS. Chapped linoleum maybe?
. THREE THINGS YOU CAN DO FOR FLAKY LIPS. I can only think of two: don’t make strange remarks and don’t use the tube of lip balm your spouse cleaned the bathroom with. I’m stumped for a third.
. Speaking of stumps: WOMAN CAN’T STAND HER SHORT LEGS. The up side: she can apply lip balm to her floor without bending down.
. WOMAN ADMITS HER JOWLS BUG HER.
. WOMAN SACRIFICES SWEETS FOR LENT. What is it about you women? It’s always about YOU. My legs are so short my jowls drag on the ground, but I’m not whining to AOL about it.
. NEWLY DISCOVERED DINOSAUR SWALLOWED FOOD WHOLE. I gave up swallowing my food whole for lent.
. JOHN MAYER RESUSCITATES REP WITH HELP FROM TWEEN. Huh? Someone named Mayer either saved his congressman with help from a twelve year old, or his under-age sweetheart dropped the statutory rape charge.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Snowy Thoughts
It is really snowing hard now. According to Weather Channel, and other hysterical news outlets, we are all about to die. Snowmaggedon is what they are calling it.
Washington, DC, is buried in the white stuff and the government has come to a virtual halt. I wonder at what point we average angry voters will notice that the government has come to a grinding halt? I thought the Party of No had accomplished that mission a long time ago.
Around here they are calling for 3 inches to a foot. That’s a lot of wiggle room. In the guy world that is the difference between stuffing your crotch with a sock and being a highly paid porn star.
Here’s a bulletin: they are just trying to scare us and keep us glued to our TV sets. I am not afraid of snow. I commuted through some doozies in my 35 years going into New York and got stranded more than once. Never as disastrously as a friend who was stuck on a bus in the Lincoln Tunnel with a gospel group that sang for 9 hours straight. He had a Castro Convertible put in his office the very next day.
It’s the same thing with Sarah Palin. She is all over the TV (not that I see her anymore since I blocked her with my parental controls) and the media is buzzing about the millions she is getting from Fox News to mount a serious presidential bid in 2012.
Now they have really succeeded in scaring me. Freezing to death in a snow drift sounds like a refreshing treat compared with being slowly rogued to death for 8 years. The plus side is maybe my future autobiographical memoir, “Goin’ ExPat”, will finally bump her's off the best seller list.
I just looked out the window and, if anything, it is snowing harder. Kathie’s school closed today so I know she is hiding somewhere here in the house. She knows that sooner or later I will find her and begin whining about how we wouldn’t have to put up with this if we moved to Florida. She doesn’t like Florida, and I do.
As I put on my hat, coat and gloves and shoulder my snow shovel on my way to reconnect us with civilization, I tip my tam to those elderly shovelers who gave their lives to keep their sidewalks safe for meter maids, defecating dogs, and skateboarders.
If I make it back alive, I will have a toddy. If I don’t, what the hell, at least I will never have to sit through President Palin’s State of the Union Address.
Washington, DC, is buried in the white stuff and the government has come to a virtual halt. I wonder at what point we average angry voters will notice that the government has come to a grinding halt? I thought the Party of No had accomplished that mission a long time ago.
Around here they are calling for 3 inches to a foot. That’s a lot of wiggle room. In the guy world that is the difference between stuffing your crotch with a sock and being a highly paid porn star.
Here’s a bulletin: they are just trying to scare us and keep us glued to our TV sets. I am not afraid of snow. I commuted through some doozies in my 35 years going into New York and got stranded more than once. Never as disastrously as a friend who was stuck on a bus in the Lincoln Tunnel with a gospel group that sang for 9 hours straight. He had a Castro Convertible put in his office the very next day.
It’s the same thing with Sarah Palin. She is all over the TV (not that I see her anymore since I blocked her with my parental controls) and the media is buzzing about the millions she is getting from Fox News to mount a serious presidential bid in 2012.
Now they have really succeeded in scaring me. Freezing to death in a snow drift sounds like a refreshing treat compared with being slowly rogued to death for 8 years. The plus side is maybe my future autobiographical memoir, “Goin’ ExPat”, will finally bump her's off the best seller list.
I just looked out the window and, if anything, it is snowing harder. Kathie’s school closed today so I know she is hiding somewhere here in the house. She knows that sooner or later I will find her and begin whining about how we wouldn’t have to put up with this if we moved to Florida. She doesn’t like Florida, and I do.
As I put on my hat, coat and gloves and shoulder my snow shovel on my way to reconnect us with civilization, I tip my tam to those elderly shovelers who gave their lives to keep their sidewalks safe for meter maids, defecating dogs, and skateboarders.
If I make it back alive, I will have a toddy. If I don’t, what the hell, at least I will never have to sit through President Palin’s State of the Union Address.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Soiled Sneaker
It rained in torrents on Monday, my regular gym day.
Usually, I wear my sneakers and change into my shorts and tee shirt when I get there. The YMCA is a 15 minute drive from my house.
I decided, in a rare flash of consideration for my fellow gymnasts, to pack my sneakers in a plastic bag because the shoes I was wearing were bound to get soaked and muddy up the Nautilus machines. Kathie was stunned to hear this, since my usual modus operandi is to come into the house from the rain and head right for the living room carpet. It always annoys me that my neighbor requires that we remove our shoes before entering her house. Where does she think she lives? Tokyo?
However, as the old cliché goes, no good deed goes unpunished. When I arrived at the locker room, I removed my shoes and took my sneakers from the bag. To my dismay, I discovered a generous helping of dog poop ground into the sole of my left sneaker. Now I was faced with a perplexing quandary: wet shoes or poopy shoes.
The trainer already had his eye on me from a previous encounter. We nautili are required to spray down each machine we have completed with disinfectant and finish with a wipe with a paper towel. I approach this in the same manner as washing my car: a good soaking always gets the job done. I gather he had some complaints from some gym prima donnas who took umbrage at sitting in a puddle and completing their work out with soggy bums. He felt compelled to take me by the ear and demonstrate proper clean-up technique.
He completed the demonstration by saying that he thought it a trifle OCD-ish to spray down the computer screens. Guys tap on those screens with their stinky fingers (yuck!) I was about to inform him but decided that, since he was one bulked up dude, I would let it slide.
I opted to have a go at cleaning up the poop. Anyone who has ever gotten dog dropping ground into the grooves of their sneakers knows how daunting a task it is to remove it. At home my usual technique is to take the sneakers out to the driveway, wedge them soles outward against the garage door, and blast away with my power washer. Voila, like new. (Those of you who have arrived at this blog by googling “cleaning dog poop from sneakers” have hit pay dirt (as it were) because this really works.)
The next best thing is to give them a hearty scrub with a tooth brush. I briefly thought of rifling through the unlocked lockers in search of same, but instead went to work with water and paper towel. I turned the tap on as high as it would go and scrubbed away with the towels. I kept one eye on the door for the trainer because the sight of me washing the soles of my sneakers would only confirm his OCD diagnosis.
At last I was relatively confident that the shoe was clean enough not to soil the machines. To be on the safe side, I decided to do all of my exercises on my heels with toes and insole pointed in the air.
“That’s NOT how I showed you how to do it,” the trainer harshly observed.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Usually, I wear my sneakers and change into my shorts and tee shirt when I get there. The YMCA is a 15 minute drive from my house.
I decided, in a rare flash of consideration for my fellow gymnasts, to pack my sneakers in a plastic bag because the shoes I was wearing were bound to get soaked and muddy up the Nautilus machines. Kathie was stunned to hear this, since my usual modus operandi is to come into the house from the rain and head right for the living room carpet. It always annoys me that my neighbor requires that we remove our shoes before entering her house. Where does she think she lives? Tokyo?
However, as the old cliché goes, no good deed goes unpunished. When I arrived at the locker room, I removed my shoes and took my sneakers from the bag. To my dismay, I discovered a generous helping of dog poop ground into the sole of my left sneaker. Now I was faced with a perplexing quandary: wet shoes or poopy shoes.
The trainer already had his eye on me from a previous encounter. We nautili are required to spray down each machine we have completed with disinfectant and finish with a wipe with a paper towel. I approach this in the same manner as washing my car: a good soaking always gets the job done. I gather he had some complaints from some gym prima donnas who took umbrage at sitting in a puddle and completing their work out with soggy bums. He felt compelled to take me by the ear and demonstrate proper clean-up technique.
He completed the demonstration by saying that he thought it a trifle OCD-ish to spray down the computer screens. Guys tap on those screens with their stinky fingers (yuck!) I was about to inform him but decided that, since he was one bulked up dude, I would let it slide.
I opted to have a go at cleaning up the poop. Anyone who has ever gotten dog dropping ground into the grooves of their sneakers knows how daunting a task it is to remove it. At home my usual technique is to take the sneakers out to the driveway, wedge them soles outward against the garage door, and blast away with my power washer. Voila, like new. (Those of you who have arrived at this blog by googling “cleaning dog poop from sneakers” have hit pay dirt (as it were) because this really works.)
The next best thing is to give them a hearty scrub with a tooth brush. I briefly thought of rifling through the unlocked lockers in search of same, but instead went to work with water and paper towel. I turned the tap on as high as it would go and scrubbed away with the towels. I kept one eye on the door for the trainer because the sight of me washing the soles of my sneakers would only confirm his OCD diagnosis.
At last I was relatively confident that the shoe was clean enough not to soil the machines. To be on the safe side, I decided to do all of my exercises on my heels with toes and insole pointed in the air.
“That’s NOT how I showed you how to do it,” the trainer harshly observed.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Old People Go Shopping
I turned 65 on January 6.
I know. It’s taken me this long to face up to it.
I went grocery shopping at our local Shop Rite recently, not on my usual day, and found the store awash with other old people. I started to cheer up since most of them seemed to be older and further gone than I. Maybe it was shopping day at the managed care facility.
I stood there and watched them drift aimlessly about the aisles like those colorful fish on the early screen savers clearly having forgotten what they were looking for or why they were there. It takes a little doing to navigate the store around old people. They park there carts in the middle of the aisle and wander off; they walk out from aisles into the main corridors without so much as a glance; they check every potato.
The PA system fairly crackles with updates on their doings: “Someone has left a pair of glasses in aisle six”; “clean-up in the dairy aisle.”
I pull into a check out lane with just one very elderly couple ahead of me. The clerk on duty is a pro and clearly passed the Old Person Management course. “Dear, are you sure you want seven loaves of pound cake,” she asks the old woman.
Just then an announcement comes over the PA: “Someone has taken the wrong cart. If you have a chocolate cake, and didn’t intend to buy a chocolate cake, you have the wrong cart.” I look down the row of shoppers waiting behind me and all are checking for the incriminating chocolate cake. I don’t look in my cart. I have decided to face it out even if I am the offending cake purloiner: “Yes, I meant to buy the chocolate cake. And yes, I MEANT to buy 5 bottles of stool softener.”
The clerk finishes up the pair ahead of me and in one fluid motion snatches the credit card from the old gent’s hand, spins the input screen around to face her, swipes his card, and hands it back to him. A real pro.
As she starts checking me out, she notices a bag left by the aged duo and hollers toward them as they lumber through the doors. There is no response. I snatch the bag and with a relative burst of speed race toward the glacially moving couple and deposit the bag in their cart. They don’t seem to notice and continue on their way. When I return to the check out the clerk says: “You’re probably the only person in the store right now who could have made that move.” I am feeling younger by the minute. I compliment her on her deft credit card snatch and swipe. “NEVER let them swipe their own cards,” she replies.
I pass the last check out station as I leave. Suddenly, bells start sounding and a light over the station starts blinking frantically. An old chap stands there with his credit card in his hand and with a stunned expression on his face. “Now what do I do?,” he asks. A rookie clerk, I assume.
I know. It’s taken me this long to face up to it.
I went grocery shopping at our local Shop Rite recently, not on my usual day, and found the store awash with other old people. I started to cheer up since most of them seemed to be older and further gone than I. Maybe it was shopping day at the managed care facility.
I stood there and watched them drift aimlessly about the aisles like those colorful fish on the early screen savers clearly having forgotten what they were looking for or why they were there. It takes a little doing to navigate the store around old people. They park there carts in the middle of the aisle and wander off; they walk out from aisles into the main corridors without so much as a glance; they check every potato.
The PA system fairly crackles with updates on their doings: “Someone has left a pair of glasses in aisle six”; “clean-up in the dairy aisle.”
I pull into a check out lane with just one very elderly couple ahead of me. The clerk on duty is a pro and clearly passed the Old Person Management course. “Dear, are you sure you want seven loaves of pound cake,” she asks the old woman.
Just then an announcement comes over the PA: “Someone has taken the wrong cart. If you have a chocolate cake, and didn’t intend to buy a chocolate cake, you have the wrong cart.” I look down the row of shoppers waiting behind me and all are checking for the incriminating chocolate cake. I don’t look in my cart. I have decided to face it out even if I am the offending cake purloiner: “Yes, I meant to buy the chocolate cake. And yes, I MEANT to buy 5 bottles of stool softener.”
The clerk finishes up the pair ahead of me and in one fluid motion snatches the credit card from the old gent’s hand, spins the input screen around to face her, swipes his card, and hands it back to him. A real pro.
As she starts checking me out, she notices a bag left by the aged duo and hollers toward them as they lumber through the doors. There is no response. I snatch the bag and with a relative burst of speed race toward the glacially moving couple and deposit the bag in their cart. They don’t seem to notice and continue on their way. When I return to the check out the clerk says: “You’re probably the only person in the store right now who could have made that move.” I am feeling younger by the minute. I compliment her on her deft credit card snatch and swipe. “NEVER let them swipe their own cards,” she replies.
I pass the last check out station as I leave. Suddenly, bells start sounding and a light over the station starts blinking frantically. An old chap stands there with his credit card in his hand and with a stunned expression on his face. “Now what do I do?,” he asks. A rookie clerk, I assume.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I Broke My
The letter “ " on my computer just stopped working.
I don’t know why. It could be some English Muffin or Swiss cheese got in there. Seems like I’ll need to get in touch with the geek group. It’ll be over $150 to blow out some crumbs, I’m sure.
There goes the piece I’m editing on the epic outfielder Hnk Ron titled “Hnk Ron: Plyer's Plyer.” Also, sunk is the one I’m doing on NY’s Rodriguez cold shouldering of the big time rock singer: “Rigid Rod Won’t Bend on Mdonn.” Nd who will know what my piece “Scndl Stlks Brrck Obm” is even bout?
There goes my expose of the huge uto club and the help group for drinkers.
Seems like only yesterdy tht I hd n endless supply of them. Oh, those were the dys! Just tp on the key issued stedy strem of the little buggers. Mybe tht’s wht hppned. Mybe I just rn out.
Someone told me Microsoft only issues you so mny " " ‘s nd then you hve to buy more, like toner crtridges.
You, der reder, should cherish your little friends while you’ve got them. Who mong us hsn’t portryed frustrtion or delight with long string of " " ‘s, n "h", nd n exclmtion point? Like in not hving n " " is enough to mke you go h!
Still, writing perfectly solid English is possible without the previously mentioned letter. There I just did it. I just did it once more.
I know wht you’re thinking: “He hs lwys been short of content, now he is short of letters.” To which I say, H!,H!,H! Isn’t it better I should run out of " " ‘s thn the folks writing up the helth cre legisltion? Though it would shorten it by hundreds of pges.
Elisbeth, my dughter, is big on texting, so she doesn’t use ll her letters nywy. Perhps she will spot me some " " 's until pydy. She thinks I might get new followers mong the tweeters.
I like the way this pge is looking, though. There is very Christmsy feel to it in Word with ll the red nd green spelling and grmmr flgs decorting the pge. h!, I miss Christms.
Oh, joy! My “a” just came back! Perhaps I smashed that offending crumb. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!
I don’t know why. It could be some English Muffin or Swiss cheese got in there. Seems like I’ll need to get in touch with the geek group. It’ll be over $150 to blow out some crumbs, I’m sure.
There goes the piece I’m editing on the epic outfielder Hnk Ron titled “Hnk Ron: Plyer's Plyer.” Also, sunk is the one I’m doing on NY’s Rodriguez cold shouldering of the big time rock singer: “Rigid Rod Won’t Bend on Mdonn.” Nd who will know what my piece “Scndl Stlks Brrck Obm” is even bout?
There goes my expose of the huge uto club and the help group for drinkers.
Seems like only yesterdy tht I hd n endless supply of them. Oh, those were the dys! Just tp on the key issued stedy strem of the little buggers. Mybe tht’s wht hppned. Mybe I just rn out.
Someone told me Microsoft only issues you so mny " " ‘s nd then you hve to buy more, like toner crtridges.
You, der reder, should cherish your little friends while you’ve got them. Who mong us hsn’t portryed frustrtion or delight with long string of " " ‘s, n "h", nd n exclmtion point? Like in not hving n " " is enough to mke you go h!
Still, writing perfectly solid English is possible without the previously mentioned letter. There I just did it. I just did it once more.
I know wht you’re thinking: “He hs lwys been short of content, now he is short of letters.” To which I say, H!,H!,H! Isn’t it better I should run out of " " ‘s thn the folks writing up the helth cre legisltion? Though it would shorten it by hundreds of pges.
Elisbeth, my dughter, is big on texting, so she doesn’t use ll her letters nywy. Perhps she will spot me some " " 's until pydy. She thinks I might get new followers mong the tweeters.
I like the way this pge is looking, though. There is very Christmsy feel to it in Word with ll the red nd green spelling and grmmr flgs decorting the pge. h!, I miss Christms.
Oh, joy! My “a” just came back! Perhaps I smashed that offending crumb. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Jerry and Me
A friend of mind, purportedly a reader of this column, says he likes it because it reminds him of the Seinfeld show: it isn't about anything.
It has been a point of pride with me that this blog is content free, so I decided to take his comment to heart, and to its logical conclusion, by simply not writing anything about anything. This explains my absence from these pages over the past few weeks.
However, I have been thinking Deep Thoughts and pursuing inquiries that might actually lead to substantive columns in the future.
One thought that I have been wrestling with is this: why do librarians all look like librarians? I began my investigation by visiting all the branches of our county library and, sure enough, all the librarians look like librarians.
Apparently, this is also a source of concern within the trade since an internet search turned up a web site called “You Don’t Look Like a Librarian.” This site is dedicated to "shattering librarian stereotypes" and “building new images in the internet age.” Here we are introduced to the Belly-Dancing Librarian, the Lipstick Librarian, and, God save us, the Butt-Kicking Librarian. We even sample what’s new in stylish librarian tattoos. A book by the same name is also being purveyed on the page (available at your local library, I hope).
I don’t think there is anything wrong with librarians looking like librarians. I would rather have the person handing me my copy of “How to Improve Your Sexual Performance” look like a librarian rather than a motorcycle mama or someone who is about to kick my butt.
At the bottom of the page, the author of the site and book writes about herself and concludes: “No, I don’t look like a librarian………wait, yes I do!” I rest my case.
The other thought came to me while driving around our local roads: How do people with “Hidden Drives” find their houses? I decided to pursue this by interviewing these people, but sadly I could not find them.
I think both of these topics should add to my readership by snaring in those folks googling for information about librarians and hidden drives. They can join the legion of fans googling on for the latest on George Clooney’s hair, “black poop”, and “what makes my storm door squeak.” A reader from Iraq actually arrived looking for info on Clooney’s do. I wondered if I should report this to Homeland Security as I feared he may be designing a hair bomb by piling up layers of mousse and gel and igniting his noggin on an airplane. I rejected this because I decided that if this were the case he would be seeking information on Weird Al Yankovich’s hair. (note to all CIA and FBI agents scanning this page: it is a joke.)
Anyway, I am getting off the subject and have to get back to writing nothing about anything.
It has been a point of pride with me that this blog is content free, so I decided to take his comment to heart, and to its logical conclusion, by simply not writing anything about anything. This explains my absence from these pages over the past few weeks.
However, I have been thinking Deep Thoughts and pursuing inquiries that might actually lead to substantive columns in the future.
One thought that I have been wrestling with is this: why do librarians all look like librarians? I began my investigation by visiting all the branches of our county library and, sure enough, all the librarians look like librarians.
Apparently, this is also a source of concern within the trade since an internet search turned up a web site called “You Don’t Look Like a Librarian.” This site is dedicated to "shattering librarian stereotypes" and “building new images in the internet age.” Here we are introduced to the Belly-Dancing Librarian, the Lipstick Librarian, and, God save us, the Butt-Kicking Librarian. We even sample what’s new in stylish librarian tattoos. A book by the same name is also being purveyed on the page (available at your local library, I hope).
I don’t think there is anything wrong with librarians looking like librarians. I would rather have the person handing me my copy of “How to Improve Your Sexual Performance” look like a librarian rather than a motorcycle mama or someone who is about to kick my butt.
At the bottom of the page, the author of the site and book writes about herself and concludes: “No, I don’t look like a librarian………wait, yes I do!” I rest my case.
The other thought came to me while driving around our local roads: How do people with “Hidden Drives” find their houses? I decided to pursue this by interviewing these people, but sadly I could not find them.
I think both of these topics should add to my readership by snaring in those folks googling for information about librarians and hidden drives. They can join the legion of fans googling on for the latest on George Clooney’s hair, “black poop”, and “what makes my storm door squeak.” A reader from Iraq actually arrived looking for info on Clooney’s do. I wondered if I should report this to Homeland Security as I feared he may be designing a hair bomb by piling up layers of mousse and gel and igniting his noggin on an airplane. I rejected this because I decided that if this were the case he would be seeking information on Weird Al Yankovich’s hair. (note to all CIA and FBI agents scanning this page: it is a joke.)
Anyway, I am getting off the subject and have to get back to writing nothing about anything.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Enshrined
Call it an ego thing, but I have flagged the Google search engine to send me an email with a link every time my name, Gerald Andersen, appears somewhere on the internet.
This would not work if your name was John Smith as you would be inundated with emails. Oddly, there seem to be very few other Gerald Andersens kicking around out there. An actor goes by that name, and often I get references to him. Mostly what I get is mentions of me. A lot of it is older stuff from my working days at the Men’s Dress Furnishings Association and Neckwear Association of America. Why I would be suddenly notified of an article that appeared in 2006, I really can’t say, but they come in at a fairly regular rate.
Today I got one that kind of spooked me, and impressed me in a way. It was a letter to the editor that I wrote to the New York Times in 1989. The letter was published and is apparently enshrined on their web site, since the link I got from Google took me there. I wonder how it got there. I believe in 1989 the internet was still a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye. So someone at the Times must have taken the time and trouble to scan it. Do you suppose they actually scan every line of type that has ever appeared all the way back to God knows when? Why it popped up now on Google alert is also a mystery.
I prefer to believe they only preserve the best of the best. The letter was actually pretty good and was written in response to a Times article or op ed, I don’t recall which, bashing neckties. My members took “anti-tie” rhetoric seriously and expected me to respond. I would have done so anyway since I have always loved neckties. I still do.
My members loved it. For years some them displayed it framed on their office walls.
I am glad, according to an article in the Times last week, that ties are making a comeback with the younger generation. That is a good thing.
Here is my 1989 letter to the editor that is permanently enshrined in the Time archive at least until the lights go out or they run out of band width:
To the Editor:
Why does something as seemingly mundane as a necktie get loaded with so much symbolic baggage? Through the years, ties have been seen as symbols of genteel birth, social rank, coming of age, blind following of tradition and, of course, male sexuality. In the 1960's, the tie was the symbol of the Establishment (negative). In the 80's, it represents power and financial success (positive).
Efforts have even been made to link trends in the economy to neckwear fashion. Do ties really get wider when the stock market is booming?
Greg Spring now equates neckties with the big lie (''A Diploma, a Tie and a Lie,'' Op-Ed, Sept. 19). He equates them with all of the currying and toadying to which one must stoop to make one's way in the world. We, of course, see the tie as the symbol of truth, justice and the American way.
No one inflicts all of this philosophy on shoes, shirts, hats or belts. Why neckties? Because there is an air of mystery and romance to neckties. They do not cover one's nakedness or add warmth on a blustery day. They definitely are not practical, nor are they particularly modern.
They are a link to the misty past when a knight strapped on his colors before setting forth to meet the world.
They are banners that proclaim just about any range of mood, emotion, or socioeconomic message that the wearer wishes to admit, or the viewer wishes to interpret. They are a celebration of color, beauty and tradition in an otherwise drab and rootless world.
Symbolism is attached to ties, because their function is largely symbolic. However, like beauty, symbolism is in the eye of the beholder: One man's big lie is another man's great tie. GERALD ANDERSEN Executive Director Neckwear Association of America New York, Sept. 19, 1989
Makes me want to go out and buy a Christmas necktie.
This would not work if your name was John Smith as you would be inundated with emails. Oddly, there seem to be very few other Gerald Andersens kicking around out there. An actor goes by that name, and often I get references to him. Mostly what I get is mentions of me. A lot of it is older stuff from my working days at the Men’s Dress Furnishings Association and Neckwear Association of America. Why I would be suddenly notified of an article that appeared in 2006, I really can’t say, but they come in at a fairly regular rate.
Today I got one that kind of spooked me, and impressed me in a way. It was a letter to the editor that I wrote to the New York Times in 1989. The letter was published and is apparently enshrined on their web site, since the link I got from Google took me there. I wonder how it got there. I believe in 1989 the internet was still a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye. So someone at the Times must have taken the time and trouble to scan it. Do you suppose they actually scan every line of type that has ever appeared all the way back to God knows when? Why it popped up now on Google alert is also a mystery.
I prefer to believe they only preserve the best of the best. The letter was actually pretty good and was written in response to a Times article or op ed, I don’t recall which, bashing neckties. My members took “anti-tie” rhetoric seriously and expected me to respond. I would have done so anyway since I have always loved neckties. I still do.
My members loved it. For years some them displayed it framed on their office walls.
I am glad, according to an article in the Times last week, that ties are making a comeback with the younger generation. That is a good thing.
Here is my 1989 letter to the editor that is permanently enshrined in the Time archive at least until the lights go out or they run out of band width:
To the Editor:
Why does something as seemingly mundane as a necktie get loaded with so much symbolic baggage? Through the years, ties have been seen as symbols of genteel birth, social rank, coming of age, blind following of tradition and, of course, male sexuality. In the 1960's, the tie was the symbol of the Establishment (negative). In the 80's, it represents power and financial success (positive).
Efforts have even been made to link trends in the economy to neckwear fashion. Do ties really get wider when the stock market is booming?
Greg Spring now equates neckties with the big lie (''A Diploma, a Tie and a Lie,'' Op-Ed, Sept. 19). He equates them with all of the currying and toadying to which one must stoop to make one's way in the world. We, of course, see the tie as the symbol of truth, justice and the American way.
No one inflicts all of this philosophy on shoes, shirts, hats or belts. Why neckties? Because there is an air of mystery and romance to neckties. They do not cover one's nakedness or add warmth on a blustery day. They definitely are not practical, nor are they particularly modern.
They are a link to the misty past when a knight strapped on his colors before setting forth to meet the world.
They are banners that proclaim just about any range of mood, emotion, or socioeconomic message that the wearer wishes to admit, or the viewer wishes to interpret. They are a celebration of color, beauty and tradition in an otherwise drab and rootless world.
Symbolism is attached to ties, because their function is largely symbolic. However, like beauty, symbolism is in the eye of the beholder: One man's big lie is another man's great tie. GERALD ANDERSEN Executive Director Neckwear Association of America New York, Sept. 19, 1989
Makes me want to go out and buy a Christmas necktie.
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