The Citizen, 2012-11-15, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2012. PAGE 5.
Iam walking in the woods with my dogs. I
am peaceful. Centred. At one with The
Great Green Goddess. I spy a couple
walking down the path. I know them slightly
and we pause to chat.
But something is amiss. We palaver amiably
enough but they seem ill at ease, unwilling to
meet my gaze. They look to the heavens; they
study their shoelaces. They crane to the east
and they peer to the west. They will not look
me in the eye.
After several awkward moments we part
company and I am left with my dogs to
wonder – a forgotten slight? Something I
wrote perhaps? A few hundred yards down the
trail my hand brushes across my thighs and I
solve the mystery.
Oh crap. My fly’s open again.
I don't know if it’s a harbinger of impending
geezerdom or mere wishful thinking, but I find
my fly seems to be at half mast more often of
late. Odd, when you consider that ‘doing up
your fly’ is something all lads are supposed to
master before they get out of knee shorts.
Doubly odd when you consider that a gaping
fly is a no-win condition. Mortification all
around.
Geoffrey Chaucer and his Middle Ages pals
didn't have to worry about accidental breaches
in their breeches. They wore codpieces – a
kind of sliding manhole cover (think of it as a
'man bra' but with only one cup).
Codpieces were functional but less than
subtle, fashion-wise. Along about 1,700 tailors
came up with what they called a ‘fall front’ – a
flap of fabric that functioned something like
the breech-clout that North American Natives
had figured our centuries before.
When you think about it mankind has
never had a rock-solid solution for the
codpiece/fall front/button/zip fly problem.
What complicates the conundrum is that men
are lazy slobs. We want to get ‘er done with a
minimum of interruption and inconvenience.
Women don’t have a fly problem because they
sit down and do the job properly.
And obviously, women don’t have an ‘open
fly’ problem either. If they did, they would
doubtless have come up with a diplomatic,
non-humiliating way to say “Hey,
buddy…your fly is open.”
Not that there haven't been some splendid
attempts. General euphemisms for informing
someone that their clothing is in need of
adjustment abound. I'm rather fond of "Paging
Mister Johnson….Paging Mister Johnson…
“I’m also intrigued with the idea of putting on
a big studly voice and rumbling: “I’m talkin’
Shaft – can you dig it?”
“Security breach at Los Pantalones” isn’t
half bad, nor is “Our next guest is someone
who needs no introduction…” But personally,
I prefer the personal touch – warnings custom-
crafted for the poor schlub with the open portal
problem.
For a dishevelled computer nerd: “Excuse
me, but you have Windows on your Laptop.”
For vegetarians: “Don’t look now but the
cucumber has left the salad.”
For rock fans: “Attention, attention…Elvis
Junior has left the building.”
For nautical types: “Now hear this: Sailor
Ned’s trying to take a little shore leave.”
For airline passengers with a fly problem:
“Time to bring your tray table to the upright
and locked position, sir.”
For lovers of classical literature:
“Quasimodo needs to go back in the tower and
tend to his bells.”
What’s also missing is a suitable retort to the
news that your fly is open. Usually it’s a
mumbled “Oh, Geez, thanks eh?”
Pretty lame.
Winston Churchill knew how to handle such
a situation. Using the facilities in the House
of Commons one day during his final
years in office, Winston turned from the
urinal to the washstand, only to be confronted
by a fellow MP who fluttered about trying
to tell him the bad news as delicately as
possible.
“Ah, Sir Winston, you should know…ah,
that is to say, er. You…um….Oh dear. It seems
your flies are open.”
“What of it?” growled the 90-year-old
Churchill. “Dead birds don’t fall out of nests.”
Arthur
Black
Other Views
Shoo fly, don’t bother me
This week I’m dog-sitting and every time
I spend a lengthy amount of time with
my sister Dana’s dogs, Jake and
Frankie, I marvel at how low maintenance and
high maintenance they can be at the exact same
time.
In one breath, it takes so little to please them.
They lose it when you pour their dinner into a
bowl. What’s for dinner? The same thing that
was for breakfast this morning. The same thing
that was for dinner the night before. Really, the
same thing that has constituted every meal
since they were born.
And that’s just one example. There are many,
many more. Don’t get me started on playing
with a tennis ball.
It sounds simple, but then again, a tennis ball
was usually all that occupied me during the
recess hours at my public school, the soon-to-
be-closed St. Anthony Daniel Catholic School
(Accommodation Review Committees strike
again). My friends and I would throw that
thing against the walls of our school until our
arms felt like they were going to fall off and
games usually ended with someone playing the
role of the wall for a few throws (all games that
would probably fill hospital beds and therapist
couches these days).
But back to the dogs. You have to admire
their simplicity.
They don’t fuss if you buy them a cheap
collar that maybe isn’t the right colour to
match their leash, they’re just happy to go for
the walk.
Try and give one of today’s kids a tennis ball
and they might not know what to do with it.
They might wonder which slot in their
Playstation the ball goes into.
I’m joking. There are plenty of active kids in
the community. Most nights it’s hard to drive
around and not encounter at least one road
hockey game, but those Playstation-centric
kids are out there.
Back to the dogs once again. How can they
be high maintenance? Let me count the
ways.
One that has always baffled me, especially
when the dogs come up to visit me, is that they
have their favourite bathroom spots.
To me one spot of grass looks just as green
as any other, especially when you’re not
exactly mulling around with beautification in
mind, but they both have their favourites and
they have specific conditions under which they
will go.
Then again, maybe they’re not that different
from us. We all have our routines and we all
have our favourite... domains. Who can blame
them? They want to be comfortable. That
doesn’t even take into account that they’re
taking care of business in front of everyone on
the street.
But the big thing that I have always
appreciated about dogs is that they’re
always happy to see you. You could have
yelled and screamed at the top of your
lungs (not a nice thing to do by the way)
for something they did wrong before you
left for work and when you get home, it’s
like nothing happened. They are just so
happy to see you. It certainly makes a man feel
loved.
So on a day where I’m up at 5 a.m., taking
the dogs for a walk and one is too fussy to go
to the bathroom and the other is too busy
chewing on his leash to realize why we’re out
in the rain this early, I’ll have to try to
remember that by the time I get home from
work that night, they will have forgotten my
growing impatience that morning, so perhaps I
should too.
The duality of dogs
Shawn
Loughlin
Shawn’s Sense
Sometimes the best thing that can be done
to save someone’s feelings is to not say
anything at all.
Sure, it follows the rules that our parents
probably told us; “If you don’t have anything
nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Well, I’m throwing that rule out the window
because when I attempt to grow facial hair
(and I don’t mean when I start early every
morning in a week and just don’t have time to
manage my facial hair) it really is only
deserving of ridicule. I look scruffy at the
best of times and just plain wrong at the
worst.
Why am I, then, attempting it? Well I’m
getting involved in Movember. I’ve seen a lot
of family members and friends and friends of
friends or family of friends face down cancer
and, if I can help any amount by simply not
shaving my moustache and keeping the rest of
my face clean-shaven, I think that’s the best
kind of fundraiser (after all, the upper lip is
just the worst place to shave anyway).
I’m joining my editor Shawn and growing a
moustache and risking people looking at me
and realizing I’m not a very hirsute individual.
I’ll admit it; I didn’t jump on the Movember
cause right away because I have a shameful
secret; growing facial hair is not really my
strong suit. It’s always been a sore point for me
because, to be honest, I want to have a nice
full-face beard, including, of course, a decent
mustache. I want to have the Ryan Reynolds-
esque beard.
I don’t want it because I think I’d look
particularly good with a beard, and I don’t
want it to keep my face warm or anything like
that, I want it because it means there will be
pictures of me somewhere brandishing this
amazingly sculpted piece of facial hair for my
children to find and, if they are male,
hopefully try it on their own someday.
(And I’m not going to apologize. While I
give props to my Mo Sistas who are important
to the cause, if I have a daughter, I pray she
doesn’t have a beard... unless that’s her super
power.)
Mo Sistas, for those of you not in the “Mo”,
are defined by Movember.com as:
“Mo Sistas play a vital role in Movember
and men’s health. With the simple wink of an
eye, small gesture of appreciation or
encouraging words- Mo Sistas can influence
men to participate and grow a Mo. More
importantly, the awareness Mo Sistas can help
raise is a game changer. Relative to men,
women are extremely health conscious and
open to talking about their issues. Mo Sistas
can act as mentors and leaders by
encouraging men to take part in Movember, to
be aware of their own health, live a healthy
lifestyle and get checked regularly. Also,
engaged and dedicated Mo Sistas that reach
out to other women will make those unaware
of the issues surrounding men’s health, aware.
This will simply lead to more women
encouraging their husbands, father, sons,
cousins, uncles and friends to open up, care
about their health and it will push the
Movember community further towards its
vision of erasing the stigma and changing the
face of men’s health”
Really it’s about looking back on your life
and being able to say, when someone says
“Try growing a beard”, “No thanks, I
attempted that once before. Let’s just say
scruffy is the best goal I can aim for.”
So yes, I suffer from one of the worst cases
of beard envy that I’ve ever seen.
For reference sake, growing a beard isn’t the
only thing that men can look back on and
know they are better off for having tried
whether they ultimately decide they’re better
off as is or with their new facial follicles.
The following are milestones I’ve reached
that I’ve since decided don’t really fit me
anymore, if they ever did:
• Growing a mullet: Business in the front,
party in the back and all of it made me look
like I was clinging to a decade I can only
remember in my youngest memories.
• Earrings: Despite the fact that it’s been
more than a decade since I wore them, I still
bear the marks of a time when I thought an
earring in my left ear was something I could
pull off. Now, it’s just not really me. Some
people can pull it off, many more try, but in my
mind, once you reach a certain age, it’s time to
just admit, “I’m a guy and I shouldn’t be
wearing earrings.” (I’m looking at certain
retired politicians in the area for this one).
• Buzz-cut: I tried the crew cut-style once
when I lived in Egmondville. I’ll say two
words to explain why it didn’t work and leave
it at that: baked potato.
Growing a mustache or a beard is just going
to join a list of things I won’t do because I
either know I can’t pull them off or I’m scared
of the final result.
To bring things back to point; I’m growing a
moustache for Movember. It won’t be pretty in
all likelihood. I wish I could find a believable
fake one and wear it to show support but, even
if I had the money for that, it wouldn’t fit the
spirit of the event.
You have to follow the rules, and the rules
state it must be homegrown.
So, whether you consider the neckbeard to
be disgusting or simply unwelcome, whether
you think someone can ever pull off a
handlebar mustache, whether you believe
that a man looks good when he’s not clean
shaven or whether you think the fu manchu is
a fantastic extension of the horseshoe
moustache or an abomination, remember that,
when you see me, I’m defacing my facial
property for a good cause; to help fight
prostate cancer.
If you’d like to either support the cause
because it’s a great one, or donate in the hopes
that it will all be over soon and I won’t look
like I belong on the seediest of used car lots,
donate at mobro.co/dennyscott
Risking ridiculue to help a great cause
Denny
Scott
Denny’s Den