Dickies

I think that when one can fit most of one's fingers through one's briefs, it is time for said briefs to be thrown away.

I bought this pair of Dickies briefs over 15 years ago, at a store near my apartment on 26th Street & Third Avenue in Manhattan. I think I bought two packages of three pairs each, six briefs in all. I believe this is the last pair of those that remains, and this fact saddens me. But that's okay! And no shame on Dickies. Clearly, someone who hangs on to briefs even when the briefs have little left of the qualities that make a piece of fabric into a brief--an item that can nestle, conceal, tease--that person is the one at fault, not the manufacturer of said item.

Dickies immediately discontinued this style of briefs as soon as I made my purchase, of course, almost as though some representative of theirs was observing me buying it through a two-way mirror and, alarmed that I would now act as a kind of unpaid ambassador for their brief underwear line, shut the whole thing down. Though I believe they still manufacture underwear, Dickies apparently feels there is more of a future for them today in boxer briefs, or the dreaded "Union suit." So my searches on Ebay for a stray, unopened package of these black briefs are frustrating and futile. Who buys Union suits, anyway--too scratchy! The measurements are off, and lead to walking with a slouch! Much less a boxer brief, which envelope and cover the region in question with no mystery...no chance for a stray, errant ball to escape and bob about dumbly...certainly no odd gym-time bulge down a left leg in sweat pants.

(I remember once walking up Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village with, I believe, Kristin. Almost as an afterthought, I pulled a single ball out of my zipper and walked along like that for about a block. I then went to Pieces--the bar, silly!--and delighted the patrons there with it. The few people who noticed laughed and laughed, and no one thought to call the police. Or maybe they did? But then, I never stayed long enough at Pieces for the police to arrive. This is one way that getting older and slower has led to more frequent awkward contact with authority figures, but that is to be expected when one is free! Free as a bird, as is Nelly Furtado, and certainly as I am still, to this day).

I wish that underwear made by Calvin Klein or Tommy Hilfiger called to me in a lazily dirty way as the Dickies brand did. There is no double entendre to be displayed by choosing Papi. The most recent time I had to buy briefs, I went to Target and purchased a pack of their in-house brief brand, Goodfellow. I could at least think, well, maybe someone will think I'm not referring to myself as the fellow, but something else entirely... I cut corners with my double entendres these days. I want to reveal myself in briefs to someone who can at least meet the double entendre halfway, who can at least provide one damned entendre! I don't think I'll find such a someone in Nashville. (Certainly not with Dave, who I recently released of my own accord and who then twisted around in mid-air and released me, too, which I was proud of him for doing, even though it still stings a little. I have aged out, as they say, of certain relationships, even though the youth apparently still have yet to understand that).

Anyway. As many people know, I would rather cull an item than collect one, even a lover, and these briefs are now culled. I'll work on the rest of my garments over the next few weeks, and then hopefully I will board a plane, fall asleep, and open my eyes and find myself in Queens, with merely a box, a bag, and a backpack to show for my life. That is my plan. I don't know how decisions about what to discontinue and what to continue are made, but then again, if no one ever tells you, how are you supposed to know?

Ladder No. 63

Have you ever passed by Ladder Co. 63 on Great Jones Street? Those firefighters are really hot, and their uniforms turn me on. I know every firefighter is sort of hot, but these guys go beyond the call of duty. Black raincoats, suspenders, blue Dickies - delicious. Once, the last time Tim Blue was in town, me and Mary were walking with him past Ladder Co. 63, and we saw some mouth-watering firefighters out front. I asked them if they could "put out the fire in my loins," and at first, they mocked me. But then, I guess, my phrase's magic worked itself on them, and they started to melt into hysterical laughter. One of them collapsed.

My own life has been touched many times by fire. My sister says that our mother thought I was going to burn down her home when I was a child. And eventually, I did burn down my own home, in 1996, by leaving a burner on for warmth. Firefighters saved me then, but I was alarmed to see that they fight indoor fires primarily with axes, not water. I was wearing a white robe when that happened. I waited downstairs while hot firefighters faced down their sworn enemy - flame. And then I lived for weeks in a blackened apartment with wood slats for windows. The fire happened two days before the blizzard of 1996, with the coldest temperatures ever recorded in NYC. The cold penetrated me, but not without its own tenderness, and in some ways, I've been cold ever since.

It cost so much money to repair my apartment. I didn't have it, so I moved to California, and my father fixed my apartment so he could rent it out. We do what we must to get what we want. Fires have taught me that. And what have I taught them? I guess, that I, like almost everything else, am flammable.