Blue Like Jeans
That's right. I'm currently reading Blue Like Jazz. I have said that I was going to read it for some time now, so I am. I bought it yesterday and am almost finished with it, so a full review is forthcoming. Initially, do I like it? Yes. Miller is witty and enjoyable, except for where he prints a monologue from a play he has written (or was writing). Then, he's pompous and pretentious. But it was a play after all. And for those of you who believe I am behind in just now reading Miller, know that I read his new book Through Painted Deserts when it was first published under the title Prayer and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance (and yes, I did read it simply because it had a picture of a VW van on the cover; and yes the title is a rip-off of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance). Kudos to those of you who knew he even had a book out before Blue Like Jazz. Kudos to Miller for jumping on the reprint bandwagon.
In other news: Nate hit me with what might be the most pointed comment I have ever received in response to a Xanga post. With regard to my last little writing he comments, "I think posting here requires a certain amount of ego. Your putting your thoughts out there for people to read. Your not taking thier money but you are still asking us to read your thoughts and opinions." And he's right, though I think I would like to deny that he is and say that I write here for myself. That's a lie. In truth Xanga has often served to boost my self-esteem. Though I do earnestly want to write for some greater purpose.
However, in an act of ego, I will now subject you, my loyal readers, to a post about my blue jeans.
I am a blue jeans kind of guy. I love them and always have. Though I have long outgrown my denim short phase, I still have a great affinity for the blue jean. My blue jeans of choice? Old Navy Vintage Washed Boot Cut. I have a pair on as I write this. In fact, I own about five or six pairs of jeans, but in actuality I wear only one.
I have owned them since college, which means I have been married to these jeans longer than my wife. I wear them nearly every day for some period of time. Liza thinks it is ridiculous that if I am out of bed, I have a need to be fully dressed, and that most often involves putting on this one particular pair of jeans. After a while, I wore a hole in the crotch. This is a most inconvenient place to have a hole. A hole in the crotch is not fashionable, cool, or trendy. It is creepy and shady. However, once the hole was worn, I could not part with this particular pair of jeans. So, I kept them around for a while, months I believe. I then cut up an old, black Student Life shirt and sewed a patch of it over the hole in the crotch.
I love these jeans (as much as you can use that word to describe your affection for something inanimate; if you know me you know that I often detest the limits of the English language). They are a size smaller than what I normally have to buy in pants now. They still fit only because I have worn them out so much. But still it feels good to put them on at a size smaller than what I should. I also purchased them a little too long so that the backs of the legs would bunch up under my feet when I wore sandals or flip-flops. Eventually the very bottom wore off in the back and left a cool frayed look. There are a few stains on them that I notice and remember what they're from. I often find items in the pockets that I have forgotten about, or that have been in there for a while and they make me remember other times when I was wearing my jeans. They're comfortable and make me feel comfortable regardless of if they are flattering or not. They have a unique smell. Liza says they smell like me. I like that. That I have a smell and that Liza knows it and doesn't really mind it that much.
I think I'll be sad whenever I am forced to part with these jeans for some reason.
I would make some parallel here between God and my jeans, which I could because I have already thought of one. But I won't because that would be pompous and pretentious, not witty and enjoyable. So, I'll just say...
I love God too (as much as I can even begin to grasp all the meaning in that word that the English don't seem to bother with).
Oops. I guess that was a bit of a parallel after all.
Yago arf amorphous mit du.