Tour-de-Franklin ave.

The following haiku came to mind last week after I passed a group of "riders" on the road:

packs of large men

jerseys so yellow and tight

those ten speeds are sweet.

Over the last few years, growing numbers of adult men have set out on their bicycles dressed in fully authentic competition-style racing jerseys. Two things strike me as strange about this. First, no other activity--whether competitive or not--warrants such strange attire; and second, what on earth is gained by such a commitment to this most streamlined of humiliations?

Presumably, all sports uniforms are tailored to the needs of their respective sports. Hockey sweaters were loose fitting (at least until the upcoming 2008 season, see http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/10952924/) in order to promote mobility. Some quarterbacks wear different jerseys from other players so that their arms won't be constricted, thereby resulting in a Brad Johnsonesque 9-yard bomb. Soccer/football has their easy-going loose fitting uniforms to allow for many glamorous golden goals and fake injuries.

And so it is that each professional sport has its own kind of jersey; but the only difference is that fans of all other activities are able to understand that they themselves are not competing in any sort of professional sport. Last winter, when my friends and I got together for an ill-advised game of tackle football, I can't imagine what would have happened to me if I would have shown up dressed head to toe in a Joey Browner jersey. I would have lasted as long as a high school kid at the AVN awards.

Yet, for some reason, no one else feels the need to tell cyclists that they look absolutely ridonculous. "Wait a second," one pretentious cycling-spandex fan might say, "what about golfers? People go golfing all the time and look exactly like Phil Mickelson." And while this may be true, you forget that golfers are wearing REGULAR CLOTHES! Because they add a visor with the word PING on it doesn't put them in air tight ball-exposing territory.

The second thing that aspiring tour-de-frenchies might say is that the unitards cut down on drag, and ensure premium cycling performance. Two points about this: first, there aren't any qualifying time trials going on on Summitt ave. this weekend; second, just because something enhances performance doesn't mean you have to do it (um, Mr. Giambi... we're looking in your general direction). For example, when I enter my next poker tournament, I would probably be able to hide my tells better if I showed up in a Michael Jackson mask, but then I would probably raise eyebrows when I went to see "Shrek 3" later. Long story short, competitive advantages aren't always worth it.

And lastly, let's just say that you disagree with all of this, and want to show the world what you've got... can you please just leave the sponsored jerseys at home? You're not bucking for that new sponsorship from Lipitor or Tony the Tiger, so just stop it. When I get in my truck tomorrow to go rent

"The Cutting Edge," I won't be wearing a Dale Earnhardt Budweiser jacket.

Naked Oldies

So apparently there is a new rite of passage in American manhood. Sometime after buying your own house and sometime before becoming a resident of a retirement home, there is a transformation that men are supposed to go through. No one knows exactly when or how it happens, but at some point a man tells himself, "you know, I think I've made it to that milestone in life where I don't have to wear clothes in the locker room anymore."





It is certainly a strange phenomenon, and one that probably no one can understand until the feeling actually hits them; sort of like love, I would imagine. Is there a natural urge to air out the boys so strong that it causes old guys to throw away all sense of decorum and social consideration?





A friend of mine thinks that there isn't a transformation in the old man's beliefs over time vis-a-vis his own spotted ass in others' line of sight. She thinks that the birthday suit runway show is a product of a bygone era when showering naked and taking one's time to find a towel were encouraged practices. Ah, yes... a simpler time. A time when men were accountable, when they loved their country without question, when they played catch with their sons in the backyard while the apple pie cooled off in the windowsill, and a time when displaying your fruit bowl for all to see was business as usual at the old family-owned neighborhood gymnasium.


Chalk another mystery up to the old nature vs. nurture debate, I guess. Is the urge to air dry a biological impetus that strikes along with the urge to buy a Buick and go to bed at 6:30? Or is the public elephant walk our little window to the past when men liked their beer cold, their commies dead, and their asses untrammeled by the cruel touch of cotton towels? Like the tootsie pop narrator once quipped, "the world will never know..."

The Perspective from the Perch

Welcome to the IndoctriNation blog effort! What will follow is a series of observations, conclusions, and criticisms of segments of the American culture. Essentially, the hope is that lemons may be turned into lemonade; disbelief and frustration caused by current trends being the lemons, and hopefully cogent articulation and therapeutic catharsis being the zesty lemonade, of course.

The posts will generally follow interesting events as they transpire in the world at large or at home in the hood. Enjoy!