Saturday, May 19, 2007

The Nude Arts

I wanted to write a story. So I needed a subject and a bunch of words. I’d go over to the computer, sit and magically release these words through my fingers into the keyboard, passing them through the hard drive, and out on the screen in order to make a story. I don’t have that here. So you think I’m writing a story about not writing a story, and that’s my gimmick. That’s not a bad idea for a story, but that’s not the one I’m telling today.

You see, I set down a certain amount of time each day to write. Sometimes I polish old stories, other times I sketch out new ideas. Today I come to you nude. As naked as the day I got caught running out to the mailbox when I was twelve, because I was too lazy and fat to put on my pants. It was a rainy day, and no one was home, and my pants were so darn tight I preferred to go about naked when alone in the house.

I saw the mailman drive up to the box in his truck and leave our day’s letters, any one of which could have been an answer to my submission to Mad Magazine. Everyone had gone that Saturday, leaving me luxuriously alone with Dick Clark, a full ice box, and comic books galore to devour as well. Why should I wear my pants? I felt so comfortable in my own skin, and so tightly wound in my clothes, that I never lost a chance to practice my new religion of nudism whenever alone. I was a twelve year old nudist, and proud of it.

Not that I would ever tell anyone about it. Are you insane? I suppose, looking back, that I was not an Orthodox nudist, since I would never reveal my body (even the top) to others. I was fat and unhappy. And the little bit of happiness I could gleam from life was to be able to be alone with my ice box, comic books and television, all the while nude, nude, nude. I hated the clothes that choked me. I hated the choking that clothed my essence. When the others were out of the house, I was King. And when I was King, I was naked. And I was lovely.

I had learned to love myself, even as I was changing from boy to woman to man in the context of the fat that enveloped me. Certainly my bosoms made it difficult at the country club; of which mom insisted I attend pool in the summer. But home alone, I rhapsodized in my nakedhood. With Diet Pepsi’s, peanut butter sandwiches, comic books, and unlimited television in my bedroom, I was the ruler of a vast universe; my naked self, whom God had blessed with a forgiving bent. With no clothes to constrain me, no people to look at me with disgust, and the freedom to pursue my life’s work of comic book reading and television watching, I was the Nude Prince, no…King, I said King earlier, and I’m staying with that. The Nude King! I proclaimed myself, to myself. Certainly reality could interfere if I allowed myself to answer the doorbell or phone. But I ignored them both. I was the Nude King of the Naked World, and I was marvelous.

So let’s make this the story. It’s true and has the added benefit of being nasty because it’s about my nakedness, which I’m sure you believe I should be ashamed of. And I was. But only with the prospect of others seeing my stuff. Alone, I was proud of ability to control my world, as long as others stayed out. Naked, armed with good food, comic books and television, you had better watch out. I was impenetrable. I could not be stopped.

American Bandstand came on at twelve thirty on Saturday and the girls in their tight skirts and sweaters, bumping and grinding, were looking out from the television at me thinking just how beautiful I was. I could dig it. The looks on those girls faces when I would drop my towel or perhaps just wave it in front of me and give them just the biggest thrill was worth ten million dollars. I counted it up. If I were to remain naked every Saturday afternoon for the next fifteen years and do nothing but watch American Bandstand, I would make over ten million dollars. You do the math. Running around naked was not only fun, it was profitable.

My mother was a good cook. And there was always some leftovers still happening in the refrigerator from the previous week’s dinners. Good cold meat loaf, or chicken with rice, or maybe even some steaks still nice and crisp, in a holding pattern in the box, waiting for me to come get her. On Saturday’s I didn’t have to worry about clothing and messing my pants trying to hide food in my pockets, as would be the normal case on a weekday. Weekdays were hard, let’s face it. To stuff meat loaf or chicken in my pockets, so no one would know I was eating extra would often leave me a smelly boy. But Saturdays, alone and naked, with just my TV girls and Dick Clark looking on were different. I could take a plate, like a human being, from the cabinet, and load up on goodies to take back to my room. Who the hell cared how naked I was? Dick Clark didn’t have a problem with it. My girls, licking their lips, I’ll bet more for me than for my plate of delicious food were happy the way things were. No one here was going to ruin a good thing.

Except Bruce. He was my next door neighbor. Pretty fat and disgusting too, he had the distinction of being able to pick his butt and eat an orange at the same time. And we were friends. I liked Bruce and he liked me. But he didn’t understand the concept of down time. And I guess that was pretty unknown to most twelve year olds in 1968. Bruce didn’t realize I needed my solitude. That this was the only day when I could have the entire house to myself. The only time when I could indulge in the nude arts, eat until I exploded, and read comics on the toilet. He just couldn’t understand. So when the doorbell would ring, I knew it was Bruce. Also he would shout my name loud enough so that I do believe that even my American Bandstand girls could hear him. He wanted me to come out and play.

If you are among the chosen few to have read the above paragraphs, and understood the concepts therein, you would know what I mean when I say, “play”. Why in the world would I want to play? You mean catch or watch you pick your butt, or something else really fun? Gad, man! I have an ice box full of personal food, girls on TV who can see me and feel as home with my nudity as I, and comic books enough to choke even the greediest whore. And you want me to come out and play?

Nuts. What could I do? I wasn’t going to be taken away from my delights, so I did what any other all-American boy would do. I would turn the sound down on the television, eat quieter, so that my smacking sounds were held to a minimum, and hope he would go away. And come back some other day. I had a schedule to keep. I would hunch up so that even my shadow could not be seen from outside the house. I knew if I stepped on the floor the wrong way, or moved about on the bed in too fat a manner, Bruce would hear a squeak of a floorboard or the squeal of a bedspring and my entire day would be shot. If nothing else, I was polite, and if I felt Bruce or someone at the front door knew that I was in the house, I was obligated to pull my pants on, wipe the grease from my face, skip down the stairs like some dumb fairy, and breezily open the door with great expectations on my face. I would pretend that I was happy to see the interloper.

But of course I prayed, so hard and with a nod to Jesus (while staying true to my Jewish God) that I could be quiet enough so that Bruce or some other bore would give up and go away. And usually they would. And I could go back to my great Saturday life of unlimited nudity, limitless food, television so intoxicating I thought I was a God, and my wonderful solitude; where I was master of my universe and king of my castle.

Try it sometime.

Non-copyright 2007 - Joey Postove

Thursday, May 17, 2007

85

My Father would have been 85 today. But because 14 years ago he died, he has left me.

He was 71 when a stroke took a nice brain and put it to sleep. All of a sudden he was here. And then he was not. Mom was still alive, and had another 11 and 1/2 years left to go on her schedule. But even as she was my true friend and comforter, keeping one parent does not compensate or console one for losing another.

I have two arms. If I stuck one out of the car window and it was chopped off by a stop sign, I would not feel good that I still have at least one. Parents are stand alones too , even when they are one of a couple. And when death does his black duty, the remaining tall mysterious person we discovered as children as our keepers and minders and gods, cannot help. Going from Mom and Dad to Mom is too great a tragedy for anyone to mitigate.

In the beginning, I loved and adored my Father, then for many years I thought he was stupid, and far too late, but in time, I discovered how much this man loved me. And cared about my fate. And knew far more about life than I ever will.

He caressed my soul, like a Mother natually does.

But my Father, A MAN, had the psyche and spirit of a good woman.

And I miss him everyday.

Joe

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Who Likes Short Shorts?

Global warming pushed the temperature in Norfolk up to 75 degrees, so far today. However, I needed some things so I pulled on my comfortable hot pants (not James Brown "Hot Pants" but shorts I wear when it starts to get a little warm outside. However it does still reveal a nice glance of calf and ankle for the sickos and ladies).

These are my last pair of shorts left. The others have apparently moved to another apartment to be worn by someone else (with lesser legs too, I'll bet). This pair is nice and clean, but the button is beginning to come off, and I'm going goof ball worrying that they could slide off, onto the floor, leaving me ungoverned and open sourced.

So today, I wrote a note to myself to wear nice underpants with my shorts, should the unthinkable happen (ok...it was a note to wear underpants, since short trips to the store in hot pants do not require the extra effort of wearing tight jockeys).

The button was really loose the whole time out. I was frantic that I would be in line to pay for my garbage and the button would come off, and all hell would break loose. Mothers and children screaming and running for the exit. Police, guns pulled, ordering me to pull my pants up, store clerks continuing to ring up items in their natural state of post prison glaze!

But the imagination can pull your pants off faster and with more efficiency than reality. I made it all the way in and out of the store, and then home again, with my button intact and my goodies safe in the icebox.

I need another pair of pants.

Joe

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Her Majesty And The Prince Come To Town!

How rare it is when a queen comes to your town. Maybe they're sick of her in England (I mean...Queen this, Queen that, ALL the time) but we here in the sticks, her former subjects, were hypnotized just by the sight of this old gal, yesterday, in Jamestown and Williamsburg.

About 50 specially selected persons of high color were allowed near her highness (though I read she treads pretty close to the ground) and some even got to bow and scrape. I'd bow, I guess, being of good obedience, but I'm not sure what to do when one scrapes, so I'd skip that, and write a note to the Queen later.

Her husband, Prince, jaunted over to Norfolk to see the town he'd lasted visited in 1941, as a midshipman in the Royal Navy. He thought perhaps he'd have his tattoo redone, get a "massage" and maybe blow out a couple of beer halls with the fellows. But, sadly Norfolk has changed since 1941, and no longer accommodates the low slumming of high potentates (although he's really only married to one, he gets the goodies too).

The mayor of Norfolk Paul Fraim never left his side, hoping some of Prince's royalty might rub off and he'd become better looking. Ain't happening, Paul. But good luck when the mayor of Chuckwagon, Texas comes. I hear he's charming.

Back to the Queen. She toured the campus of William And Mary, which of course belonged to her a couple of hundred odd years ago. She began having her aides gather up stuff to take back home (what's right is right) but they all got caught at the metal detector going out back through the front door. No one said anything, but the Queen was clearly embarrassed, as you could see her nipples because of so much sweat.

Please don't try to steal anymore of our things, Your Majesty, or we may have to begin flyovers over GB and bring you more democracy (I know you have it...but you can never have enough, right?). Our two nations are friends (although in private they talk about how gauche we are).

We love you, your Majesty, and hope that you return to Hampton Roads again soon. And next time don't forget to bring me some of those delicious Cadbury candy bars, and plenty of dimes for the loo.

Your friend and loyal former subject,

Joe Postove

Friday, May 04, 2007

Barbershop?

I went for a haircut yesterday and walked into the Mohel's shop by accident. It wasn't my fault, those two bastards have the same type sign out front, a pole with dressing on it. A pole's a pole, right? So I went in and sat down and before I knew it, the barber (actually the Mohel) was taking down my pants and reaching for them.

I thought, well maybe this is a gay barber shop and this is protocol. But even if it was, I wasn't having any of that. I don't mind my hair dressers being gay, but for pity's sake, they don't have to pull my pants down. They COULD ask! It was then I realized I was in a Mohel's place, you know, a circumcision parlor. I told the guy I had already been done, years ago. But he was a nice man, and insisted on seeing what gives.Well, long story, short, he was not impressed by the job done back when I was 8 days old and suggested I have a little more work done.

Jimminy Cricket! I'll have my face lifted one day, and I keep my feet supple and smooth for any competitions down the line, but I thought I had had plenty of foreskin removed the first time. He measured me, soaked me in a special circumcision solution, wrapped me in some kind of sweet powder, and then said he would do me for $14.99.

Now, I don't know what my first bris cost, but my Dad told me they did a good job, and since I looked like everyone else, I never complained about it. But I was already in the chair, so I let him. Look, everyone's got to make a buck, so what's a little extra minor circumcision?

That's adventure living! I had a haircut too, after that. But that wasn't as exciting

Joe

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Tom Poston RIP

He had the face of a bridge tender. A little hopeless, somewhat helpless, and so lonely. That was Tom Poston the comic foil to stars from Steve Allen to Bob Newhart, who died today.

I remember him particularly on the "Newhart" show from 1982 until 1990, where he played a handyman so confused with the world as to make Bob Newhart himself seem confident despite the inanity of his universe.

And yet, behind that glassy eyed mope was a beautiful moron, who kept time on his earth, by his watch, which ran very slowly.

Of course he was a versitile actor, but his bread and butter was befuddlement incorporated. His dopey characters made one want to find a light switch, somewhere, so this poor guy wouldn't drown in his own nincom-poop.

And we loved him. Like great character actors such as Howard Morris, Louis Nye, and Art Carney, we loved them for their art of incompetence .

Such was Tom Poston.

Joe Postove