Thursday, October 8, 1992
Have you opened a tear lately?
by Andrew Festa
he Collegian
In Walt Whitman's poem,
Song Of Myself, there's a line
in which a young child comes
upon Walt and asks, "What is
the grass?" As I see it,
Whitman isn't asking us to we desire to see. on which to live. She has
focus on the question, or the I love to write poetry, short mothered us for a long time, but
grass, or the young child. He stories, and the echoes of my even she, in all her might, is
wants us to get beyond the philosophies, not for myself so not able to keep the slap of our
question to the real meaning of much as for tomorrow. I take destruction from her face,
life. vocal snapshots of today, using People, willing to exert the
If you come across a field of the filter of my own opinions effort, could build a list of
dead or dying grass, your and interpretations, and pass things with which to start
impulse should be to stop and what develops on for the eyes correcting harms done against
ask about it but few do. and minds of tomorrow's Earth.
If, on the other hand, you readers. We could begin the list and
come across a field of growing However, in talks with the run it as a chain letter, around
grass, stop for a moment. Look Earth, lam forced to wonder if the world if possible, and keep
at the tear drops left over from there will be any people here adding to the list to make things
the night before. Touch them tomorrow to read and enjoy right between Earth and her
and taste them with your mind, those snapshots. children. Further, the items of
don't just notice them. Take the Speaking through leafspeech, the list need to be rigidly
time to allow your emotions to she has come to my window at . enforced, not by some -major
paint you into the greatest night and kissed my mind with Earth the most economic, social, or political
reason for life itself: just being wonder. I see the beauty that’s a-f / ft concern, but be each and every
here in the first place. there to enjoy. Earth, using a WOnaerjUl gljt one of Earth's children.
Earth, the most wonderful gift cliche, often asks, "Why don't humanity has ever Ask yourselves this: "Could
humanity has ever known, cries more people stop and smell the knnwn cries more . 1 live with myself if I allowed
more each night. But, like a roses, what few still grow?” * _ ... tomorrow to become a waste
field of dying grass, no one Her confusion and pain is each night. But, like a land where 'life' is no longer a
passes close enough to notice everywhere. Even her twisted field of dying grass, no thing wherein beauty can exist,
the growing pool of tears. We seasons, like people on drugs, J novum rlnvo htrt where preservation of the
don't want to notice the dead or don’t know who they are one pusses ttose fittest is the rule? Is that
dying. We only notice the anymore. I see and hear her enough to notice the something I could accept giving
fingers of green shooting up out anger in thunderstorms. 1 growing pool of tears. to my children?"
of the ground -until the green cannot help but notice ibe tears 3OTBssn>nBns3!sssss&&BHßssxßßssss>snE Not everyone will care, but “
On The Almost-Cutting Edge Of Fashion
by Dave Barr;
Syndicated Columnist
Recently I read an alarming
fashion article in The New York
Times,
I should note that I have
never been on the cutting edge
of fashion. I'm more on the
trailing edge of fashion, or even
the discarded cardboard box of
fashion that the blade of fashion
was originally packaged in.
For example, it wasn't until
this year that I went out in
public with my shirt buttoned
all the way to the top, and no
tie. Before that I always
followed the Official 1961 Guy
Fashion Code, which said that if
you buttoned your top button,
you were a fairy, and Joey
Maglio and Steve Stromack
might stuff you into your locker
and leave you there for the
duration of the school year.
(Granted, they might do this
anyway, but it was more likely
if your top button was
buttoned.)
At some point, I think
during the Carter administration,
fashions dunged and some guys
started buttoning their top
buttons. But I never had the
courage to do this until just
recently, when my wife, for my
45th birthday, gave me a very
stylish (for me) shirt, which I
fades and the fingers point to a
blackening sky.
Then, we turn toward the
remaining green blankets of
fingers, still pointing up with
what smiles they’ve the strength
to show, and forget the sadness
of The Gone. We see only what
would describe as "green," and,
in a bold birthday mood, I wore
it to a restaurant buttoned all the
way up. Nothing bad happened,
although I did sporadically emit
wads of high-velocity, semi
chewed food as a result of
constantly whirling around to
see if people were laughing at
me.
So I'm making some
progress toward fashion
hipsterhood. Someday I may
even wear earrings. Of course
this would have to be after my
death. And even then. I'd want
the casket to be kept closed, in
case Joey and Steve came to the
funeral.
My point is that I am not in
the avant-grade (literally,"hot
tub") of fashion. That's why I
was so alarmed by an article that
appeared in the Aug. 3 New
York Times under the headline:
"Women's Designers Unveil A
New Ease For Men." This
article concerns top women's
fashion designers who are now
making clothes for men. At the
top of the page is a paragraph
of an outfit from Perry Ellis:
The model, a broad-shouldered
man, is wearing boots, a rugged
lumberjack-style plaid shirt
and... tights. No pants. No
shorts. Just a pair of tight
looking tights. The model is
frowning. He doesn't look like
The Collegian
which tumble down the face of
the sky and land with a sad thud
outside my open window. I
can't ignore the mounting pain
shouted in every thunder-clap.
Earth loves us all, like any
caring mother, but she's dying.
he's experiencing A New Ease
For Men. He looks like a man
who realizes that he's walking
around in public dressed like a
cross between a lumberjack and
the late Mary Martin starring as
Peter Pan.
Dave
Barry
I bet he’s also worrying
about how he's going to work
things out in the men's room.
Even more alarming is the
Her children are killing her.
Still, she loves us. Still, she
wants to take care of us, but she
can't protect us from ourselves.
She spent millions of years
twisting and turning herself
upside down and inside out so
we might have a place of beauty
look being proposed for men by
designer Donna Karan.
According to The Times, the
program for Ms. Karan's fashion
show describes her designs as
follows: "Take the sexiness of
Indiana Jones. The earnestness
of Mr. Smith in Washington.
The relaxed glamor of Gary
Cooper." The Tmes article has
a photograph of a muscular
male model wearing a Donna
Karan outfit consisting of a
jacket, no shirt, and- here
comes the New Ease For Men
part—a SKIRT. Really. It's a
wraparound "sarong” -style
skirt, and notes that "It's
masculinity is shored up by a
garrison belt."
It most certainly is. I look
at this outfit and the image that
leaps into my mind is Gary
Cooper, standing on some dusty
Wild West main street, facing
down a gang of bad guys:
COOPER: Bart, I want you
and the rest of these varmits to
get out of town.
GANG MEMBER: Hey!
He's wearin' a skirt! Sarong
style!
OTHER GANG MEM
BERS: Let's shoot him!
BART: Hold it, boys! That
there's a Donna Karan!
COOPER (grimly): That's
right, Bart And you'll note that
its masculinity is shored up by
Page 5
for those who call themselves
human beings, caring people,
and concerned Earth inhabitants
worried about the shape of
tomorrow, it's not too late, yet.
I leave you with a message I
recently found when I opened up
a tear that had fallen from its
ride down the face of the sky
onto my window sill: "I am that
which you call beauty, painted
for your mind, designed to give
you life. My existence depends
upon the beauty and concern
behind your eyes." It was
signed, 'Your Loving Mother,
Earth.'
Considering I've heard it said
that millions of messages much
like the one I found have been
seen around the world in every
conceivable language in tears
big and small, I’d wager the
words are for us all.
a □ e
Andrew Festa is a senior
majoring in English under
the Creative Writing
Option, and is one of the
photographers for The
Collegian. His column
appears every third week in
The Collegian.
mam
a garrison belt.
BART: First we’ll hang him
THEN we’ll shoot him.
Speaking of varmits, Ms.
Karan would also like you men
to start covering you heads with
designer bandannas, and so
would Calvin Klein. The
Times printed a photograph of
a model wearing one of Calvin's
outfits consisting of a head
bandanna and an enormous
three-piece suit that is spacious
enough to easily hold the model
and at least one head of cattle.
The thing is, right now I
can't imagine wearing any of
these outfits, but that's exactly
how I used to feel about
buttoning my top button. I'm
wondering if, 25 years from
now, I might be stomping
crankily around the house,
complaining that it's bowling
night and I can't find my official
team sarong. So I'm thinking
that maybe, instead of making
fun of these fashion designers, I
should respect them for having
the vision and courage to point
the way to the future for the rest
of us. Maybe it's time I wrote
something POSITIVE about the
fashion industry. And I will.
Just as soon as I see a
leading mate designer wearing
tights.