In which the vac finds peace, pants, and a pub-story.
So in the clothing world, there’s very little I’m willing to spend money on; reason being that most of it’s crap. Exceptions to this are proper boots and hat - I have me my stomp shoes since my boots have given up the ghost since 1996. My hat? Standard wide brim cheap black military. When I’ve got hair, it keeps my hair down. When I’ve got no hair, it keeps my head warm.
Black looks good on me, and it saves me from having to sort for how all these naff ideas of color changes, accessorizations, and monkey-vac get-up might work. Black shirt? People toss fantastic black dress shirts on the dump all the time, largely because most people who think they look spot on in black dress don’t. I mean, I rarely get into ego and how I look, but put me in black and it just seems to work. Nice power color.
Good mood? People walk up and say hi. Neutral or not wanting to deal? People stay away. Oh, and regardless of what I’m wearing, I seem to be able to make people back down with body language and voice tone. Thank goodness for going through all the madness of my childhood - t’was worth the effort just to see people three times my size and pissed off suddenly behave like good little boys and girls. Add monochromatic to the mix, and command tone rivets people to the spot.
So, heading out to work t’food bank this morning, I’m right pissy. Been up all manner of hours doing productive things, and I remember that today’s the day manic preacher man goes lumpy-jack-happy on the right-to-life Christian something something. You want right to life? I don’t agree with you, but we’re cool if we keep it to a civil discussion on our own time. Thump-guppy hasn’t got that down yet, and sod all if today isn’t the day that plans firm up for the arrival of those who think aggressive interference with anything that doesn’t match their something-or-other perfection illogic. Yep, spreading god with three sticks and a trowel.
Food bank’s not the place to spread religion. I mean…
Food bank’s not the place to spread religion.
Again, let me pause here: I’m not pissed they’re proselytizing. I’m pissed they’re presenting a direct physical threat, that they’re seeking to isolate kids from parents in parking lots, and other unacceptable Pastor approved activity.
Yeah, me’n Johnny Cash, black sounds like a plan.
Under all of this, I’m explaining that I don’t buy clothing all that much, remember? Hat, stomp shoes, stomp boots, that about sums me up. So, I stop by the out-of-doors store for some information on rifle ammunition - my mom’s gotten some completely crap bullets for her .22, and that needs rectification.
In the outfitter’s shop on the way to food bank work, I’m instantly distracted by the rack after rack of Carharts. Which are stupid-expensive out-of-my-league but downright splendid clothing. On sale at below web offered prices. This? This is promising.
I probably shouldn’t admit that I check the Carharts website regularly, should I? Slave to the traffic light, some. Others, fashion. Me it’s utility wear and clothing that can turn a knife - which, lest someone guess otherwise and die, Carharts are not, but if I find clothing that can in my price range... ooo…
And the prices are fab-o, and they’ve got the double front in black that I’ve been looking for, and they have it in my damn size which never, ever happens. Carharts thinks I’m wee-small and somehow expects to contain people with far more body than I’ve got, so my size turning up on the shelf is bloody rare.
Two pairs in my size, on sale. Me mum, with whom I’m working the food bank, and who I’m taking out to stuff silly for her birthday after, remembers that no Christmas or birthday presents went my way this year - on my orders, I might add, but all the same. And pants, I tell you. Pants!
These are pants that you can fight in, train in, and still go to work on a contraction site in come morning. Keep ‘em clean, and they’re dress pants. Let out a seam and add four inches of cotton duck, they’re leggings for a modest Aikido gi. These are pants that you can - if you’re flexible - work a choke or entrapment from. Assuming the target doesn’t know how to grapple. Remember, I’m crap at grappling, so working a choke involves my finding some complete idiot whose idea of grappling is fall-down-go-boom.
Full extension inside and outside crescent kicks though? Axe kick with the pelvic collar forward for extra power? Oh, verily yeah. And I have me two pair. A happier - and sillier - vac you’ve never seen.
I mean, what nutter looks at a pair of pants and thinks, “Yeah, I could train, fight, and eat Oreos all day in these?”
So I finish up work at the food bank and I’m so distracted I don’t even get too upset when the preacher blithers on about how it’s OK to do truly horrible things to people within confines X, but life is sacred - and that’s why it’s OK to do truly horrible things to people within confines X. I answer the one question put my way politely.
“Actually, I take a different stance on abortion, really. It all comes down to sentience, and I don’t think sentience really kicks in until about five. Until then, it’s just meat really.”
*shrug*
“Everyone likes meat. Not that I’d eat a baby, but if someone did, I don’t suppose I’d cry.”
*pause*
“I mean, I lived near a cannibal in Russia, and my whole reaction to that was, ‘well, they didn’t eat anyone I cared about. Economic collapse, don’t you know.’”
Dead. Disbelieving. Silence.
My mom, who’s been parking the van, wanders in and everyone tries to sound normal. The pastor attempts speech and squeaks. The editing feature which lives in my brain points out that sleep deprivation and lack of coffee just might make it go on hiatus, and “Did you just say something? Because I thought you just said something, and I think I missed my cue.”
Holy crap.
All I can think of is that in the car are my lovely black pants, and I’ve got my hat and my black dress shirt, all worked up like Cat, “How I look?” “I look good!” “How I look now?” “I still look good!” - But I have to make sure I get six boxes of bread and a box of veggies for the next food bank in line, which means bugger and damn, I don’t get to sneak off the bathroom with my prize and change up.
That happens later in the Volkswagen dealership just prior to the Fish’n’Chips.
It turns out you should never, ever wander into a car dealership looking even remotely yuppy, smile manically, and take them up on the offer to test drive a Jetta while your mum’s discussing the outrageous price of mud flaps… and then explain during the test drive that what you really want is to borrow the bathroom so you can change pants. After asking if it’s OK and demonstrating a bootlegger reverse on a gravel lot. In front of a cop.
“No sir, I’m test driving. I’m not on a public way. Yes sir, I really am test driving - this white faced gentleman here is from the shop.”
End-of-conversation. Very amused cop. Yeah, I knew the cop personally, and had spotted him before the maneuver. The trick on a test drive is to end the reverse so that the front of the car is pointed directly at the cop. Smile. Wait for the shop-rep to breathe.
“So I’d really like to change my pants. May I use your bathroom?”
* * *
Rock! Black pants ON ME.
* * *
And to top a perfect day, taking my even weer-smaller than I am mum out to eat at the best food ever. Watch her consume enough beer to lay me on my arse blind from a migraine. Talk amiably to her about child rearing, violence in society, and positioning in rooms for proper fields of vision just in case.
I’ve got my back to the wall. I can see everything. Road, movement in the kitchen, all the patrons. Not only do I get the best service by some ex-military something waiter, I get three recent-rotated-home people sat next to me, told, “Talk to them.”
WTF?
I talk to them, say maybe ten words - basic, “Yeah, be civil, my mom’s having a proper beer, right?” And they relax. Whoever let ‘em on the street in their pre-talk strung out shape needs a kicking, and it’s clear they’re re-flipping every time a truck shakes the building, every time someone moves wrong, every time there’s a loud laugh. You know that “I’m in control, stay cool.” Sorta tension? Everything about ‘em screaming, “Oh shit, society.”
Decompression isn’t my specialty - but showing my mom a good time in a pub is. I’ll share that when I can, and she catches a clue right quick. Go ahead, seat the fresh meat next to an ex-EMT and a never-in-service gamer - amazing things will happen.
Sometimes it’s possible to share that good happiness out onto other people who need it, sometimes it’s not. Today, somehow, I shared the good feelings, posture, voice tone, kinesics - and my meal was free. Yeah, and between myself and them, the waiter just took better than $100 in tips on under $100 in food sales, but that’s cool. He deserves it - some of the best social engineering I’ve ever seen.
Other than my greeting, my only words: “One beer per, and who’s designated?” Everything else a matter of confidence, proximity - and I’ve got my field of view, so I know I’m safe and happy.
Resonance works, black pants are the bomb, drunk soldiers aren’t tearing up the town, and I have so much free yummy in my tum I might just ‘splode. Bow before my fabulous pants!
* * *
Oh, yeah. Should’ve remembered to wash pants before wearing. Now I have a rash.
Rashes are not the bomb, rashes are my bum. Oh, my poor, poor bum.
Black looks good on me, and it saves me from having to sort for how all these naff ideas of color changes, accessorizations, and monkey-vac get-up might work. Black shirt? People toss fantastic black dress shirts on the dump all the time, largely because most people who think they look spot on in black dress don’t. I mean, I rarely get into ego and how I look, but put me in black and it just seems to work. Nice power color.
Good mood? People walk up and say hi. Neutral or not wanting to deal? People stay away. Oh, and regardless of what I’m wearing, I seem to be able to make people back down with body language and voice tone. Thank goodness for going through all the madness of my childhood - t’was worth the effort just to see people three times my size and pissed off suddenly behave like good little boys and girls. Add monochromatic to the mix, and command tone rivets people to the spot.
So, heading out to work t’food bank this morning, I’m right pissy. Been up all manner of hours doing productive things, and I remember that today’s the day manic preacher man goes lumpy-jack-happy on the right-to-life Christian something something. You want right to life? I don’t agree with you, but we’re cool if we keep it to a civil discussion on our own time. Thump-guppy hasn’t got that down yet, and sod all if today isn’t the day that plans firm up for the arrival of those who think aggressive interference with anything that doesn’t match their something-or-other perfection illogic. Yep, spreading god with three sticks and a trowel.
Food bank’s not the place to spread religion. I mean…
Food bank’s not the place to spread religion.
Again, let me pause here: I’m not pissed they’re proselytizing. I’m pissed they’re presenting a direct physical threat, that they’re seeking to isolate kids from parents in parking lots, and other unacceptable Pastor approved activity.
Yeah, me’n Johnny Cash, black sounds like a plan.
Under all of this, I’m explaining that I don’t buy clothing all that much, remember? Hat, stomp shoes, stomp boots, that about sums me up. So, I stop by the out-of-doors store for some information on rifle ammunition - my mom’s gotten some completely crap bullets for her .22, and that needs rectification.
In the outfitter’s shop on the way to food bank work, I’m instantly distracted by the rack after rack of Carharts. Which are stupid-expensive out-of-my-league but downright splendid clothing. On sale at below web offered prices. This? This is promising.
I probably shouldn’t admit that I check the Carharts website regularly, should I? Slave to the traffic light, some. Others, fashion. Me it’s utility wear and clothing that can turn a knife - which, lest someone guess otherwise and die, Carharts are not, but if I find clothing that can in my price range... ooo…
And the prices are fab-o, and they’ve got the double front in black that I’ve been looking for, and they have it in my damn size which never, ever happens. Carharts thinks I’m wee-small and somehow expects to contain people with far more body than I’ve got, so my size turning up on the shelf is bloody rare.
Two pairs in my size, on sale. Me mum, with whom I’m working the food bank, and who I’m taking out to stuff silly for her birthday after, remembers that no Christmas or birthday presents went my way this year - on my orders, I might add, but all the same. And pants, I tell you. Pants!
These are pants that you can fight in, train in, and still go to work on a contraction site in come morning. Keep ‘em clean, and they’re dress pants. Let out a seam and add four inches of cotton duck, they’re leggings for a modest Aikido gi. These are pants that you can - if you’re flexible - work a choke or entrapment from. Assuming the target doesn’t know how to grapple. Remember, I’m crap at grappling, so working a choke involves my finding some complete idiot whose idea of grappling is fall-down-go-boom.
Full extension inside and outside crescent kicks though? Axe kick with the pelvic collar forward for extra power? Oh, verily yeah. And I have me two pair. A happier - and sillier - vac you’ve never seen.
I mean, what nutter looks at a pair of pants and thinks, “Yeah, I could train, fight, and eat Oreos all day in these?”
So I finish up work at the food bank and I’m so distracted I don’t even get too upset when the preacher blithers on about how it’s OK to do truly horrible things to people within confines X, but life is sacred - and that’s why it’s OK to do truly horrible things to people within confines X. I answer the one question put my way politely.
“Actually, I take a different stance on abortion, really. It all comes down to sentience, and I don’t think sentience really kicks in until about five. Until then, it’s just meat really.”
*shrug*
“Everyone likes meat. Not that I’d eat a baby, but if someone did, I don’t suppose I’d cry.”
*pause*
“I mean, I lived near a cannibal in Russia, and my whole reaction to that was, ‘well, they didn’t eat anyone I cared about. Economic collapse, don’t you know.’”
Dead. Disbelieving. Silence.
My mom, who’s been parking the van, wanders in and everyone tries to sound normal. The pastor attempts speech and squeaks. The editing feature which lives in my brain points out that sleep deprivation and lack of coffee just might make it go on hiatus, and “Did you just say something? Because I thought you just said something, and I think I missed my cue.”
Holy crap.
All I can think of is that in the car are my lovely black pants, and I’ve got my hat and my black dress shirt, all worked up like Cat, “How I look?” “I look good!” “How I look now?” “I still look good!” - But I have to make sure I get six boxes of bread and a box of veggies for the next food bank in line, which means bugger and damn, I don’t get to sneak off the bathroom with my prize and change up.
That happens later in the Volkswagen dealership just prior to the Fish’n’Chips.
It turns out you should never, ever wander into a car dealership looking even remotely yuppy, smile manically, and take them up on the offer to test drive a Jetta while your mum’s discussing the outrageous price of mud flaps… and then explain during the test drive that what you really want is to borrow the bathroom so you can change pants. After asking if it’s OK and demonstrating a bootlegger reverse on a gravel lot. In front of a cop.
“No sir, I’m test driving. I’m not on a public way. Yes sir, I really am test driving - this white faced gentleman here is from the shop.”
End-of-conversation. Very amused cop. Yeah, I knew the cop personally, and had spotted him before the maneuver. The trick on a test drive is to end the reverse so that the front of the car is pointed directly at the cop. Smile. Wait for the shop-rep to breathe.
“So I’d really like to change my pants. May I use your bathroom?”
* * *
Rock! Black pants ON ME.
* * *
And to top a perfect day, taking my even weer-smaller than I am mum out to eat at the best food ever. Watch her consume enough beer to lay me on my arse blind from a migraine. Talk amiably to her about child rearing, violence in society, and positioning in rooms for proper fields of vision just in case.
I’ve got my back to the wall. I can see everything. Road, movement in the kitchen, all the patrons. Not only do I get the best service by some ex-military something waiter, I get three recent-rotated-home people sat next to me, told, “Talk to them.”
WTF?
I talk to them, say maybe ten words - basic, “Yeah, be civil, my mom’s having a proper beer, right?” And they relax. Whoever let ‘em on the street in their pre-talk strung out shape needs a kicking, and it’s clear they’re re-flipping every time a truck shakes the building, every time someone moves wrong, every time there’s a loud laugh. You know that “I’m in control, stay cool.” Sorta tension? Everything about ‘em screaming, “Oh shit, society.”
Decompression isn’t my specialty - but showing my mom a good time in a pub is. I’ll share that when I can, and she catches a clue right quick. Go ahead, seat the fresh meat next to an ex-EMT and a never-in-service gamer - amazing things will happen.
Sometimes it’s possible to share that good happiness out onto other people who need it, sometimes it’s not. Today, somehow, I shared the good feelings, posture, voice tone, kinesics - and my meal was free. Yeah, and between myself and them, the waiter just took better than $100 in tips on under $100 in food sales, but that’s cool. He deserves it - some of the best social engineering I’ve ever seen.
Other than my greeting, my only words: “One beer per, and who’s designated?” Everything else a matter of confidence, proximity - and I’ve got my field of view, so I know I’m safe and happy.
Resonance works, black pants are the bomb, drunk soldiers aren’t tearing up the town, and I have so much free yummy in my tum I might just ‘splode. Bow before my fabulous pants!
* * *
Oh, yeah. Should’ve remembered to wash pants before wearing. Now I have a rash.
Rashes are not the bomb, rashes are my bum. Oh, my poor, poor bum.