The Naked Gut
When it’s 22 degrees outside and your football team is getting their asses kicked, it’s nice to think back to the warm months of summer, when your baseball team was busy giving professional sports pundits the finger. I recall those sunny days fondly: cold beer; ocean breezes; a certain gentleman riding a scooter through the streets of metropolitan Boston wearing nothing but a loincloth.
I’d seen him before, many years ago, in Brookline and Cambridge. He hasn’t aged a day. Still a graybeard. Still sporting a carpet of gray body hair. Still in that loin cloth. Some people out there will always embrace the retro look, and there’s really no look more retro than the loin cloth. (Perhaps it’s not a loin cloth he wears. Maybe it’s merely loincloth-esque, a pair of gray, flappy shorts suggesting lower garments Mahatma Ghandi might have been forced to wear if he was forbidden from wearing an actual loin cloth.)
I wonder, sometimes, what this man does in the winter, when it’s 22 degrees out. Does he go to leave the house in his loin cloth only to have his wife say something like “what are you, out of your head? You’re not going out there in your loin cloth! It’s 22 degrees out!”
My guess is that he’s not married because most wives are loathe to allow their men to leave the house in a loin cloth no matter what the weather.