They Say The Man Makes The Clothes…
I remember it like it was yesterday…a political neophyte lost in a sea of good ol’ boys and conservative whores. My eyes saturated with pin stripes and silk ties, low cut blouses and pencil skirts…the fabrics of the game. A game I wanted so desperately to play. I wanted to talk their talk, I wanted to walk their walk, I wanted to have sinful sex while professing the sanctity of our holy matrimony….but most of all I wanted to dress like them.
I was completely inundated with the presentation of power. The double-breasted suits…the three piece with a vest. A veritable badge of honor in the high stakes game of politics. To be the man you have to dress like the man.
And I did. I bought a suit that made me look like God himself. I took my conservative whore shopping and in between the litany of ties we had sex, all the while professing the sanctity of our promising holy matrimony. The weapons of my image…the hard steel of the intellectual politico beginning to play the great game itself.
I remember the first time I felt that I stood amongst them as equals. Pinstripes and silk ties. A beautiful girl at my side in a low cut blouse, pencil skirt, and kitten heels. We had arrived. I had arrived. I walked so much more proud, my wingtips clapping as I strolled. I checked and rechecked the knot in my tie…ensuring that the double winsor of my facade remained taunt. Yes, I had certainly arrived.
I took photos with Congressmen. I shook State Representatives’ hands. I might as well have kissed babies. My name came forth with a confidence I had never experienced. And they listened. They listened so closely. Their eyes betrayed my greatest hope: My name was Elliott James Griffin, and they would remember me.
I returned to my hotel room elated. The soft cottons of my armor weighing heavily upon me, I decided to change into more mundane attire. I will never forget loosening that tie, looking into the mirror, and believing that I had stood amongst greatness and shined all the brighter. Clothes made the man on this day, I thought.
And she arrived, my Virgin Mary herself. An image of iconic chastity. Golden hair and grim attire. Light and dark. Salvation and sin. She walked up to me slowly and grabbed the tie I was working clumsily to remove and told me how great I looked in my new clothes…she looked at me hungrily…
So a mere twenty minutes after listening to a conservative stump speech on morality and Christian values I had sex with her. Everywhere. And for as long as we wanted. Beautiful sin. Golden hair and grimmer sins.
Yes, the clothes had made the man. Had made a man into something he was not. Had taken me from the confines of comfort and into their world–good ol’ boys and conservative whores. I had lied, to everyone and anyone who saw me. The promise of power, the perception of influence…had intoxicated me. Drove me to wear a suit of lies and misdirection. And a tie of fine Italian silk.
After we had sex I remember looking into the same mirror in which I stood before. And I saw myself for what I am: t-shirt and jeans, an Everyman if there ever was one. I went to the hospitality suite for the Convention, with my pillar of Godliness on my arm, and I was disgusted. The image had changed…it had evolved. The men now had their jackets over chairs. Dress sleeves rolled up. Top button undone, tie loose. Cigar in mouth. Beer in hand.
And I thought…so this is how they look when they are having fun.
In between plumes of smoke they argued policy and acted intelligent. Sure some were. Most were not. But they felt safe…within their suit of lies and misdirection. I was disgusted. The same starry eyed child who had been taken in by this gimmick now stood alone in a crowd. Even my girl disgusted me…as I could overhear her talking about abortion and its illegitimacy, its immortality, its terrible sinfulness.
And I thought…I better not hear a word to the contrary of this poetic diatribe should we have just conceived a child.
That was the day it happened. The complete arc in and of itself. I had played a part, become a symbol and a soldier, and had played their game–and played it all too well. But I was saddened and annoyed. The repercussions can be felt today. I work for a Fortune 30 company and I wear t-shirt and jeans, an Everyman if there ever was one. I find the people who dress nicely to take phone calls from the general public repugnant and pretentious. I am sickened by the faux-status that cotton can grant someone. I am angered by the popular perception that thoughts are relative in quality and quantity to the clothes I drape upon my back.
Call it evolution, call it devolution…call it whatever you like. The old adage that the man makes the clothes is total bullshit. We all wear our masks…neat hair and crisper shirts. Professionalism? No. A uniform of your conformity…of your acceptance into the game mastered by others. A badge of infidelity to your own individuality.
I see the eyes, cutting me as I walk past “important” meetings. I saw the eyes the following year when I attended the same political convention in flip flops and a sweater. I can feel your anger upon my back. But it is not anger at me, but at your own inability to free yourself from the status quo.
But even I am a victim of this. Why do I not walk around naked? If I am so free, why do I wear anything at all..? Because on some level I am still conditioned…a foot soldier in the culture war. White bread and mayonnaise. Middle America. I am a product of so much social engineering that the mere thought of public nakedness offends me…
So here I am, still in a suit of lies and misdirections…a Ron Paul t-shirt and designer jeans. A clown who won’t wear a suit for anyone…except the girl who wanted to take it off. And she did, all the while professing to our promising holy matrimony.
And I still ain’t married.
One Response to “They Say The Man Makes The Clothes…”
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January 16th, 2008 at 9:48 am
i know i sent you this in a text, but it bears saying here too: i find it LOLhilarious that you knew what “kitten heels” were…
specificity in writing, ftmfw.