Super Hero Sensibility

       Two of my close friends were kibitzing via text one day. One of them asked the other “Why does Clint wear so many super hero t-shirts?” The other responded “I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out.”.
       When one of my friends told me about this exchange, I chuckled. Then she asked me, point blank, about the super hero shirts. I thought about the question, but only for literally, a few seconds. I wanted my response to be raw and spontaneous, not over thought. So I said, “Could it be as simple as the fact that I find them really fun to wear, and I like how they look on me?”.
       On the surface level, it really is that simple. As always, though, I like to dig deeper and get to more. And although there are a lot of layers to me, probably more than there are with most, we are all multi layered beings. I find it fascinating, exciting, revealing, and fun, to do a deep dive and uncover more about what people are about; more about what’s going on inside them; to a place of deeper truth. It is a wonderful way to connect to someone, on a deeper level, a more intimate level, and it helps me understand them.
       It also helps them understand themselves better. Or at least, it has great potential for that. How often are we asked to go deeper into ourselves and get to something else? Not often enough, I say. When there is an exchange between two or more people, whether I’m asking you to go deeper or you’re asking me, there is great opportunity for both of us to discover more about each other, about ourselves, and indeed about the relationship. That’s a beautiful thing. It’s a stepping stone to a deeper friendship, or a deeper love, because of the very true phrase “Love Through Understanding”. We have the chance to love each other more when we understand each other. And we have the chance to love ourselves more when we understand ourselves better as well.
        If I dig a little deeper into the super hero t-shirt question, I find that the fun element has more to it. What exactly is “fun” about wearing the symbol of The Flash? It speaks to something deeper about me. I thrive on engaging people, on connecting to people. And my Flash t-shirt helps me do that. Because it illicits a response from some. And that response is a connection. A brief one sometimes. like someone saying to me “The Flash!”. I smile at them, point, sometimes give them a high five, and that’s it. But that feels good to me. For a brief moment in time, I engage and connect to a complete stranger. The world doesn’t seem so big and scary. I don’t feel so separate from all of humankind. I experience a oneness and a sense of community with this person, and indeed, the entire world, in that brief moment. All from that little, seemingly insignificant interaction. All from wearing a super hero t-shirt.
       Sometimes that brief connection leads to a whole conversation, which leads to a little deeper connection, an exchange of ideas, emotions, and even phone numbers. All because I decided to wear the bright red t-shirt with the lightning bolt on it instead of the black one with an embossed alligator over the nipple. Well, truth be told, I actually don’t own any of those alligator shirts. But you get the point.
       There are, I’m sure, those who look at me in my super hero t-shirt and make fun of me. Not to my face, but to themselves, or to their buddy sitting next to them. I’ve felt the hostile stares from some. That’s the risk you run when you do something, anything, even slightly outside the norm, or different, or unconventional. My preference would be to somehow connect to those people who are judging or ridiculing me. Many of them wouldn’t be interested in getting to know the person they are directing such negativity towards, but some would. Wouldn’t it be great if one of them came up to me and asked me “What is up with the shirt?”. That would start a conversation. And that conversation could lead to a connection, and who knows what else.
       I understand why most people would never do that. But I raise it as a possibility, and to illustrate a point. And to say that I personally would not find that kind of behavior strange or off putting. Different, yes, but I would welcome it. It would give me a chance to connect to another person. To get to know them a little better. They would have the opportunity to know me a little better too. They may, after a conversation, understand me better. And that may lead to a mutual feeling of connection to humanity, and a sense that we are all in this thing together. And as I’ve said, that’s a beautiful experience. Maybe it would be for them too.
       There’s also the possibility that they walk away from the conversation thinking I’m a complete jackass. That’s the chance you take when you risk engagement and attempt to connect to another. There’s no guarantee for success. Which is another reason why people don’t do it more often.
        Kids connect to super heroes because they represent something exciting, powerful, and larger than life. I still connect strongly to those concepts, and therefore still connect to t-shirts with super hero logos on them. I haven’t lost my ability to relate to fantasy and magic. Magic is indeed everywhere. We just have to be open to it; we have to turn up the gain on our Internal Magic Radar Detector. It’s in the sky at sunset. It’s in the smile a friend gives you when they greet you. It’s in your lover’s desire for you in the bedroom.
       And it’s in my Green Lantern t-shirt........


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.  

Shopping Foreplay

       Last week, at my friend’s fiftieth birthday party, a group of women I had yet to meet commented on my attire, and a conversation started. Clothing serves as a staple conversation piece in our culture, both because it’s an easy thing to start talking about, and because it remains an evocative form of expression.
       My father found small talk incredibly boring, and I take right after him. I try to move conversations into the more meaningful realm pretty quickly, even if I’ve never met you. If we’re talking about the weather, for example, after we agree or disagree on how great it is or how much it sucks, I want to know if the weather fascinates you. If it doesn’t, what does? Let’s get beyond the completely superficial as soon as possible and get to something real, something interesting, something about you and something about me. I’ll show you a few of the cards in my deck. Are you willing to show me one of yours?
       So in this virgin conversation about clothing with these women I just met, I threw something against the wall, being pretty sure it would stick. I offered that I really enjoy clothes shopping with my honey. The girls’ ears perked up, their gazes fixed upon me, and they wanted to know more. So I told them.
       I said that, if I’m with a woman, it’s a foregone conclusion that I’m into what she looks like, and I’m into what she wears. She’s beautiful. So if I’m into her, it makes sense, to me, that watching her try on different outfits would be fun and exciting. And it is. The last time I went shopping with my ex-girlfriend, I watched her try on dresses in the petite section of.....some gigantic major department store (I’m always confusing the names of those places). I watched her try on pants at The Gap. I watched her try on shoes at DSW (even bought her a pair of sexy boots). I loved it. Totally turned me on. More than once.
       Most guys, I told the women, miss out on this. They focus on how boring shopping can be. They focus on what they’re missing out on. Maybe they focus on how much this might cost them. Possibly valid concerns, but those can be easily mitigated by putting parameters in place. And while they focus on all of that, there’s this hot babe they’re with, undressing over and over again, trying on outfits, some of which look great on her, right in front of them. Hello! Wake up boys!
       I asked the girls how many of their boyfriend’s, past or present, know their shoe size, and ever bought them a pair of shoes. No for both across the board. Again, men are asleep at the wheel here. Most women love shoes. When a man knows her shoe size, it means he’s paying attention. To her. To details. When he buys her a pair of shoes, in her size, that she digs, it means he’s paying even more attention to her, he’s making time for her, and he’s showing her he cares. Buying her a pair of shoes is an intimate act. Which could be another reason men don’t do it. Because intimacy is hard for most men.
       Men generally just do not pay enough attention to their female partners. These days, plenty of women don’t pay enough attention to their men either. If you’re not paying attention, you need to rediscover what about the person enthralls you. It’s still there, but sometimes you have to go looking for it. It’s gotten lost in the shuffle of life. What’s beautiful and remarkable about your lover gets buried beneath what’s not right about them, what’s not right about the relationship, what’s not right about your own life. Those things may be real. But that shit gets way too much air time in most relationships.
       Shopping with your partner can be an afternoon of foreplay. Especially if you can sneak or finagle your way into your girl’s dressing room while she’s trying stuff on (one of my favorites, but often difficult to pull off). Unfortunately, lots of men forget about foreplay just as well as they forget to pay attention. So it takes a shift of attitude, and focus, on a few levels. But it’s all right there. Right beneath the surface. Go find it. It's in the Women’s Shoes Department.

©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.

The Body As Canvas

        One toy that re-appears each generation is some sort of humanoid figure, less than a foot tall, completely made of white resin, that allows you to paint on it. Sometimes the paints come with it, sometimes you have to buy the paint separately. Curiously, the closer it looks like a human being, the more clothing it usually has on.
        I remember seeing these as a kid and getting incredibly excited. In fact, when I see them today, in whatever modern form they have evolved into, I get...incredibly excited. Because even as a child, the idea of having a blank slate upon which to create myself filled me with a light that made me glow from the inside out.
        Before I knew what it meant to not like myself, I didn’t like myself. I always remember wanting to be somebody else. I had a very active fantasy life where I was always pretending that I was some other thin, cool, popular, attractive, happy kid, instead of the fat, melancholy, socially awkward boy that I was.
        These little all white figures were tabulae rasae that I could paint as brightly and as beautifully and as outrageously as I wanted. It was much different than painting on a piece of paper. The little statue that looked like a human body was far more symbolically evocative of who and what I could become. It was like I was painting on myself. It was as though I was re-creating myself whenever I painted one of them. I obviously wasn’t mature enough to be aware of that then, but I see that connection clearly now.
        Even now, just thinking about a three dimensional human form upon which to paint and adorn however I choose fills me with a child like joy and excitement that only the possibility of full self expression can conjure. As a child, my opportunities for full self expression were extremely limited. And when the opportunities arose,there was always a ceiling or a limit on just how expressive I could be. Even if I was just painting a toy.
        Not now. As an adult, whatever limits I place on my own self expressiveness are, ultimately, of my own design and choosing.
        What I’ve come to understand is that, like that little white statue, I see my body as a canvas upon which to paint whatever I choose. But, unlike the statue, it’s not a static canvas. It’s a vibrant, dynamic canvas that I can sculpt into the shape I want. I have a certain amount of control over the shape of this canvas, and through exercise and nutrition and discipline and knowledge and desire and hard work, I can make it into something I like the looks of. Something I like the feel of. I don’t have to fantasize about being somebody else. I can become the man I want to be. “Sculpting” and “Painting” this canvas called my body is one piece of that self-actualization.
        The clothing and the jewelry and the hair color and whatever else I adorn to present to the outside world are like the colors and designs I paint on the little white resin statue. I have become that magical canvas upon which to paint. And I don’t want to limit my colors or my designs. I want to use the colors and the styles and the designs that I like. I want to combine them all to create a unique presentation. I want my physical form to look as unique on the outside as I am on the inside.
        It doesn’t make any sense not to use whatever colors or styles or designs or accoutrements excite me to create this. Certainly not because somebody else is telling me what’s acceptable or normal. As a child, it was parents or teachers or other kids setting the rules on self expression. Now it’s societal norms.
        No thanx. Been there. Done that. It’s not a whole lotta fun. I’m going to use whatever colors I like. I’m going to go with whatever designs and styles move me. Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t you?
        This reminds me of a conversation I had with my neighbor’s mother about the color of my house. When I first painted it, I saw her sitting alone on her lawn and went over to say hello. I hadn’t seen her since the previous summer. After a few minutes she said to me “You know, I really don’t like the color of your house. Purple?”. She’s an outspoken, old school Italian woman. Her candor and directness I find refreshing, very unlike her female offspring, who just stopped talking to me one day after I painted the house. Anyway, without skipping a beat, I replied to her “Well you know Mary, I don’t like the color of your house either. It bores the hell out of me.”
        We both laughed. Ah, truth. Nothing like it.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a massive tabula rasa of Wrongs) Reserved.

The (Sparkly) Chart Room

        The other night, I was at a locally famous restaurant and watering hole called The Chart Room. The Chart Room is one of those places that’s been here as long as people have been vacationing on lower Cape Cod. It’s a physical establishment that has magically transcended the physical and woven itself into the ethereal fabric of the area, the very same way the water and the sunsets have. The Chart Room, and everything that’s ever happened there, is a vibrant part of the Cape Cod collective unconscious.
        It overlooks a beautiful cove that houses Kingman’s Marina. There are boats of all shapes and sizes everywhere. The boating crowd loves the place, as does just about everybody else.
        I don’t have a boat. I have a jet ski. My shorts aren’t pleated, or even khaki. They’re more the surfer type. My shirts don’t have a collar, or usually even a neckline. And if they do, they are of colors and styles that would never appear in a Ralph Lauren, Polo, or Nautica catalog. Very few of the men who frequent The Chart Room adorn any sort of jewelry, save for a wedding band, while I practically rattle when I walk.
        Superficially, I don’t fit in here. I dress differently. My quasi mohawk haircut is unlike anybody else’s. My sense of style is about as far away from these people as can be. But beneath all that, there is a commonality that for me at least supersedes such differences. When you get further down to it, these people are here for the evening to socialize, to connect to other people, and to enjoy life. And so am I. It is through that unspoken commonality that our sensibilities meet and mesh.
        During the course of the evening, an attractive woman in her early fifties approached me and said “I have to ask you; What is up with that belt?”. She’s referring to a sparkly belt that often adorns my waistline, a belt that I have written about in this very blog. Her query was genuine and curious, not at all confrontational, and I’m sure that added to my immediate sense of ease.
        “Are you familiar with Michelangelo’s sculpture of David?”, I asked her. She said “Yes. In fact, I’ve seen it. It’s fabulous.” I continued “Do you recall the artist’s response when he was asked how he was able to sculpt such a thing from a hunk of shapeless marble?”. “No. I don’t.” she said. “What Michelangelo said”, I replied, “was that David was already in the marble. All he had to do was take away what didn’t belong so that David could be revealed.” There was a slight pause. She understood the comment, but didn’t understand what the hell it had to do with the belt I was wearing. I let this fester for just a moment and added “Well, this belt was already inside of me. All I had to do was strip away from me whatever didn’t belong, and there it was.” She looked at me, still somewhat perplexed. She obviously wasn’t expecting a philosophical answer to her question about my fashion choice.
        I continued “I love bright colors, flashy clothing, sparkly things. I’m drawn to them like a moth is to a flame. That preference is inside of me. I just follow it. And it leads me to find and wear stuff like this.” After a moment or two, as my words sank in, she got it. And then she smiled at me. I could see in her eyes that she not only understood what I was saying, she understood ME. She was asking about something on my outside, and I gave her something from my insides, and she heard it. I took this simple opportunity to share this about myself because she asked a question. Her curiosity prompted my openness and we were able to connect through a wonderful little exchange.
        In those moments, it didn’t matter what we looked like, or how we dressed. All that mattered was that we got each other. We connected. Which is why I go there. Which is why she goes there. Which is why so many of us go there. Or anywhere, for that matter.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a collective unconscious of Wrongs) Reserved.

Foot Heaven

        Women spend more time shopping for, talking about, obsessing over, looking at, and lusting after, footwear than any other article of clothing. This is in no way a bad thing. Just an observation. And I’m all for it.
        For most women I know, shoes take up a larger percentage of a their clothing budget than dresses, pants, blouses, and skirts combined. In fact, even though it goes on her body, just like everything else she wears, things that go on a woman’s feet get their own category: footwear. And footwear gets broken down into its own subcategories: boots, pumps, sandals, wedges, heels, flats,....the list goes on.
        Why the fascination with footwear? Ladies, I’m asking you. I’ll offer my own half-baked theories, anecdotes, musings, insights, and candor here, but I’d love to hear what you have to say. And gentlemen please, if you have anything to offer, speak up.
        Let’s start with the fact that, according to Wikipedia, “Foot fetishism, foot partialism, foot worship, or podophilia...is the most common form of sexual preference for otherwise non-sexual objects or body parts.” Before I get going, let me say I have a problem with the definition. Who’s to say what “body parts” are “otherwise...non sexual”? As far as I’m concerned, the entire body is one big erogenous zone. In the appropriate context, every square inch is sexual. Dividing the body up into “sexual” and “non sexual” areas is not only a complete waste of time, but dangerous. It can lead those of us with fetishes to believe there’s something wrong with us for being into an arbitrarily determined “non sexual” something. Don’t buy it. It’s bullshit.
        Improper definition not withstanding, we see that there’s an affinity for feet and footwear that not only crosses genders, but is somewhat universal. Both men and women, from all walks of life, have a thing for it.
        This is, as far as I’m concerned, great news. Because despite the obvious fact that men and women usually have vastly different ideas regarding clothing, plenty of both agree that women’s footwear is damn interesting and exciting. Women love to have it. Men love to look at it.
        So both sexes are enamored with women’s feet and what goes on them. That’s common ground; another area where the two sexes can connect. As common inhabitants of this planet who often struggle with understanding one another, men and women can never have too many metaphysical places where their hearts and minds meet.
        Think of other obsessions that men have. Take breasts for example. I don’t know any straight women who gets as excited about her own breasts as virtually any straight man does. But shoes and feet? Women are into that as much as men are. That’s fantastic, because we can both share the obsession. Or at least the interest. Even guys who aren’t that into it would probably say that they like the way a nice pair of shoes makes a woman look.
        The sheer variety of choice in footwear is positively staggering, which means that women never get tired of looking for shoes, and men never get tired of looking at them. There’s just so much to see.
        If there’s any truth to the cliche “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”, then I offer that “A way to a woman’s heart is through her feet”. How many men pay enough attention to the woman they’re with to know her foot size and her sense of style regarding footwear? Not enough. I happen to be one guy who does, and I can tell you from experience; when a man, all on his own, buys a woman a pair of shoes that she digs, that actually fit her, it is a rare and special event that will be long savored and forever remembered. Flowers are nice. Jewelry is commonplace. Shoes are money.
        Then there’s the pedicure, which most women spend as much time on in summer as men do on football in the fall. Here’s a golden opportunity that most men miss completely. You know how good it feels, gentlemen, when a woman gets into football with you and wants to learn the game? I love that. You get to explain football to her, in all it’s luscious subterfuge and analytical complexity. You get to watch it with her, in all it’s blood and guts glory. You get to guide her through the labyrinth of strategy, the richness of the game’s history, the subtlety of it’s nuances, and the passion of it’s physical mayhem. It feels great to take your woman by the hand and say to her “Come with me, honey. Let me show you the way. Let me enlighten you on the greatest game on earth.”
        There’s a similar opportunity with the pedicure, or with women’s feet in general. This is the man’s chance to become part of a very important element of a woman’s world that he most likely doesn’t have a clue about. Her pedicure, her footwear, her feet; these are a woman’s “Football”. Let her take you by the hand.
        Learn to give a pedicure, or at least how to paint her toes. Notice which toenail polish colors she likes, say something to her about it, and then go buy her some in those favorite colors. Compliment her on how good her feet look after a pedicure. Know her shoe size, her boot size (usually a half size larger), and the kind of footwear she likes, and buy her some. Look at shoes with her in magazines and when you window shop. In other words, pay attention to her feet, however you can, because, and here’s the point, they are important to her. If you make them important to you, even just a little bit, it means something. It means you care. About her and what’s important to her. Think football.
        As I’ve mentioned, lots of guys already have foot fetishes, so there’s plenty of interest. But too many men just don’t take it to the next level. Sure, they may kiss her feet in the bedroom, but that’s only the beginning. To a woman, feet and footwear represent an entire WORLD, full of many facets. Explore it with her. Shoes. Boots. Toenail polish. Pedicures. Lotions. Creams. Et cetera. Become more a part of this world with her, as she becomes more a part of yours. Everybody wins.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a woman’s shoe closet full of Wrongs) Reserved.