There are some sights I just can’t get outta my head. Sure, I can try to wash my eyes out with pretty images; pictures of a beautiful woman… nature… or whatever visual cleanse is appropriate for the erasure. But there are some things that are the optical equivalent of eating sardines, that even pizza and hot wings can only mask for a few seconds. There are life-images that even a glimpse etches into that special place in my brain reserved for memories of my senior prom or birth of my kids.
And I’m feelin’ kinda robbed that my happy-memory database is being slowly formatted by out of control image-bombing. Here’s the thing, I’m incapable of looking away. I’m not sure if my mind isn’t processing images quickly enough (possibly because there’s no logical reference in my database) forcing me to stay fixed on target too long or if I’m just simply drawn to craziness.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! This is what I had peekin’ at me at lunch the other day.
And instead of looking away and focusing on my club sandwich, I took the picture… and asked myself a bunch of questions. How does he keep his pants up? Double-stick tape? A tent pole? I’m fascinated (and maybe a bit envious). If my pants ever scooched that low they’d fall to my ankles and I have to shuffle up to the cashier!
OK, go ahead and make snarky comments about black guys with their pants pulled down. Yeah, I think it’s a stupidly pointless (typically young African American) fashion statement but I have NEVER seen a black crack! Sure, their pants are pulled down half over their ass but they always have clean, contrasting, or coordinated underwear. Is it any harder for them to walk than Captain Crack in the picture?
I see it everywhere. This guy was my third crack sighting this week. And God help ya if you go to a warm-weather high school football game! It’s a veritable sea of cracks. Be forewarned, if you care enough to show me your crack – or any other body part that’s typically covered – I’m taking your picture. (At least for as long as I’m strong and fast enough to get away with it.)
I’d like to think the prevalence of butt sightings has less to do with my “crack-awareness” than a collective lack of self-awareness. I mean, can’t they feel a draft?
It must be tribe-specific. Mine apparently has a high degree of crack-awareness. I can say with absolute certainty that I have never had an unintentional crack sighting in my circle.
Maybe as a culture we’ve become comfortable – desensitized – to skin. Any skin. Open breastfeeding is encouraged and applauded. Diaper changes seem to happen everywhere…openly. The last airport I was in was an endless dairy barn of breastfeeding and diaper changing. But that would be naked-awareness, unlike the crack flashers who seem to be oblivious to their southern exposure.
As Seinfeld said, “There’s good naked and bad naked.”
There’s bad naked everywhere.
Let’s face it, Americans are obsessed with skin. Any skin. Maybe more so in Wisconsin because we dress like Siberians nine months out of the year to thwart frostbite from the polar vortex. Even caterpillars wear coats here.
As soon as it hits 45 degrees in Wisconsin (regardless of snow cover) fish belly white pelts emerge, craving a hint of warm sunshine… and remain out until snow returns a couple of short months later.
There’s a lot of bad naked. But because we’re so conditioned to sweaters, boots, and parkas, beer bellies, love handles, and of course cracks are seen as “good naked.” Any skin is good skin. Good naked. Perfectly acceptable in any shape or form. Like a drowning man gulping air after coming to the surface. We get it. We shake our heads and say, “Well, no kidding, the guy’s been deprived. He deserves it. Gulp away!”