Speaking of tubs and lids! This wacko tableau totally blew my mind!
I’d like to take this opportunity to beg yall’s indulgence for just a little longer while I laze around not blogging. I Blame The Patriarchy, contrary to what longtime blamer MzNicky has suggested, is not dead. It is merely in a coma. I promise you, the minute I think of something to write, I will write it, and then I will post it here, and it’ll be just like the old days.
You may wonder what — besides cultivating a taste for the abandoned storage tubs littering my neighborhood — I’ve been up to lo these many weeks.
You may not believe this, but I’ve been working on a post. You’d think that after months of honing, it would be about the best post ever written, but the truth is that it stinks. It stinks more than I’d have thought possible for a post conceived in my giant brain to stink. I can’t post a stinky, sub-par essay, hence there’s been bupkis-all to read around here lately.
Possibly the post sucks because it is about Utilikilts.
Utilikilts, it amuses me to report, are nothing but skirts. Big whoop, you say? Well, they have giant pockets and are marketed to straight, not necessarily Celtically-inclined men, two qualities not popularly tolerated in a garment universally imbued to the point of absurdity with sex-class-specificity. The masculinization of the girly accoutrement interests me strangely.
I am not an habitué of Burning Man, so it came to pass that 48 long years elapsed before I laid eyes on my first Utilikilt. This event transpired 3 weeks ago. The minute I saw it — a heavy-duty twill with dudely brass snaps arranged so as to suggest a codpiece or possibly a WWF Heavyweight Champion belt, adorning a sensitive guy in a ponytail at the South Congress post office — I knew that I must possess one. I wanted to wear a skirt while simultaneously crossdressing. I will have my little sartorial joke.
My Utilikilt arrived several days later. I’d ordered the “Survival” model, which features “a pair of detachable side-saddle cargo pockets (each with its own closure flap and belt loops).” You have never seen a more ridiculous garment. It weighs about 746 pounds, the front pockets reach to your knees, and it has a “modesty closure system” which tacks the front and the back of the skirt together, effectively transforming it into stupid-looking shorts. The website suggests that the purpose of the Survival kilt is to facilitate the hands-free hauling of “20 bottles of beer” while its manly wearer fords wild rivers and scales Patagonian peaks. I haven’t yet found myself in possession of enough beer, or in proximity to sufficient wilderness, to test this claim, but I did convey, over a distance of several hundred urban yards, a bottle of Côtes de Provence (Les Domainiers de Puits Mouret; a gorgeous, affordable rosé that you don’t have to be an absentee patriarchy blamer to love) in one of the ‘saddlebags’. The experiment met with only mild success, however; without a bottle in the opposite side pocket to balance it out, the skirt listed unacceptably. Not only that, the neck of the bottle stuck out too far, interfering with my spinster auntly gesticulations. The bottle did disappear satisfactorily into the front slant pocket, but once there it impeded ambulation. Furthermore, I could not squeeze a pitcher of margaritas into my Utilikilt anywhere. So I’m giving it a thumbs down as a beverage tote. Although if you want to put a wallet and a cell phone and a dog-eared photo of Xena in there, it should work as well as any other skirt.
And if you want a laugh, check out the Utilikilt website. It sweats so much dorkwad testosterone that when I logged on my computer grew a beard, called me a “wench,” and ordered me to fetch it a Miller Lite.
Anyway, I may not be blogging much, but at least I’ve done you the favor of sparing you the Utilikilt post.