FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail

Pocket Furniture

Somewhere in California

OLord Mumblepoot said, “You may know a man by the furniture of his pockets.” Lord Mumblepoot also said sixteen was the outside age for feminine beauty, so one must be careful. But I think there is something in his observation. About pockets, I mean. Before we proceed with this petit feuille, I must clear up a couple of points. By ‘pockets’ is meant ‘pockets’, although in Mumblepoot’s day pockets were worn over the ears. By ‘furniture’ is meant ‘things inside’, not, for example, a satinwood Duncan Phyfe sewing table or a Louis XVI side chair. I think we are now clear on what Mumblepoot meant. But how may we know a man by his pockets, or a woman by hers? Go through them, of course. To start the festivities, I will now go through mine.

The only pockets with which I am presently equipped are trouser pockets. This is what was in them until just now when I turned them out.

RIGHT POCKET:

o Some lint

o A chewing gum wrapper

o A piece of dried, masticated pork. This must be from Easter brunch. There was a strapping lad, age 1.5, sitting to my right. I say strapping because he was strapped into his high chair. I was at liberty to roam freely, because of my advanced years. We spent the entire meal hooting and making faces at each other, and at some point this morsel of swine must have sprung from amongst his scattered teeth and lodged on my person. At least that’s my best guess.

o A bone-handled folding knife from Frank’s Mfg. Corp, circa 1920. I haven’t any idea what Frank Mfg’d, but the blade is useful for opening packages and picking things out of my shoes.

o A Bowers windless lighter from Kalamazoo, Michigan. This lighter saw combat during WWII, and now sees the end of my nose during fits of pipe-lighting.

o A dollar coin, two quarters, and three pennies (no wheatbacks)

o A cellular telephone that never works in my neighborhood because I live in a black neighborhood and nobody cares if colored folks get reception or not. This is the living face of racism, people, and it makes me mad. Also, I’m the only person on my block without a steady job.

o A flint. It fell out of the lighter.

LEFT POCKET:

o The ignition key to the Fiat Cinquecento, which is finally going to a professional for repairs because I broke something while I was trying to fix something. I figured out the reason it gets such good mileage is because half the time I’m pushing it.

o My slack wallet, which contains the following:

An ATM card (useless) A receipt for trouser buttons with the cryptic inscription “SCREEN DOOR WED” written on the back in pencil A platinum card (useless) A WGA union card (useless) A NOW membership card (useless as I am a man) An insurance card (we shall see)

I am afraid Mumblepoot’s dictum may have been premature. But let us see what we can know about me from this collection of things. Right-handed, one may deduce from the fact that anything of interest is in the right-hand pocket. Possibly gay, because I carry my wallet in the left front pocket, although it could also stem from years of exotic travel. Pickpockets dislike dipping into a man’s front pockets, even the gay pickpockets. Obviously a communist and bleeding-heart liberal, from the union card and affiliation with the National Organization of Women. Also, as the union is the Writer’s Guild and not something burly like the IBEW, we can guess the possessor is an intellectual of some kind, probably disposed toward roll-neck sweaters and sandals. Certainly he’s broke. Chews gum, or is intimate with someone who does.

We may guess that I wear trousers, based upon the existence of trouser pockets and the receipt for trouser buttons, although they might not be my own trousers. The inscription on the back of the receipt should tell us I’m absent-minded, because I haven’t the foggiest what it means but it’s clearly scratched in my own spavined hand. A smoker, the lighter informs us. Not a heavy smoker, though, or I’d get a lighter that works. The vintage of the lighter and the pocket knife suggest a man that appreciates the ephemera of a turbulent century, or possibly a tight-fisted cheapskate that never throws anything away. It’s uncanny how much the contents of my pockets have to say about me. The lint, however, speaks for itself.

BEN TRIPP is an independent filmmaker and all-around swine. His book, Square In The Nuts, may be purchased here, with other outlets to follow: http://www.lulu.com/Squareinthenuts . Swag is available as always from http://www.cafeshops/tarantulabros . And Mr. Tripp may be reached at credel@earthlink.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More articles by:
Weekend Edition
May 25, 2018
Friday - Sunday
Melvin Goodman
A Major Win for Trump’s War Cabinet
Andrew Levine
Could Anything Cause the GOP to Dump Trump?
Pete Tucker
Is the Washington Post Soft on Amazon?
Conn Hallinan
Iran: Sanctions & War
Jeffrey St. Clair
Out of Space: John McCain, Telescopes and the Desecration of Mount Graham
John Laforge
Senate Puts CIA Back on Torture Track
David Rosen
Santa Fe High School Shooting: an Incel Killing?
Gary Leupp
Pompeo’s Iran Speech and the 21 Demands
Jonathan Power
Bang, Bang to Trump
Robert Fisk
You Can’t Commit Genocide Without the Help of Local People
Brian Cloughley
Washington’s Provocations in the South China Sea
Louis Proyect
Requiem for a Mountain Lion
Robert Fantina
The U.S. and Israel: a Match Made in Hell
Kevin Martin
The Libya Model: It’s Not Always All About Trump
Susie Day
Trump, the NYPD and the People We Call “Animals”
Pepe Escobar
How Iran Will Respond to Trump
Sarah Anderson
When CEO’s Earn 5,000 Times as Much as a Company’s Workers
Ralph Nader
Audit the Outlaw Military Budget Draining America’s Necessities
Chris Wright
The Significance of Karl Marx
David Schultz
Indict or Not: the Choice Mueller May Have to Make and Which is Worse for Trump
George Payne
The NFL Moves to Silence Voices of Dissent
Razan Azzarkani
America’s Treatment of Palestinians Has Grown Horrendously Cruel
Katalina Khoury
The Need to Evaluate the Human Constructs Enabling Palestinian Genocide
George Ochenski
Tillerson, the Truth and Ryan Zinke’s Interior Department
Jill Richardson
Our Immigration Debate Needs a Lot More Humanity
Martha Rosenberg
Once Again a Slaughterhouse Raid Turns Up Abuses
Judith Deutsch
Pension Systems and the Deadly Hand of the Market
Shamus Cooke
Oregon’s Poor People’s Campaign and DSA Partner Against State Democrats
Thomas Barker
Only a Mass Struggle From Below Can End the Bloodshed in Palestine
Binoy Kampmark
Australia’s China Syndrome
Missy Comley Beattie
Say “I Love You”
Ron Jacobs
A Photographic Revenge
Saurav Sarkar
War and Moral Injury
Clark T. Scott
The Shell Game and “The Bank Dick”
Seth Sandronsky
The State of Worker Safety in America
Thomas Knapp
Making Gridlock Great Again
Manuel E. Yepe
The US Will Have to Ask for Forgiveness
Laura Finley
Stop Blaming Women and Girls for Men’s Violence Against Them
Rob Okun
Raising Boys to Love and Care, Not to Kill
Christopher Brauchli
What Conflicts of Interest?
Winslow Myers
Real Security
George Wuerthner
Happy Talk About Weeds
Abel Cohen
Give the People What They Want: Shame
David Yearsley
King Arthur in Berlin
Douglas Valentine
Memorial Day
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail