Shame is No Longer a Virtue

9:59pm: Professional Football Coaches’ Dress


In the wake of the Super Bowl – and its increasingly decadent display and incitement of boundless overspending and consummate consumption – one is reminded of the somewhat contrarily humble state of the collective ensembles of professional football coaches. Wherein the players’ on-and-off-field lifestyles are exemplified as the height of capitalist excess and celebrity flippancy, the coaches, in comparison, resemble a wayside chain gang of shackled, vinyl poncho-laden inmates. It seems almost strikingly peculiar that, of all the facets of professional sports (i.e. the rules, the uniforms, the venues, etc.), the dress of football coaches has seemingly altered more than anything else.



Dressed to the nines... Or rather, like Orlando retirees waiting to die.


I had hitherto reluctantly blamed the organizations and the coaches themselves, supposing that the manor of dress was simply a byproduct of a more informal modernity, or merely suggested by the team. So one can understand my utter confoundment upon learning that the dress code is not only enforced by the NFL, but to counter it would result in disciplinary litigation and even fines. Why has the erroneous, compulsory presence of team and league emblems become the principle concern of televised broadcasting? Of course I know WHY. However, even as I am ever astounded by the new and shameless places that self-promotion seems to appear like a canker, it doesn’t seem particularly critical that a coach be laden – head-to-hoof – in an embarrassingly orthopoedic jogging suit. Are we really given so little credit by NFL executives, wherein they believe the power of suggestion can influence us into buying something a paltry as a Tampa Bay Buccaneers’ visor? In cases of over-advertising (a redundancy?) one often finds himself repulsed by the product so shamelessly marketed, creating, in turn – one would hope – a cultural backlash.

Naturally, I am hopelessly sentimental toward a more disillusioned era in which coaches were self-respecting men and (were granted freedom to be) dressed like adults. They emanated inimitable, Patton-esque bravado and self-discipline, not to mention an unmistakable allusion to the chivalrous paradox of an elegant warlord amidst his sodden and battered legionnaires. The wardrobes of men such as Knute Rockne and Tom Landry are as much a part of their storied tenures as their very coaching skills. They appeared like men whom one would aspire to be like and learn from; not just about the sport, but manhood, as well. But as this journal regularly depicts, nothing in this material world is any longer worth the diaper it is expelled into. And somewhere along the timeline of professional football arose the hushed and subtle descent of the head coach’s dress, and with it, the collective departure of shame as a virtue.



Somehow managed to collectively muster up 375 wins without the aid of a Motorola headset.


Lesson: Although it wouldn’t have been ideal to live in 1930’s Nazi Germany, one was at least at liberty to wear what he wanted to wear while he smoked where he wanted to smoke.

12:48pm: The Rightful Complacency of Servitude




Seated, from left: Ivor Bertie Guest, 1st Baron Wimborne (1835-1914); Hon. Oscar Montague Guest (1888-1958); Rear, The luckiest manservant to ever fall reluctantly into the occupation of valet. (photo courtesy of the inimitable http://lafayette.150m.com/)

The worst part of this dude’s job was mandatory outings seated in the rear of a 12 h.p. Panhard motor coach built by Muhlbacker et Fils, Paris (c. 1902). Today was especially burdensome, having had to persevere through a daguerreotype shoot for The Car Illustrated (edited by Hon. J. Scott Montagu) before motoring across Canford Manor, Wimborne, Dorset (seat of Baron Wimborne) to an autumnal afternoon foxhunt. His job upon arrival most likely consisted of preening tweed jackets and tending to the repair of negligible rifle shaft pitting.

Retiring home to the manor, it was doubtless his responsibility to return the Baron’s wardrobe to repair – replace the morningwear collar, collar studs, cuffs, cuff studs, cuff links, feathered hat, cravat, cravat pin, braces, shirt front, shirt studs, shirt, pants, stockings, stocking garters, riding boots, pipe, tobacco pouch, gloves and moustache wax; thereupon laying out His eveningwear collar, collar studs, cuffs, cuff studs, cuff links, silk hat, tie, braces, shirt front, shirt studs, shirt, pants, stockings, stocking garters, gaters, opera shoes, gilded cigar case, kid gloves and moustache wax – before sitting down, himself, to sup a grand couvert served on Sèvres porcelain.

Yes, that is what it used to mean to have a menial, service job.

Lesson: If you enjoy any facet of being alive in this post-modernist existence, you should be ashamed of yourself.

10:59pm: Voting Machines and Politicos


As announcements of Presidential candidatures arise this season – wafting like plump, fecal schooners in a toilet of ineptitude – one is reminded of the many underwhelming facets of this country’s government and politicians. Seeing that this journal is not intended as a political forum, I would like to turn attention toward two of the more deplorable differentiae of democracy: the modern voting machine and the public etiquette of the Body Politico. Wherein the two are not directly related, but nonetheless significant to the recent descent of humankind into a bottomward helix of cultural abomination, they will be discussed separately.


I. The Hollow Artifice of Democracy

One’s fondest memory of his or her introduction to the democratic process is most likely the trip to the voting machine with Mother or Father. Nothing wholly compared to the sensation that enveloped the senses upon entering that clumsy berth of suffrage. A hushed ushering was countered by the sudden SHUNK of the pallid, rayon curtains. Within the booth – seasoned with the musk of myriad futile votes for the Deweys, Goldwaters and Mondales of our history – one was eclipsed by the analog, inclined grade of levers and names that seemed to graze the gymnasium ceiling.

The real apprehension arose soon thereafter, amidst the uncertainty as to whom would not only turn the spring-loaded knobs, but officially cast the vote with a no-turning-back-now tug on the industrial-gauged lever. Another loud SHU-GUNK rattled the booth, simultaneously plugging the ballot card and resetting all of the askew tabs. The proletarian yet mannered process was definitively American in sprit. The experience was real and the vote felt important. But, on par with the demise of all things tangible and grandiose, this hulking icon of laissez faire was soon to become a permanent relic of a time and place as illusory as Toyland.




I was fortunate enough to register to vote on the very precipice of the phasing-out of that beauteous but ill-fated beast. Although the election was simply one of school budgets and local miscellany, it was nonetheless a true rite of passage for me. I felt no less empowered than one casting a mayoral (nay, gubernatorial!) ballot among the tax-paying middle class. However, the following election, I was unexpectedly met (High Noon-style) by a keypad-pocked, plastic abhorrence of all things unholy, resembling a sexed-up Magnavox Odyssey 2 Computer (c. 1980).




I peered hither and thither, expecting to see a huddled semicircle of volunteer registrars laughing into their clipboards at my expense; the victim of an elaborate practical joke involving what appeared to be a Speak & Spell of the Damned. But, in one of the earliest incidents to prompt my loathing of modernity, I found the incident to be anything but a farce. This was the actual conduit betwixt the collective heart and hand of Western Democracy, and the man who would next inhabit the highest house in the history of humanity.

This.




This is what it now meant to be a voting American. Reluctantly, I poked at the printed-on keys, which belched back a muted, dimpled pucker of futility. BUCKA. Hmm. BUCKA. BUCKA. I… think I just voted.

As I left what I have declared to be my final trip to the ballot box, I felt as though everything that was ever earned and fought for – by revolutionaries, minutemen, blues, grays, suffragettes, Bull Moose, dough boys and the sort – was cheapened to the point of disgrace and disregard for all standards upon which this country was built. Little did I realize at the time that, in the years to follow, the abasement of politics would be rivaled only by the unfortunate decent of the American voting machine.

Lesson 1: If you ever feel there’s nothing left that could possibly be ruined, just wait five years.


II. The Modern Taboo of Political Righteousness

One can, with a somewhat folkloristic reluctance, dust off the annals of American history to find fantastical tales of men whom once ran this country with aptitude and assurance. They boldly waltzed the lines between pretense and humility; magnanimousness and routine; all whilst donning a familial air and a jingoistic disposition. Regarding these quintessential Imperialists, the common citizen could hardly have swallowed the breadth of their Presidential burdens. Yet the ability had, by men like Theodore Roosevelt, to communicate universally with a succinct and forthright language was the key to successful administrations backed by populist confidence.

These were men whose ideas literally shaped a country with its share of growing pains, but moreover, an unabashed penchant for Manifest Destiny. It seems all but unbelievable that once there existed a period in our history wherein the building of houses, stores, libraries and firehouses evoked a positive connotation. Towns were conceived with civic competence and buildings possessed grand, inviting character that reflected the essence of their significance and content. Men like Roosevelt were the absolute personification of this boon, in a country coming into its own as a significant World Power.

I can wholly explain neither the collapse of political integrity, nor the complete loss of civil entrustment in our entire Body Politico. But what can be clarified is the connection between the aforementioned and the forfeiture of shame as a virtue. Again, it is not my intent to discuss politics, but the secondary and less visceral aspects of a politician’s character. Herein, we will explore the probable causes of their demise.

With all the attention paid to the trivialities of despotism, the man’s appearance, fortitude and communicative skills are seemingly neglected. Instead, the modern, Presidential housemaids and wet nurses woefully prim and preen our Hapless Herald into a metrosexual, Seacrestian ‘Little Lord Faulteroy’. It may not be entirely his fault, however. We allow focus groups’ collective stranglehold upon modern decision-making to dictate even the way a speaker uses his hands, as a knotted fist and fervent tone are decidedly threatening. A man with conviction is, evidently, a potential Hitler-esque megalomaniac. And a public servant dressed above the barnacle-plagued watermark of The Dockers Co. is considered unelectable and out-of-touch.



"Give me a woman who loves GATERS and I will conquer the world."




"Speak LOUDLY and carry a SHREAD OF SELF-RESPECT."




"I've had one position, one consistent position, that Saddam Hussein's STYLISH POCKET SQUARES were a threat."


‘Armstrong bracelets’ and relaxed-fit chinos may ‘Rock the Vote’, but they shan’t a respectable office-holder make. If I wanted to vote for a ‘sweet-assed bro’, I’d indubitably engage in the tomfoolery and hi-jinks of television’s “American Idol”. Similarly, upon entering a restaurant of distinguished repute, one expects to be received by a maitre d’ who is besuited, shaven and unscented. We thirst to be presided over by those who emit absolute authority; those who seem smarter, better read and better schooled than ourselves. That is why we read Nabokov, watch Kubrick, eat Nobu and listen to Strauss. This is why we don’t perform our own dental surgeries or cure our own salumi. In acknowledging our certain inferiorities we – in turn – surrender to the superiority of the true savant. And we feel outright solace in it.

Lesson 2: There may never in this lifetime be a worthy contender for any post greater than that of Senior Class President. So don’t criticize those who simply abide by the flailing dynamo of a candidate, his lips pursed around the better end of a smoldering Churchill.

8:13pm: Trains and Train Stations

It may come as a surprise to those too young to recall that passenger trains and their stations once occupied a detail of urban life so opulent that, to look at it all retrospectively, seems almost incomprehensible. Currently, public transportation represents to the modern commuter and traveler, the crowning stroke of one-sided, utilitarian functionality coupled with little – if any – aesthetic form. The railroad was once the majestic monopoly of travel, reflecting in its design and services, the impeccable mannerisms of the Victorian and Edwardian lifestyles. How have we gone from the height of ornamental civil engineering, to something indistinguishable from the joyless Greyhound bus and its squalid station?

The obvious answer lies in the reality that commercial air travel became more accessible and affordable, rendering recreational train travel all but obsolete. The gradual wane of revenue required to offset an exorbitant overhead lead to bankruptcy, and eventual federal subsidizing. With such conveniently damning factoids out of the way, we can now agonize over how this has contributed to the downfall of the mores of civilization. After all, this isn’t an encyclopedia.

Not coincidentally, the early 1960’s saw both the boom of air travel and the systematic razing of palatial, metropolitan train stations. Structures that were once among the definitive, architectural jewels of their respective cities were not only destroyed, but replaced with low-budget fabrications resembling post-war, modernist roach motels. The hallowed concourses – that simultaneously inspired visitors and welcomed returning commuters – elegantly swallowed the throngs of travelers, who likely wished for a spare moment to gaze at the Sistinesque ceilings. Gilded tunnels seemed to yawn into infinity, providing patrons with a seemingly endless array of outfitters and eateries.

Two of the most substantial losses were London’s original Euston Station in 1962, and New York City’s original Pennsylvania Station in 1964. Below are the telling “before and after” pictures that are so grotesquely unnerving that, one may rightfully subscribe to the notion that we have truly regressed into a Planet of the Apes-like putrescence of counter-evolution.



The Crown Jewel of Camden!




The Dudley brand toilet with no water in the bowl.




What boy doesn't dream of riding on this testament to human achievement?




The Lord God in brick and mortar.




Welcome to New York City, you goof.


Unbeknownst to some, train travel still exists today, to some extent. However, it is almost unrecognizable as such when contrasted with what existed as recently as seventy years ago. Little else in the modern history of humanity has been so unabashedly husked of all its pomp and glory like that regarding trains and train travel. To put into perspective exactly what has changed, we will now recount a recent jaunt via rail from Portland, Oregon to Seattle Washington in December of 2006. Tally-ho!

From the onset, the situation seemed surprisingly encouraging. Portland’s Union Station (c. 1896) retains about as much of its original grandeur as one can realistically expect. It is difficult for the amateur eye to decipher tasteful updates to the ornamental lighting fixtures with their original counterparts. And one is to believe that even the baggage trolleys are allegedly the originals. Relatively speaking, there seems to be some renewed semblance of appreciation for Beaux-Arts architecture in the U.S. That’s not to suggest that one should anticipate a rebirth of self-respectful aestheticism in our lifetimes, but the wanting attempt is laudable, if not trite.

Here ends, forthwith, The Experience Positive.

After discovering that what we were sitting adjacent to in the waiting area was actual personage – and not just a snowdrift of soiled, pup tent-sized casual wear haplessly draped over human-esque orbs of misery – we set forth to wait in the boarding line, amongst a queue of Wal*Martian, stylistic street urchins. Apparently, dressing like a dignified, adult male foreknowing that he would appear in public is now regarded as carnival and novelty. I received looks that one might expect upon entering a boxing ring donning a Rococo powdered wig, false beauty mark and ruffled knickerbockers. Inversely, the lack of attention drawn by the grown woman dressed literally in her pyjamas who dragged through the concourse (along with her character) a tattered and miserable pillow, assured me that shame truly is no longer a virtue.

And, lo! up pulled what evidently was the train, and not – as my wife suggested – a sordid caravan of upended portable potties, ceremoniously en route to their final resting grounds (an elephants’ graveyard of blue, plastic, human achievement, if you will). However, after entering the coach and swiftly observing the antiseptic odor spilling out from the lavatory, I was lead to believe that maybe she was right. But what luck that the door to the seating area operates mechanically by itself! For I was just complaining the day prior how philistine in nature be the act of turning an actual doorknob. At least they forfeited any and all organic detail and ornament to afford us such forward-thinking technology. Bellissimo, Amtrak. Bellissimo.

We found our seats, which flanked our own private table. Before I go any further, let me clarify that every thing made in the last sixty-five years is not worth the toilet water it needs to be flushed with, into infinity. It seems that the watermark of craft and style in industrial design has been established by the “Little Tykes" line of plastic, children’s make-believe playwear. Herein, I will most likely refer to the “Little Tykes” phenomenon frequently.



Wood is no longer wood. Wood is now veneer, or plastic with wood grain-like detail. Brick is no longer brick. It is brick face. Nothing is ever anything but a fraudulent representation of things that were once commonplace, but now seemingly precious.

We return now to our private table. Our “Little Tykes” table. Our round-cornered (let’s try to avoid law suits wherever possible) planar seductress, built from an unrecognizable, artificial material. Shall I draw the fire-proofed (those pesky law suits again) poly-blend curtains, Milady? Beg pardon, they don’t appear to actually be functional. In fact, are they simply painted on to the injection molded plastic wall? Less work for me, to be honest. Ah, the conveniences of modernity. This is my vacation, mind you. A man shouldn’t be expected to open doors nor adjust stiff, itchy, Motel 6 bed spread-like curtains. Well, I am off to the lounge car for a drink and a pipe. What’s that you say? There isn’t? I can’t?

If you’ve never seen a late 19th Century Pullman dining car, you probably shouldn’t. The Pullman company produced some of the most lavish examples of Beaux-Arts industrial design. The Budd company, contrarily, has produced some of the most ghastly and appalling examples of modern engineering, rivaling the likes of anything that has ever been set before human eyes for public consumption. If there was truly an iota of shame remaining in even the innermost depths of the Collective Psyche Human, the design of anything that be currently graced with the Amtrak moniker, would never have even made its way out of the mind’s eye of its despicable creator.

That said, let’s sally to the Bistro Car. Please, allow me to open... Woah! That’s right. Automatic. This way, please. Be careful not to trip over any unoccupied shoes. You have to understand that this is a four-hour trip, and passengers expect and deserve to indulge in optimal comfort, regardless of their appearance. Comfort trumps all else in these shameless days.

In France, the word “bistro” suggests such fair as braised lamb shanks over garlic whipped potatoes, roast chicken smothered in rendered goose fat, a croque monsieur sandwich, or maybe just some brioche. A glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to wash it down with sounds good, too. Let’s see what the Bistro Car has to offer. I think I smell Chateaubriand, which makes sense, since it is called the “Bistro Car”.

Lesson 1: If you ever think, for one instance, that anything in the physical world just might posses a single positive facet of its own existence, you need to reassess your entire juvenile, Pollyannian perspective of humanity.

Needless to say, the Amtrak Bistro Car is little more than a vending machine with an attendant. More could and should be said about it, but you will be spared the details, as we move directly to the Lounge Car.

As I waited in line to buy pre-packaged swill and offal amidst a line of the ‘walking wounded’, I couldn’t help but peak into what I believe was called the Lounge Car. Its resemblance to a Pullman Lounge Car ended with the fact that both possess wheels. Again, the discerning “Little Tykes” connoisseur would surely have recognized in the artisan design of the car’s storied interior, the nuanced curvature and “li’l loggz” patented wood grain bas-relief found throughout the “c1099-sv Laffy-Laff Frontier Fort” c. 1987. To use the most complimentary of terms I can muster, the Lounge Car possessed about as much charm, character and hospitability as a drunk tank jail cell coupled with the inimitable report of the feces-caked furniture in the dumpster behind a Hudson County, New Jersey Greek diner. It looked more like a place that you would send someone to punish them. Kind of like the present state of human existence.

Upon returning to our private table, I found that the entertainment had commenced. Ironically, the movie being shown was The Polar Express, Robert Zemeckis’s incredibly affected and idealistic portrayal of early 20th century steam engine train travel. As I watched the yucky digital children stiffly cavort betwixt their painstakingly pixilated Pullman’s, it made me think that maybe my entire perception of an era I never experienced first-hand may be somewhat bathed in false consecration. I then looked again at the curtain, nullifying the idea quicker than it was hatched.

As we approached Seattle’s King Street Station (c. 1906) my wife – God bless her – warned me that some legitimate remodeling had been done to the interior over the past fifty years. She stated that the ornate ceiling had been concealed by an oppressive drop ceiling of acoustic tiling, providing the traveler a feeling of being buried alive in his own sarcophagus. Looking up through a gap in the tiles, one can see the beautiful vaulted arches and colorful panels, making one feel like a boy peeking under the apron of a circus tent... that never ever opens. Ever.

Lesson 2: There are two types of civic architecture in the world: ‘Bad New’ and ‘Ruined Old’.