How short should grown men's shorts be?
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
To this day, a blog I wrote more than five years ago about the length of men's shorts continues to be the most-read blog post at adhudler.com. Obviously, there's some confusion on the matter, and guys (or their wives) are looking for advice.
At the time, I said that grown men over the age of thirty should not be wearing the rapper-length shorts that almost look like baggy capris. (If they did so, they looked like they were trying to emulate their sons, trying to appear younger.) Grown men, especially we suburban men, could wear chino shorts that were cut above the knee. And we did -- that's exactly what we wore -- and our sons and daughters teased us about our hairy, exposed thighs. If you saw a man wearing above-the-knee shorts you knew he was over thirty, certainly over forty. But we were cool in hot weather and we went about our way.
Turn to today: A friend of mine came by for a visit this week. I opened the door, wearing shorts -- and she said, "Oh! You're wearing boy shorts!"
Yep...some time over the past two years -- and I witnessed this as a mega-hotel concierge -- the length of young men's shorts crept above the knee. Mid-thigh, actually. And now I look like I'm trying to dress young!
Oh, well ... fashion is fickle, and some day young men will be wearing those stupid-looking rapper shorts once again... and I, wearing my mid-thigh Lands End chinos, will be the subject of laughter.
Bring it on, boys!
Nashville Bachelorette Scene #52
Friday, May 13, 2016
As I work with designers and editors to get my first Nashville-based novel out to the world -- title: "Cashville" -- I'm going to start sharing little scenes from the work in progress. This one shows a group of singer-songwriters cringing as a rowdy bachelorette party invades their favorite bar:
the doors burst open. Along with a blast of humid air blew in a cacophony of
drunken women’s voices … “Ohmygod
it’s so humid!” … “I’m so hungry!” …
“I gotta pee! You guys! I gotta pee!” … “Okay, go pee!” … “Where’s the hostess?
I mean, is this place even open?” The
group of musicians sat, stone-still and quiet, like rodents trying to avoid
detection from birds of prey. The
waitresses pushed three tables together to accommodate the ladies. Gwendolyn
had been counting. “Twenty-nine of them!” she said. “That just defies logic.
Think of the logistics they’ve been battling with all weekend just to eat. Who
in hell would travel in a group that large?” The
musicians did their best to ignore the girls, but as the three rounds of
tequila shots began to take effect the volume and pitch of the girls’ voices
began swelling. It got
worse when they broke into several different conversation clusters. All it took
was one loud girl to push a domino effect into play: the girls next to her,
unable to hear her own conversation, would start talking louder, and then the
girls next to those girls would have to talk even louder, and so on and so on.
And, then, someone, feeling uncomfortably too much like a wallflower, would
feel the need to turn the stoplight on herself with an exclamation designed to
climb atop every conversation in the room: “Oh! My! God!” … “Waaaaaaahhhhhhhh!”
… “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!” And then every conversation would ratchet up one notch
shook her head. “They sound like mad turkeys in a tin shed,” she said.