October: Start!

Well, look at that; it’s already October.  And you know what that means – it’s the eighth month of the year!

–I mean, tenth month of the year (dang it, Latin!)!

It also means that it’s officially O.K. to start decorating for Halloween, and that’s a good thing.  And it’s time to start thinking about a costume for all those parties you’re sure to attend.

Like this one, here:

 

formalsuit

 

This…formal suit?  Hold on, I think I’m missing something here…  No, that’s–that’s all it says.  Formal suit. Is that just a…no, includes mask.  All right, yeah, good.  Got to have the mask.

You know, the featureless blackout mask that people are always wearing with tuxedos.

Wait.

Wait.  Maybe I’m not missing something, but – what’s the opposite of missing – finding?  No. Overincluding?  Extracluding?  Yeah, maybe I’m extracluding something.  Is the suit not the costume, but the costume is the suit?

Are you not dressing up as a fancy person wearing a suit, but as the suit itself?

…wh–what?

O.K.  All right, Halloween, you’ve–you’ve, um…yeah.  O.K.

 

Bene scribete.

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Dincton Flatt and the Very Grey Suit

Uh-oh, another one.


 

greysuit

 

“This suit,” Flatt muttered, half turning to the left, then right, as he admired himself in the mirror, “is rather grey.  Extremely grey, one might say.  But is it…”  He ran his hands over the coat.  “…too grey?”

“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” his robot coyote responded with a tilt of his head.

The tailor started, falling back onto his bum and dropping his tape.  “Heavens!  It can talk?”

“Featherby can extremely talk,” Flatt sighed, waving a hand in dismissal of the obvious.  “For him not to speak would be the proper marvel.”

The tailor frowned, but went back to work.

Flatt’s gaze returned to the mirror, but truthfully, had never left it.  “Perhaps you’re right, Featherby.  One can never have too grey a suit, can he?”

“Not when made by the finest tailor in Danesbury, sir.”

“Oh, well,” the tailor sputtered, distracted but obviously chuffed, “th-thank you, yes.  You’re a–a fine thing, I suppose.”

Featherby nodded curtly, and Flatt shook his head, summoning an appropriate reply to his tongue, but before it could bust snappily and handsomely through his lips, the shop’s door swung open and a man in a lavender suit twirled in.

“What on Earth…?”  Flatt only saw him through the mirror, and still didn’t feel like turning around.

“I require a tune-up for my vestments,” the entrant announced, voice lilting all over the place.  His short hair and mustache were blue, which they had no business being, if Flatt were to be consulted on the matter.

“Mr. Gabbery is quite occupied at the moment, I’m afraid,” Flatt said, ensuring his tone suggested his own importance without necessarily rubbing it in the strange man’s face.

“Yet I am an immediate man,” the newcomer assured, holding his arms out and strutting fancily over to the others.

Featherby piped up, “And who are you, precisely, if you do not mind my asking?”  There may have been a bite to his words.  Good for Featherby.

The man turned to the coyote and set his fingertips upon his breast.  “Dabither Fudgebegotten, naturally.”  He swooped down and held out a hand, to which Featherby tentatively offered a paw, and they shook.  He then straightened up and faced the tailor once more, gesturing over himself.  “Now present me that I am presentable.”

“Of–of course, just as soon as I finish–” Mr. Gabbery began, but Fudgebegotten overrode him:

“Cannot be borne, I regret to say.  I have many preparations to make.”

Flatt finally deigned to turn his head, raising an eyebrow.  “Surely, my good man, you cannot mean to interrupt my fitting?”

“I haven’t the time to wait on questionably grey suits, I fear. I’m certain you understand.”

“Nonsense,” Flatt grumbled.  “Its greyness is precise…”

“Nevertheless,” Fudgebegotten intoned, addressing the tailor, “my needs are a priority.”  He smiled, and his mustache twiggled.  “I promise.”

The tailor furrowed his brow, but nodded.  “Very well, then.”  He gestured headwise for Flatt to step down from the pedestal.

Flatt eyed him.  “Truthfully, Mr. Gabbery?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Flatt.  He did promise.”

Flatt groaned but complied.  “Come, then, Featherby.  Let us quit the scene of this indignity.”  He marched toward the exit, coyote in tow, but stopped as he reached the door, glowering back at the lavender-suited tailor usurper.  “Mr. Fudgebegotten – you wouldn’t happen to have been wearing a hat earlier, by any chance?”

Maaaybe,” Fudgebegotten practically sang, lips pursed joyfully and eyebrows waggling for a needlessly extended period.

Flatt’s face darkened, and he flung his way out through the shop’s threshold.

“You know, sir,” Featherby mused as they walked down the street, “now that I see it in the daylight, I wonder if it could be said that your suit is, perhaps, after all, just a touch too much on the grey side.”

The frown on Flatt’s face might have dislocated his jaw.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”


 

Bene scribete.

Too Many Clothes

Lots of clothes

 

During a summer I spent in Florence, I would frequent a little cafe that sat beside an upscale clothing shop at the top of a hill, in part because of their marvelous biscotti (mind you, every little confection and cracker there is a biscotto, but in this case I am specifically referring to cantuccini).  I’m normally not a huge fan of them, but the ones here took on a perfect texture when dipped in the liquid of your choice.

On a Friday morning of the last week I was there, I was busy stuffing my face with almondy goodness when a tall, bearded man wearing far too many clothes lumbered through the doorway.  And I do mean far too many – as I mentioned, it was summer, yet he wore so many coats and sweaters that he was scarcely more than a misshapen ball with little nubs of arms and legs tacked on at awkward angles.  Seeing him enter, the owner stood, face reddening, pointed an elongated finger, and shouted “Esci subito di qui!” (“Leave here at once!”).

The overclothed man screamed back something in Russian, then began to advance with all the speed and hostility he could muster, but was ultimately overcome by the limitations of his vestments and went toppling to the floor.  He struck a table on the way down and sent several patrons’ coffee flying, and all of the extra padding actually caused him to bounce when he hit the ground, which somehow flipped him onto his back.  He grabbed the leg of a nearby chair and started to flail it around, but someone wrested it away before he could do any real damage.

It took the owner, myself, and three others (including a seven-year-old girl) to heft him up and heave him back out through the threshold and into the street.  As we were at the top of a hill, the slope in the road caused him to tumble down at least thirty meters, where he finally came to a rest, once again on his back.  Unable to right himself, he simply wailed upon the pavement with his padded arms like a child throwing a tantrum, screaming in deep, incoherent lament.

I went back to my biscotti, and never did find out what that whole ordeal was all about, but I think I prefer it that way, as I’m certain it’s that much more provocative without context.

The moral of the story, I think, is that absolutely none of that was true, and that you shouldn’t wear that many clothes.  It’s ridiculous.

 

Bene scribete.