My Glittering Ascent in the World of High Fashion

     I've been through many job interviews in my life, and in them I learned excellent lessons, some of which I'd like to pass on to you. Specifically, the store manager who called your business suit "a timeless classic" when you first bought it in 1974 was not using the word "timeless" in any generally accepted sense of the word. Also, when an interviewer asks, "What would you do differently if you had your life to live over?" DO NOT say, "I wish I had been born a woman." Unless you actually were. But Paul Wait, the editor of Wisconsin Outdoor Journal, really threw me a curveball a year ago when we first discussed the possibility of me writing the magazine's closing column.

     "Kurt," he said. "You're just about perfect for the position. You hunt; you fish; you do both of them badly. But-- and this is really what we're looking for-- do you know anything about the world of high fashion?"

     Do I know anything about high fashion? Let me repeat that, for dramatic emphasis. Do I know anything about high fashion?

     Well, no.

     But I assured Paul that I'd do my best to catch up before this, the highly-awaited Spring Fashion Issue. My "catching up" consisted of watching a Victoria's Secret special on television. Now, this was a fine, fine program, of such redeeming social value that it's a wonder it wasn't picked up by PBS. First the models all walked out together, and their body types were such that the stage looked as if a fleet of dirigibles had crash-landed at a Popsicle-stick factory. Then the models walked the runway individually; each in turn, looking mightily peeved to be so beautiful and so wealthy at the same time. None of them ever smiled, as if they'd been dining exclusively on lemons for weeks. That, or they'd just been told that their half of the tax refund no longer exists, because you let the salesman talk you out of the used rifle you secretly knew you weren't going to buy anyway and into the Remington Model 700 in .270 Winchester that you've always wanted. Not that I've ever done that.

     Well, I got to thinking. Why not put on an outdoors-themed fashion show? Wisconsin Outdoor Journal could use it to sell subscriptions, or as a benefit, maybe for Trout Unlimited or The Ruffed Grouse Society or another of the organizations that make our tired old world a tolerable place to live in. I can picture it now:

     The lights come up onstage. A man, who looks suspiciously like yours truly, shambles out. The crowd gasps in unison; retinas scorched. "It's the glare from his forehead!" someone yells from offstage. "Makeup! Makeup!" A girl runs out, buffs the model's head, and disappears. "Sorry," the announcer intones. "On with our show." The model walks to the center of the stage and stops while the lights illuminate his footwear. The announcer continues:  "These knee-length rubber boots are the centerpiece of our Spring Footwear Collection. They are perfect for turkey hunting. They are scent-free, for bowhunters, and in a pinch can also be put to use on the trout stream..."

     I guess it's not coincidence that I was thinking about footwear yesterday. Specifically, I was thinking, "How many pairs of shoes does my wife own?" (12, as it turns out.) Even more to the point, I was thinking, "How many of them will she not miss?" You see, I like to throw stuff out. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside, particularly when it's not MY stuff I'm throwing out.

     "No way," Lori said when she got home from work. "You're not throwing any of my stuff out."

     "But you have 12 pairs!" (This is just good information to know. At some point in the future when she yells, "You haven't entered any cash withdrawals in the checkbook for six months!" I can respond with, "Yeah, but you have twelve pairs of shoes!")

     "Bet you do, too," she said.

     "Do not."

     "Do too."

     Well, I got to looking. I have barn boots, for turkey hunting. And two pairs of leather boots. And ice-fishing boots. And old canvas tennis shoes for wade fishing when it's a billion degrees outside. Oh, and chest waders.

     Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm the Imelda Marcos of the sporting fraternity.

     On with our show. And now our model is sporting a light rain jacket which can be kept rolled up under a boat seat until that moment when a sudden squall pops up...

     One of the benefits of living down here in the Madison area is the sheer abundance of cultural events. On any given weekend since we first moved here four years ago, there have been literally dozens of events available-- not one of which I actually attended. In fact, the last time I had a little culture whipped on me was years ago, at a dance program in Whitewater. I went because my then-girlfriend had an interest in the arts, and I had an interest in feigning interest in the arts. The centerpiece of the show consisted of a woman shouting while performing a series of awful contortions. A great many bridesmaids can attest that I've done the exact same dance at reception halls across the land, and I never got any grant money for it, either.

     I bring all of this up to mention that I very nearly attended a cultural event recently: a showing of the play "Muskie Love." I'm sure it's excellent, but what caused me not to attend was the poster. In it a man-- supposedly a muskie fisherman-- is wearing a floppy hat and a fly-fishing vest, and holding a spincast outfit which even a sub-legal muskie would destroy in about ten seconds. The muskie fishermen I know all look like Paul Bunyan-- or his Blue Ox-- and would tell this usurper to try his luck at the trout pond next to the petting zoo.

     "Now our model is wearing a thick flannel shirt. Wait, is he exposing a little chest hair? I think he's trying to impress that pretty woman in the front row..."

     When I was a kid, goodness personified lived about four doors away, in the form of Kristy McCook. You know the type: a scent of rose petals always seemed to be in the air, and her hair blew gently in the breeze, even during the doldrums of August when there was no breeze. Well, I was smitten, with a capital "S." One day I was pedaling the new bike my dad had bought me home from youth football practice, and from a block away I could see that Kristy was on her front porch.

     "Excellent," I thought to myself as I built up speed. "She'll be impressed; me being a football player and all." Heck, there was even a little blood on my jersey. Can't get much manlier than that.

     As I neared her house I switched to riding "no hands," and in front of her house I looked over, in a more or less smoldering way, and piled right into her dad's new Volkswagen.

     "And for the finale...Wait, he's fallen off of the stage. I believe he's hurt himself..."

     Some things never change.