What's Your Uniform?

I remember getting into arguments with my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend at the time about the importance of what people choose to wear. I'm not speaking figuratively, existentially, or anything like that. I'm talking about clothes.

"You're conventional," she used to tell me. "You dress conventionally."

As a self-professed radical in my twenties, this was like the worst possible thing anyone could have accused me of.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Conventional,” she said. “You know, petite bourgeois.”

This was always a conversation-ender, mainly because she had studied Marx in her political science classes, and I was an English major, more interested in Russian authors than in the politics she was studying.

Don’t get me wrong: I was committed to the causes I demonstrated about, but on a basic “humanist” level that didn’t live up to her level of dogmatic commitment. The clothing was the outward manifestation of this basic difference for her.

Looking back now, I realize she was absolutely right; I was more conventional that she was. And my “aw, shucks” attitude about just wearing whatever I was wearing for no particular reason was incorrect. The fact is we all wear uniforms. I’m wearing one right now – dress slacks, black loafers, button down shirt with no tie, and a blazer. I’m dressed in my school-reformer uniform. It gives the vague impression of school teacher/college professor, with a dash of liberalism thrown in by omitting the necktie.

I look at the people sitting around the coffee shop where I’m writing this, and they’re all in uniforms, too. There’s the aging hippie with his long, white “Freak Brothers” beard and black bandana, folded meticulously to hold back his long grey hair. There’s the TCU student with his “Horned Frogs” t-shirt, tapping on his laptop just as I am. There are the “baristas,” in their company-required white shirts, khakis and green aprons.

My uniform changes on the weekends, when I get out the shorts, the sneakers, the t-shirt and become Fun Daddy. Different moments in life require different uniforms.

I’ll tell you a secret about myself. There’s one guy whose uniform I totally envy, and if I could pull it off, I’d totally have the same one. I think without the hair, however, it would just look silly. But one thing I'll say for J.D.'s look: It sure ain't conventional...

My Home Town's Brush With Greatness

As I've mentioned in a previous post, Manor, where I now live, is a small town. There is a block of four store fronts, with a corrugated tin awning over the sidewalk, and an old-fashioned water tower, pictured at right.


Downtown Manor has always evoked a strong feeling in me; I'm not sure why. Recently, however, I've come to learn that they filmed "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" (directed by Lasse Hallstrom, 1993) here, and suddenly that feeling makes a lot more sense.


I watched the movie the summer after its release, on DVD, or probably VHS, at a rented house in Big Indian, New York, in 1994. It was a summer of healing, as I was coming off of a divorce, as were a couple of my friends at the time. I spent most of my healing time drinking and doing other things to "self-medicate," as they say. Generally, it was a lot of fun. A good distraction -- "just what the doctor ordered."


I fell in love with the film, because it has all the aspects of films I tend to enjoy: quirky characters, a strong sense of place, and no guns or loud explosions. The director's previous film, "My Life as a Dog," is one of my favorites, so when I heard it was the same director, I was excited to see "Gilbert Grape". Leonardo DiCaprio, who was basically an unknown at the time, was unbelievable in the role of Arnie. Johnny Depp was, as usual, strong in the title role. Good supporting performances by Juliette Lewis, John C. Reilly, Mary Steenburgen, and Crispin Glover. And Darlene Cates, the 500+-pound non-actress they recruited to play Gilbert and Arnie's mother managed to steal the movie from all these name actors.


As the film came to its climax, and Arnie faced a harsh realization (I won't say more, in case you haven't seen it; and by the way, you really should), I lost it. I didn't just cry. I didn't just bawl. I didn't just weep. My emotions exploded out of me, and I was lucky to have my good friend, Susan Dreyer (who has always said she wants to write a piece about that Big Indian summer called "Bridesmaid to a Divorce") there to pat me on the back and remind me that everything was going to be all right in due time.


Since learning that the movie was filmed here where I live, I have been giddy. I smile as I pass the iconic silver-painted water tower (pictured, above) that Arnie climbed up. I have plans to go look for the Grapes' house (it's out on Route 973, by the new football stadium), and, yes, I took a picture of the sidewalk in front of Manor Grocery, where Johnny Depp scrawled his initials and the date of the production, 1/93.

If I seem a bit star-struck, it's really not about that. Instead, I think it's just this odd convergence of an emotional moment in my past, and where I am living right now. Who knew, back when I watched this film in the summer of 1994, that I would eventually live in the small town that played such a large part in the lives of those characters? It's just so random. And yet somehow, deep in my core, it makes absolutely perfect sense, too.