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Dress Code
by nate
Sunday, August 8, 2004
Brush up against me again and I will kill you
page: 2
Yellow is power unless it's a bright blue pants/canary yellow shirt combo. That just means bad taste unless the color is pale, pale robin's egg blue, which might also mean bad taste, but usually means casual power—and that's even more dangerous. Funny how bad taste in clothes and power go hand in hand up to a certain point.
The code is out there if you pay attention. I followed it all for years before the needles and pins place finally made it all too clear for me. It became clear when I saw the line-up of quote/unquote doctors in their colors. Their worn-under-the-lab-coat colors told me all I needed to know about how things really work. Now I have the color code turning slowly in my head like a roulette color wheel.
Hmm. Let's see, blue pants yellow shirt. It also could mean a leader earning his stripes. Some of the rules change in an attempt to keep me guessing. Screw their rules.
I learn the rules of the suits and dresses and pants and skirts and pullovers and sweater skirts and slacks and I preach them to everyone in gray. I learn them to protect my own skin. It's the skin they're after. Cover it up in gray and take all the routine precautions and you'll be ok. Trust me—I know. Look at me. Do you see any patches of my skin missing? No sir, you do not.
I rummage through a garbage can's overflow and I pity her. I pity the woman dressed in green following her powerful man. Green is a slavery color. She's a slave. She's the slave of all men when she's dressed in that color. Why is she smiling?
I reach back into the garbage as my newly found castoff breakfast crumbles and falls into the nest that is my beard. What people will throw away these days! The biscuit is practically still warm and only two thirds eaten. Wasteful.
My coffee is cold. The mission serves tepid coffee to avoid being sued. Mission coffee always tastes old. It tastes like coffee dripped repeatedly through grounds recycled repeatedly since before I was born. My coffee is 30 minutes past being mission old yet tastes good with the stale Danish parts and fresh biscuit I've found this morning. I only drink it because the servers all wear gray. I won't drink the sweet, drugged liquor served by the green slave run commercial coffee houses even if I could afford it.
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