Why we'll always be Girls (and not Women)

Just read a NY Times article about the 25-year-old behind a new cable TV comedy called "Girls," and her pack of cronies portraying the insecure, sex-driven young 20s generation that my own daughters fit into.  The interview with cast members ends with a statement from show creator Lena Dunham that "I don't think they would self-identify as women yet."  Well, I'm in the upper generation, and still have an affection for addressing my feminine cohort as "girls."

You'd think that the feminist movement, in which we boomers matured, would have impressed on us the respect in being a woman rather than an immature "girl." But that's not the association I have with the term.  "Girl" means youthful, inquisitive, blooming, vibrant. "Woman" means stern, staid, haggard and humorless.

When I embraced the Feminist Health "movement," first through a local Feminist Health Center and then volunteering through a UCLA program dispensing birth control advice at a table set up on Bruin Walk, I first heard the term "high school women."  In the preparatory instruction we received, I was taught about sexual concerns of secondary school students."Oxymoron," I thought--you can't be a woman when you're in high school; you're still a kid.  Certainly I was still a girl, subordinate to my teachers, school administrators, my parents, even when in grad school.

There's something too serious about being a woman (unlike the word "man," which is a mere descriptor of gender).  I want to be taken seriously, but in the contexts where I'm nameless, I'd rather have adjectives about why I'm formidable--call me "psychologist," "author," even "wife of," because I'm proud to be a team-mate to my spouse.  But "woman" is not only anonymous, but sometimes, sad.

At my Shabbat table yesterday were two couples in their 70s.  They talked about their activities, and one described an outing of friends: "I went with 'the girls'..."  She paused and added, "well, I guess we're not exactly girls anymore..." But her first instinct in describing a lively afternoon was to call her group "girls," because "girls" have fun; girls giggle and enjoy.

Yes, it's partly denial of the loss of respect that comes with aging. As we oldsters are replaced on the scene by this sex-obsessed, raunchy group (I prefer being a bit more civilized and demure), we don't want to lose that spark of energy and excitement. And so, the word "girls" is no longer anti-feminist; since we know who we are, and have made our marks, we can be comfortable with the word we once eschewed (as well as anything else we want to say), and not worry about what others will respond.

Mitt Romney, Up Close and In Person

Yes, today I got to stand right in the front, at the barricade, when Mitt Romney made a campaign stop in Bellevue, Washington.  My husband was on the program (he introduced the woman who introduced Mitt) and he had some private moments with the candidate. I didn't, but was the first he happened to approach when he jumped down from the stage to engage with the wildly enthused overflow crowd.

Dressed in blue jeans and a rolled-sleeve, striped shirt, he impressed an already dedicated audience with his casual genuine-ness, first speaking off-the-cuff first about his wife, Ann. They met when he was in 4th and she in 2nd grade; he paid no attention until she was a sophomore and he stole her mid-date away from another guy: "I said, 'I live much closer to her than you do...and I did take her home that night, and we've been going steady ever since." That's five sons and 16 grandchildren later, he mentioned.

What surprised me was how articulate he was. I was used to his halting responses to TV debate questions, seeming a bit too timid to take on others without a slight stammer, but today, his speaking style seemed charged; he came across as the eager jolt of energy who can't wait to take on the job of undoing fetters in free enterprise's way. "I can tell you this: I won't be playing 90 rounds of golf when there's so much to get done!"  The crowd screamed and stomped.

He talked a lot about jump-starting the economy, by protecting intellectual property, by aligning with other nations in an ethical agreement to promote greater trade, by overhauling the tax code to lower burdens on small businesses.  He spoke in support of the military, saying he'd replace Obama's pledge to reduce our forces by 50-100,000 with purchases of ships and planes and an increase of 100,000 additional soldiers.  He was strong and inspiring, and lept from his platform to shake hands with pumped supporters.

Then he did something unexpected. My husband was asked to go into an adjacent auditorium, where another thousand supporters who by fire law couldn't fit into the main hall heard Romney's talk.  State congresswoman and state Romney chair Kathy McMorris Rodgers was speaking to the attentive crowd; my husband was ushered onto the stage and introduced. He didn't know what was coming, so started praising Mitt's remarks--when suddenly the candidate himself burst into the room, took the microphone from my startled husband, and launched into another talk, punctuated by detailed and moving anecdotes, including one about a young skater, who'd risen from nothing, who was honored at an event to carry a corner of the flag that flew on the Trade Towers on 9-11.  Romney described the young man's emotion when relating the experience: "suddenly a gust of wind lifted that flag up into the air, and I felt it was the spirit of the men and women we lost on that day."  Most of the audience lost it, too, because of the way Romney told the story.

This was no well-rehearsed performer, but a man clearly touched by his encounters with Americans, and staunchly driven by a vision of the values our nation represents.  I don't care for his theology, but I do respect the years he gave to communal leadership, as well as the impact of a church that insists on industry, service, and above all, family.  Other religions send out evangelists, but only the Mormons consider it a rite of passage to devote two years in a foreign country at an age normally considered party-time.  The messages this imparts at a crucial time of life are selflessness, obligation and responsibility, which may produce straight-laced, nerdy achievers far removed from the pop culture loop, but with well-ingrained practice in the kinds of traits I'd want in a neighbor...or a President.

After his second improvised talk, he again leapt down from the stage to grasp the hands of admirers--and I was the first he clutched.  Most politicians who encounter hundreds of palms daily have learned a half-handed grip and a two-second shake-and-pull, but I was struck that Romney looked at me full-face, grasped my hand completely and shook up and down several times.  I watched him move through the group along the metal barricade, engaging with his fans in personal moments rather than dutiful swipes.

I didn't get the feeling from his presence he was Presidential. I was convinced of his fitness for the highest office from his ideas, his words, his determination. His presence, however seemed more humble, a guy who wants to make a good impression on everyone he meets because he doesn't assume his own greatness.  I find that a contrast with the incumbent.

Tomorrow are the Washington State caucuses.  That means that Sabbath-observant Jews will be walking to our precincts and voting verbally. My husband and I will be hosting a Shabbat lunch table of 12 afterward.  I think using caucuses to determine candidate-loyal delegates to a larger convention that then chooses GOP delegates to the main event discourages participation.  Hardly anyone I know is aware of the caucuses, much less where and when; they'd rather get a ballot with nominees names, and mail it in.  Washington's process tomorrow is an aside on the path to Super Tuesday, which diminishes involvement further.

Too bad more voters couldn't attend the 8 am rally this morning.  They would have been reassurred that when Romney is eventually selected, which he will be, Republicans will be represented by a candidate unlike his press image.  This is a self-starter, not a rich guy buying his election; a sincere patriot, willing to make personal sacrifices for noble values, and, important to me, a devoted husband and father whose personal life is aligned with his lofty pronouncements.

After viewing and watching Mitt Romney, I'm actually enthused to get into this campaign. The contrast between Barack Obama and Mitt is stark, and I'm confident that the American people--jaded with the "hope and change" that has our nation in its deepest debt ever--will affirm their faith in their own abilities to produce, if only the government would get out of the way.

Sex is Popular, in Yoga and Politics

Just came out of my Yoga-lattes class, rolled mat in hand, to read the NY Times story about fallen Yoga guru John Friend, who was apparently more-than to many of the female adherents of his self-developed Anusara yoga.

The article details Tantric roots of the philosophy, where sexuality is a major part of its gestalt.  I can't say that the fifteen ladies in our unsteady downward-facing dogs, happy babies and pigeon poses were excited by anything more than being able to hold a "teaser," but Mr. Friend stands accused of financial malfeasance, Wiccan sexual activities, and, I'm sure, violating his community's ethical principle called "Brahmacharya," which involves "Practicing sexual moderation, restraining from sexual misconduct, and avoiding lustful behavior. Includes sexual chastity."

Ethical guidelines for teachers on the Anusara website also admonish, "When sexual attraction occurs between you and a student, be very disciplined and mindful to avoid any adharmic behavior. Never give an improper or imbalanced amount of attention to an attractive student or one with whom you are in an intimate relationship while in the classroom. Outside the classroom develop any intimate or romantic relationship slowly and do not act on sexual attraction until a steady trust in the relationship has developed."

I won't comment on the grammar that suggests an "intimate relationship while in the classroom," but in case you're wondering, "adharmic" is a Hindu yoga term for a-(against) dharmic (laws of the universe).  At present, Friend has dropped out of sight and sold half of Anusara to Israeli Michal Lichtman, who promises a re-vamp. Ohmmmmm.

Jump now to an observation by Fave Radio Host, marveling at Rick Santorum's stomach-dropping plunge in Rasmussen GOP likely-voter polls: he went from a lead of twelve points to a deficit of 16 points, a breathataking swing of 28 points in just 14 days. Yesterday's (Feb. 29) respondents picked Romney, 40% compared to Santorum's 24%; just two weeks ago Santorum was up, 39% to Mitt's 27%.

 My Cultural Crusader had an astute analysis of Righteous Rick's self-destruct: "Could it have something to do with deciding to rant against contraception, pre-natal testing, college, JFK, working women, separation of church and state, and more? Alex Castellanos said it very well. 'Republicans are in trouble if the public gets the idea that we're against sex. Sex is popular.'"

Sex is indeed popular, though inappropriate in some contexts and unrestrainable in others. I notice that John Friend's "Igniting the World 2012 Tour" appearances through June are all "postponed."  Similarly, if Republicans hope to make headway by November, they've got to refocus the debate away from bedrooms and into pocketbooks, as well as the deep trench known as Obama's $1.2-trillion deficit, and a national debt that CBS News notes is "more than the total national debt of about $4.1672 trillion accumulated by all 41 U.S. presidents from George Washington through George H.W. Bush combined."

This Shabbat is Washington State caucus day, and my husband and I are planning to walk to our local precinct site to participate. Super Tuesday is a blink away.  I do think Sen. Santorum cooked his goose with his unsolicited opinions on sexuality, and clearly plenty of others are crying fowl, er, foul, in the yoga world, including the NY Times article writer William Broad, whose new book evaluates the totality of yoga and concludes that despite scandals and risks, it offers "more good than harm."

Let us only hope that the candidate succeeding in November will do the same.

Why I could celebrate this year's Oscars

Just got home from watching the Academy Awards with my husband and some friends, and for the first time in years, I enjoyed the show--and I bet you did, too. Here's why:

I actually saw most of this year's crop of nominated flicks, and I think there are many more people like me than admit it. I stay away from most movies because I hate watching violence. I also don't like witnessing other people's tragedies, and seeing splattering blood on screen makes me ill.  In addition, I cringe at slapstick, because it's humor at somebody's expense, and I avoid films with hold-your-breath suspense, because I don't like that tense feeling of ill-boding.

Real life has enough unpleasantries, violence and harm; I'm not going to pay to see more.  Also, I'm just too sensitive; I take make-believe scripts to heart, and empathize with well-acted characters; I tear-up, wince or withdraw when I witness tough events.  It's just emotionally hard on me, so why go through it?

So the movies I do attend are...romantic comedies.  I like the ones that yes, leave me hopeful, optimistic, happily satisfied.  I like the guy to get the girl, and I like people to learn upbeat lessons and come out smiling. I like cheerful music; I like achievement, overcoming obstacles and the triumph of true love.

Call me a wimp, but even "excellent" films with positive moral messages that involve war or child endangerment or cruelty are out.  I'll read about those movies in the newspaper, thank you, because I don't want a film's horrifying two minutes impressed into my psyche. I don't want to ever recall a torture scene, a car crash or somebody's arm being severed--even if in the end it turns out okay.

This year's Oscars honored films that met my criteria.  "Hugo" was a lavish, wonderful story with eye-widening effects, winning characters and an uplifting finale.  "My Week with Marilyn" featured a luminous actress and charming protagonist in a dreamy setting with no tragedies.  "The Iron Lady," though admittedly portraying Margaret Thatcher in her declining years, showed Meryl Streep at her finest, with only fleeting violent flashbacks (when I closed my eyes).  "Midnight In Paris," Woody Allen's tribute to the magical years when literary greats created a Paris of possibility, offered a stunning locale and romantic fulfillment. "The Help," I'm told, though I have yet to see it, also offers rewarding relationships. And most enthralling of all is "The Artist," an unusual film not only because of its wordless script and brilliant musical score, but because the entire cast, without exception, is likeable.

For me, "The Artist" is perfect because it offers conflict and pathos--but among honorable and sympathetic characters. There was no "bad guy," only unfortunate circumstances. Instead, George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), playing a silent film star sunk by the obsolescence of his medium, acted honorably, admitting his love for the caring and dynamic rising star Pepe (Berenice Bejo) only after the end of his marriage.  Uggie, the adorable Jack Russell terrier who at one point saves the day, is the icing on the positive-character cake.  Perhaps tonight's Academy Awards show was satisfying because "The Artist's" sheer exuberance invited its "Best Picture" nod.

Some other features of the show made the evening entertaining and delightful. Cut and unmissed were unbearably over-produced renditions of each of too-many nominated "best songs." Billy Crystal was succinct, charming and funny--and his introductions snappy.  The pre-recorded schtick, including a first-up Crystal movies spoof, a tasteful montage of deceased Academy associates, some star-interview snippits offering their views of the impact of film and quick recollections, broke up the line-up of presentations with laughter and thought-provoking moments.  The presenters did offer a few lame lines of patter, eye-rolling sexual banter, a silly pose by Jennifer Lopez and Cameron Diaz, and dumb fake-vodka swig by "Bridesmaids'" Melissa McCarthy and Rose Byrne, but the yawn-content was far outweighed by awards recipients' genuine gratitude, and their sweet acknowledgements of their families and support in long-term marriages.

It was an occasion even a movies-eschewer like me could enjoy, and if the industry continues to offer fewer explosives and expletives, and more happy and heartfelt fare, then I'll be waiting with my popcorn in the theater, and anticipating another Oscars party next year.

Be Nice to the "Nuisance:" Telemarketers are People Too

Because my husband and I have a small home-based business, my phone rings three or four times a day with "cold-callers" trying to sell everything from copy machines to investments.  They always start out asking to speak to "Mike," which is not the name anyone here goes by, but must be the contact listed on some master roster of businesses, somewhere.

These calls are a nuisance. They interrupt my activity, my train of thought, my concentrated effort at whatever I'm working on. When I'm writing, I find these intrusions particularly irksome. By the time I look on the caller-ID, which usually says 'restricted' or 'unidentified' but sometimes does offer the name of some unknown company, the damage is done. Usually, I just answer the phone, and get the so-familiar request for "Mike."

I'm not talking about the telemarketers who call at a home number. If you don't like them, you can sign up for the National Do Not Call Registry.  No, these solicitors aim for businesses, no matter how large or infinitesimal.

I respond that Mike's unavailable; may I help you? Most of the time, the salesman says "No, I'll call back" and hangs up. Second-place response is "when will he be in?" to which I answer "I'm not sure; can I help you?" which triggers the hang-up.  Sometimes I'll get someone tenacious who starts out, "Can I speak to your personnel manager?" or "Can I speak to the manager who handles your copy ink?"  Well, that would be me, and we're all inked up, sorry.

These calls used to cause me irritation, but a couple of years ago, I had an epiphany: phone solicitors are trying to make an honest living (assuming their products are legitimate).  They spend their days dialing strangers who tend to return their inquiries with anger and disgust. They likely have children and rent to pay and yes, even cell phone bills, and they're trying in the most discouraging profession to eke out their sustenance.

Telemarketers deserve respect.  They're not spending their days collecting welfare checks (one hopes) but on the telephone taking one rejection after another.  In some cases, their entire incomes are based on the commissions they make from the rare respondent who says "yes."  Many of the people who phone me have accents. They obviously have accepted their positions understanding how constantly demoralizing the work is, but continue to press those phone buttons with renewed aspiration to make a sale with the next call.

That's honorable.  Once I thought about it, I was determined to say something nice to each cold-caller, if he didn't hang up first.  The gentleman who just now phoned asking for "Mike" accepted my offer to take a message. He gave his name and the name of his company, saying he was making a "courtesy call," cute lingo for "sales pitch," about an "investment opportunity."

My response: "I realize that this is your job, and I wish you success, but I know that Mike is not open to investment opportunities at this time. But good luck with others."  The gentleman didn't press, as many do, but said, "I appreciate your honesty, and have a great day."

Wow. That was nice of him.  He wasn't obnoxious.  But even the ones whose scripts call for them to be forceful, pushing against resistant answerers to overcome all objections, deserve credit for their efforts--not snide or rude put-downs.

Next time you get a cold call, consider the salesperson's tough job.  Even in turning her down, be polite; acknowledge that she's trying to earn a living. Wish her success, because the more workers and businesses prosper, the healthier our economy and our nation.  And you might even have a nicer day.

"Upper Tribe" and "Lower Tribe" (classes) are divided by values, not ignorance

David Brooks has taken heat from letter writers for his op-ed column about Charles Murray's book Coming Apart, in which Murray describes the differences between the succeeding fifth and the most-languishing third of the American population.  Brooks says values were generally similar among Americans prior to 1963, and then a deepening schism caused the lower "tribe" to merely glare across the great divide to the productive and achieving upper "tribe."

Brooks got in trouble when he proposed a lame solution: national service that would "jam the tribes together" to expose each to the other's values and character.

The whole premise earns brilliant exposition as Big Lie Number 9 in Michael Medved's The 10 Big Lies About America.  The Lie, which says "a war on the middle class means less comfort and opportunity for the average American," assumes that citizens are born poor and remain that way, stymied from escaping their fate. Medved shows that "the poor" refers to a group that has more than previous low-income generations could even imagine, and that, most crucially, people who start out poor tend to improve their status during life.

Reading Brooks' silly solution to differences brought me back to my own youth.  My parents struggled financially, with my father, a civil servant in the California state employment office, failing to earn enough to keep up with inflation. My mom had to work as a secretary, and finally they had to give up their home when their combined income couldn't cover their rising property taxes. 

I was on "4-4" in high school--four hours' class followed by four hours at a $1.65-per-hour job. After high school graduation, I was on my own, financially.  As a student, I worked part time and lived on what I now see was poverty-level wages.  My food budget was $4 per week. My rent was $110 per month. I never ate out, never went to movies, didn't buy clothes--I alternated between two pair of jeans and five tops.  And never felt poor for a moment.  Even as a child, hearing my dad scold my mom for buying meat we couldn't afford, it never occurred to me that we were in a "lower tribe." My parents had gone to college, as I knew I would, and therefore whatever scrimping we had to do was always seen as temporary.  We'd get out of this; we'd be improving our lot, and, over the years, we did.

It's a mindset. A belief system.  If, when in the midst of my low-income years one of David Brooks' "upper tribe" had condescended to "jam in" to my world, I wouldn't have fathomed that he was any different from me.

Under the heading "The Myth of Permanent Misery," Michael Medved quotes a Washington Post story headlined "Many Blacks Earn Less Than Parents, Study Finds." The reality under the alarmist newspaper title was buried way down in paragraph seven: "Overall, four out of five children born into families at the bottom 20 percent of wage earners surpassed their parent's income. Broken down by race, nine in 10 whites are better paid than their parents were, compared with three out of four blacks."

In other words, everyone's moving on up. Not only are the generations increasing in their wealth, but individuals increase their economic levels as they age.  Anyone starting out earns less than he does with experience and greater expertise.  Workers usually begin with little, and over time, accumulate and advance, commensurate with their ability and industriousness.

One uncomfortable but undeniable fact is that half of the population lives below the average.  Still, more people are in the upper tribe (30%) than the lower (20%)--doesn't that in itself tell you that more Americans are succeeding than barely treading water?  The gap between the "lower tribe" and "upper tribe" actually reflects that with dot-com opportunities, more young people can get rich quicker, moving from lower levels to the top more easily. That's good news--and given the statistical reality, somebody has to populate those slots in lower percentages; unlike the residents of Lake Woebegone, not everyone can be "above average."

We know a family with energy, optimism, faith and tenacity. The mom home-schooled their four children; the dad worked in sales. With the downturn, he got laid off.  Despite his earnest efforts, he couldn't find a job; they fell into debt, just as their oldest child was to enter college.

On the precipice of destitution, they got to work. The mom and kids would recite multiplication tables as they delivered flyers to doorsteps, piecework they made into a fun adventure. Their college-bound daughter applied for scholarships and got a part-time job. The dad took stop-gap assignments for low pay as he kept searching for a proper job.  Eventually he found something.

Were they the "lower tribe"? Of course not, but neither were they the upper, economically.  But their values were what shaped them.  And the difference between the "underclass" and those who are comfortable is the willingness (or not) to see oneself as a victim and entitled to others' support. It's a difference between remaining staunchly responsible for yourself versus relinquishing that control to expect others to be responsible for you.

This ridiculous, artificial distinction between "the 1%" and the other 99% is the vocalization of victimhood.  People who are smart, motivated and capable will succeed; those who are not blessed with high intelligence still have the opportunity to succeed with motivation and dedication.  In our YouTube age, you can build a business with little more than a great idea (or talent) and a laptop computer.

We don't need the upper and lower tribes to jam together--everyone's online; the ability to associate with others is no farther than your desk.  It's mostly a matter of what people choose to do with their time that determines whether they end up as a success or not. And also how they decide to define success.  Even as she was tucking flyers under doormats, the mom I mentioned was thanking God for the time with her children, confident that hard work can and will be rewarded, even if in unexpected ways.

David Brooks might want to refer again to Murray's book, because its point is that values are the root of these "tribal" differences.  The solution isn't in "jamming together" tribes, but purposefully imitating the 1% in achievement and disseminating the formula that can bring everyone upward.

Why My Husband will Never Write a Fashion Blog

Five stylish guys, writers of what the NY Times calls "Macho Blogs," graced the cover of the Style section several days ago. Each one gets hundreds of thousands of page views monthly and each allows men who like looking sharp to discuss fashion with a manly slant.

Not his actual jeans...but close...

My husband won't be reading any of their blogs, much less writing one (he's busy posting plenty on politics and pop culture) not simply because he's removed from the cutting edge of style. To the contrary, he's on the jello-edge of style.

Were I to post photos of his outfits every day, many people would gain great amusement, chuckling.

They'd see his unnoticed spots on faded shirts, his failed meal-napkin attempts to clean others.  They could admire off-brand Dockers-wanna-bes frayed at the bottoms. Corduroy worn shiny and smooth. Flannel shirts with pocket flaps curled, super-comfortably large, tucked into his belt, cinched at his belly button.

We've always affectionately called him sartorially-challenged; he says he's merely relaxed.

Attempts to correct or improve the situation are regularly rebuffed. Our daughter made a Nordstrom Rack run, returning with presentable jeans and pleas to wear them a bit lower than his midriff. But why try on new jeans when his nicely broken-in ones, with threadbare knees, serve so well?  The man works in radio, remember.

Shirts his size are cast off as "too constricting."  And why pay for bland, solid-color t-shirts, when he's got stacks of freebies splashed with garish promotional slogans?

We begged him to change one Sunday before a family outing--when he was clad in a roomy royal blue t-shirt with the name of a not-well-received cable talk show embroidered on the front in canary yellow. He declined.

Beside his two dozen t-shirts touting failed movie titles, he's got a collection of organization button-downs with logos so embarrassing, he's tried to camouflage the advertising by pulling out threads, creating a peek-a-boo look above the pen-pocket.  On one shirt, his attempt to obliterate the company name led him to transform it into a "tan school".

His philosophy is that like fine wine, remnants of which can be found on his shirts, clothes in general improve with age.  He will not part with sentimental reminders of his life decades ago, and indeed, my collection of photos through the years shows him with babies, toddlers, grade-school kids and high schoolers, our same three children, aging in his beloved (also aging) shirts.  In middle school, he wore the same sweatshirt to school every day, and it's still in his drawer.

Do not believe that I could sneak into his wardrobe while he's at work for some discarding and renovation. That would bring a similar reaction to my re-arranging his stereo equipment, and hell hath no fury like a funkily-dressed audiophile.

Perhaps the most famous story about his penchant for casual attire regards an invitation to meet with President George W. Bush in the White House. For the occasion, he wore a sport jacket, white shirt, tie, and black jeans. His best black jeans, of course.

After the meeting, former drug czar William Bennett, also in attendance, took my husband aside. In a kindly, gravelly whisper, he said, "When you meet with the President, it's customary to wear a dark suit." If only my husband would own a dark suit.  Well, there is the one from his Yale graduation, that he still pulls out when necessary.

After 27 years of marriage, I've come to accept my husband's idiosyncrasies as charming. I don't connect my own self-esteem to his appearance, and the fame of his nonchalance about clothing often leads our hosts toward low expectations.  Our children, however, are tenacious in nudging him toward respectability, lending credence to the Skinnerian notion that intermittent reinforcement is most difficult to extinguish.  Occasionally, my husband, upon their urging, will pitch a wholly holey shirt.

He'll condescend to their insistence because he knows there's a rack of frayed-collar alternatives still beckoning in his closet, mellowing with each passing day.