june 15.2001 ».
HUMOR
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he prophet Olivia Newton of John spoke
thus to her devoted flock: She said, “Let
me hear your body talk.”
T
I ask you, my friends, if bodies could
talk, what would they say? Take, for instance,
the buff gym body, the one with shoulders like
Joan Collins on Dynasty and abs so cut you
could grate cheese on them; what does that
body say to you ?
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
by Marc Acito
To me it says: “I’m up every morning at
Dark O’clock so I can lift, flex, sweat, crunch,
squat and press before eating a microscopic,
macro-psychotic breakfast of twigs and bark.
Then instead of lunch we can go back to the
gym to climb stairs to nowhere for an hour.”
Now consider for a moment my body, the
one that requires relaxed-fit jeans in more than
one size, and what it might say: “Mmm,” it
murmurs, “let’s sleep until the sun is nice and
warm, then have Belgian waffles and mimosas.
Afterward we can take a little nap and then go
antiquing!”
I’m sure most gay men would rather go
home with the guy whose chest is 44 inches
and whose waist is 29 inches rather than the
other way around, but which one would you
rather wake up with? Me, I vote for waffles
every time. And it shows.
I’m forever on some diet or another. Right
now I’m on two, as a matter of fact, because
I’m not getting enough food from the first. Lots
of these diets have made me thin, but only one
Heavenly bodies
For the rest of vis, the less shed, the better
has made me happy: the eating plan that
allows milk and cookies at bedtime and
encourages walks on summer nights to get ice
cream.
I’ve looked at my fat from every possible
angle, literally as well as philosophically, and
finally have come to the conclusion that the
best way to stay permanently thin is simply to
choose thin parents. Descending as I do from
nations where people are built like fireplugs,
I’ve reconciled myself to a lifetime of untucked
shirts and those comfy relaxed-fit jeans. There’s
no point in fighting my genetic predisposition
to olive oil.
Now I think it’s all well
and good to love and
accept one’s own body, but
asking the rest of society to
love and accept it is another
thing entirely. Personally, I blame
Baywatch.
Until Jerry Springer came along,
Baywatch was the single most popular
television show on the planet, seen by
1 billion people in 142 countries. I’m not
personally opposed to global soft pom, but
the increased exposure to scantily clad life
guards running on the beach seems to have
lulled most of the planet into thinking it’s now
perfectly all right for all of us to dress as if it
were summer all year round.
Every year here in Portland, for instance,
we have our own little Queer Civil War over
the right to be naked in the Pride parade, and
both sides can get pretty nasty about it, which
is actually kind of fun. But in the interest of
W
w êtes»
keeping the peace, I propose that the issue be
decided democratically.
Therefore, before you decide to expose
yourself at Gay Pride, ask yourself the following
question: “Has anyone ever expressed any
interest in seeing me naked in public?” Now
be honest here. If women walk up to you at
lesbian potlucks and say, “Y’know, Marge,
you’ve just got to bare those breasts on
television this year—it would be a public
service to us all,” then by all means whip
’em out so we all can join in a rousing chorus
of “Thanks for the Mammaries.”
Or, gentlemen, if guys stop you at the gym
and say, “Why, Ted, if you don’t wear the
leather thong this year, 1 might as well stay
home,” then we’ll see if there’s any
money in the Victory Fund to pay for
your bikini wax. If, however, yours is
the lone assenting vote for public
exposure, then perhaps it’s time to
realize some things are best left to the
imagination.
I, for one, am quite fond of my own
body. It does a variety of useful things for
which I’m grateful, like go to the fridge to
eat pudding.
It even can run on the beach like the jig
gling lifeguards on Baywatch. But it tends to
jiggle in a far more random and decidedly less
appealing manner.
For that reason, when Gay Pride rolls
around, I think I’ll keep it under wraps. The
rest of you will be glad I did.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc.
M arc A cito keeps his muscles well-insulated
with a protective layer of fat tissue. He can be
reached at MarcAcito@home.com.
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