Last night in Wilmington, aside from being told to “put that in your book and smoke it” and experiencing a band playing at the most disproportionate volume/bar-customer ratio of all time, I also recieved a fair number of questions about my stache, who I’ve named Paco.
I answered each query with the same response, “it let’s people know I don’t give an Eff.” That could be a good enough reason for someone else, but I am not someone else. For me not being concerned with the opinions of strangers isn’t simply a convenient lie, it’s the exact opposite of the truth. The entire reason I sport this fuzzy Sellecktitious sidekick is because of strangers.
It’s not because I’m making a statement, it’s not because I want attention or because I have an awkward upper lip that needs to be hidden. The reason I’m riding with handlebars is because it’s the absolute best way to hide my Jewiness from the inhabitants of the rural south.
I’m not suggesting Southerners don’t like liberal North East Jews who love Woody Allen movies and irony, that’s not the point. The point is I don’t have to worry about getting into trouble for trying to make a point when I wear this disguise. And you wanna know something else? It’s working. I just stopped at a Wendy’s* in Padunkytown and they gave me a free big size and casually discussed my choice of honey mustard over mayo as though we were old friends.
It could just be that people in the South are generally nice and I’m projecting, but that doesn’t make for much of a post, does it? Either way, I’m starting to think I should buy linen pants and a drug problem when I get to South Beach and keep the chameleoning up.
*I also stopped by a place called South of the Border which was amazing. Who knew giving Mexico 500 square yards of South Carolina was part of the Gasden Purchase?