I know better than to get sucked into conversations like this. Two weeks from now, I will ask myself: Why did you post that photograph?
When I ask, here is the answer: The woman me do it.
It is a classic line. And it even has a kernel of truth in this instance. Well, a scintilla.
On Monday, Babs posted on her blog: "Since some of my fellow bloggers have been changing their identity photo on their blogs, maybe I should do the same. I'm not sure why they have chosen photos in their teens."
Being one of those "fellow bloggers, I took umbrage, and pointed out that, unlike the blogger currently known as Felipe, my identity photograph pictures me in law school at the ripe age of thirty. Hardly a teenager.
To which, the ever-effervescent Babs, forgoing her southern ladyness, retorted: "Steve you look like you're about 18 in that photo - no way you were 30."
Dave Barry once said, referring to how women should interpret men's actions: "If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one." What is good for the gallina is good for the gallo.
So, I will take Bab's critique as a compliment. But it is true. that was me at 30.
Closer to 18 is the picture above. But I was actually 23 there.
I remember the day well. I was stationed at Castle Air Force Base in the San Joaquin Valley. My friend, Craig, and his wife, Chris, were stationed at Hamilton Air Force Base in Sausalito. Craig and I had attended a training school with one another.
I drove over to their place on a Friday evening in my 1967 red Oldsmobile convertible. Top down. Ready to face the sophistication of the Golden Gate. On Saturday we drove into San Francisco and performed all the tourist tricks.
Craig took the photograph of Chris and me sitting in front of a book store. That is Chris looking as if she is the budding cover girl of Vogue. And, to her left, is me.
I want you to pause and think for a moment. The year is 1972. I am in San Francisco -- the fashion capital of the west coast. I am not certain why I thought dressing like an extra in The Godfather was going to be particularly trendy.
And it was Saturday. There I am in a coat (or a semblance of one) and tie. I will not even comment on the gloves.
But I come by it honestly. When my grandfather would weed or spade his vegetable garden, he would always wear a coat and a tie. And a fedora. I am not certain I ever saw him outside of his house without one of those three items of clothing.
So, Babs. That is as close as I can come to a picture of me at 18. At least, I am not wearing a fedora.
When I ask, here is the answer: The woman me do it.
It is a classic line. And it even has a kernel of truth in this instance. Well, a scintilla.
On Monday, Babs posted on her blog: "Since some of my fellow bloggers have been changing their identity photo on their blogs, maybe I should do the same. I'm not sure why they have chosen photos in their teens."
Being one of those "fellow bloggers, I took umbrage, and pointed out that, unlike the blogger currently known as Felipe, my identity photograph pictures me in law school at the ripe age of thirty. Hardly a teenager.
To which, the ever-effervescent Babs, forgoing her southern ladyness, retorted: "Steve you look like you're about 18 in that photo - no way you were 30."
Dave Barry once said, referring to how women should interpret men's actions: "If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one." What is good for the gallina is good for the gallo.
So, I will take Bab's critique as a compliment. But it is true. that was me at 30.
Closer to 18 is the picture above. But I was actually 23 there.
I remember the day well. I was stationed at Castle Air Force Base in the San Joaquin Valley. My friend, Craig, and his wife, Chris, were stationed at Hamilton Air Force Base in Sausalito. Craig and I had attended a training school with one another.
I drove over to their place on a Friday evening in my 1967 red Oldsmobile convertible. Top down. Ready to face the sophistication of the Golden Gate. On Saturday we drove into San Francisco and performed all the tourist tricks.
Craig took the photograph of Chris and me sitting in front of a book store. That is Chris looking as if she is the budding cover girl of Vogue. And, to her left, is me.
I want you to pause and think for a moment. The year is 1972. I am in San Francisco -- the fashion capital of the west coast. I am not certain why I thought dressing like an extra in The Godfather was going to be particularly trendy.
And it was Saturday. There I am in a coat (or a semblance of one) and tie. I will not even comment on the gloves.
But I come by it honestly. When my grandfather would weed or spade his vegetable garden, he would always wear a coat and a tie. And a fedora. I am not certain I ever saw him outside of his house without one of those three items of clothing.
So, Babs. That is as close as I can come to a picture of me at 18. At least, I am not wearing a fedora.