Revenge of Elrod

Like a zombie hand reaching from the grave just before the credits roll, Paul Elrod is back in my life.

For new readers, this describes my exciting and lurid initial encounter with Mr. Elrod, and this covers my participation in his first trial. Do click the links; they make for a good story.

"First trial?" I hear you say. Aha. Caught that, did you? The story ain't over. I got a call yesterday morning from my former co-worker Katrina W., telling me that one Detective Stoner had called the theater looking for me. [Insert joke about Ann Arbor cops and pot here.] Elrod is apparently headed for a jury trial, and I'll need to testify in court again. The trial was initially set for this Monday (gee, thanks for the heads-up, justice system!), but has been moved to October 25th. I'll need to be back in Ann Arbor at 8:30AM on that date, brushed and scrubbed and ready to remember the minutiae of something that happened in February. (Which I should be able to do; I have a good memory, and written records here and elsewhere.)

It's a weird feeling, like my former life clutching at my legs as I'm running away. I'm fairly stressed about the prospect of testifying again—this time, with a jury listening to me, so there will probably be more cross-examination and and pro bono and corpus delecti and whatever else them lawyers get up to.

Whenever I testify (and this will be the third time) I recall the advice of my boss at Penn, which has served me well. Dave Pope, Chair of the Engineering Department, was (and probably is) frequently called as an expert witness, and he told me: The opposing lawyer will try to make you mad, try to make you contradict yourself. Answer every question as precisely and briefly as possible, answer exactly what was asked, and don't ever get angry.

Speaking of bosses, by the way, Katrina W. became boss of the State Theater when I left. I realize I never mentioned that, and will probably go into the details in a locked post sometime. (No, I was not the boss before I left, but my departure triggered some changes.) She is smart and capable and anal and hard-assed, so this is fine by me. Wicked cute, too; I had half a crush on her the whole time she worked there.

(Still reading this, State Theater managers? *grin*)

Raccoon Suit

K.'s other-sweetie Chris tells a story about Oberlin. Some young women were sunbathing topless in front of the library, because Oberlin is the sort of place where young people sometimes get it into their heads to demonstrate a political point by being naked, and construction workers on a nearby scaffolding were watching them. One of them sat up and shook her fists at the men, shouting, "Don't you look at us! Don't you look at us!"

Walking around campus, I see a lot of cute young women in skimpy or clingy clothing, and whereas in Ann Arbor such women were clearly putting themselves on display I more frequently get a "Don't you look at me!" vibe from Obies. Which leads me to once again explain my Raccoon Suit Theory of Sexual Dress:

I have every right to wear a raccoon suit when I go out. There's nothing wrong with it; if I enjoy dressing like Ranger Rick, and if it keeps me decent and warm, nobody else can tell me not to wear it. But I should expect that I'll get stared at, and pointed at, and probably snickered at; that comes with the territory when you're doing something ostentatious or unusual. It would be nice if I lived in a world where I could dress as a furry animal without drawing attention, but over the last twenty years it's become pretty clear that I can't.

I feel the same way about skimpy clothing. By all means, wear as little as you want—but if you're wearing something that stands out, I will notice, and I expect other people will as well. There's nothing wrong with either side of that equation, in my eyes. I don't wear raccoon suits, but I do have long hair and dress a little oddly and sometimes wear an Amish-boy hat, and in our society that means I have to deal with drawing attention sometimes; cute braless girls in scoop-neck tops sitting on the floor of the video store (for instance) should learn to deal as well.

If the attention crosses a line—if people touch me, or harass me, or otherwise interfere with my business, which has certainly happened [1]—my furry raccoon tail will positively bristle with indignation. But if I'm wearing something weird, I gotta expect people will give me a glance. I really don't understand why this is true of every kind of unusual clothing except skimpy clothing on cute girls.

Nice guy that I am, I'm probably oversensitive about unintentional harassment and unwanted attention. I hate the feeling that I'm making someone uncomfortable, and I've modified my ogling here in Oberlin to reflect this new vibe; nobody's slapped me or gotten up and walked away or even frowned at me, so I doubt it's really much of an issue. Still, I think about it.

[1] For instance, I was coming home late at night from Halloween at my theater, wearing my cloak and floppy Leonardo hat, and two big drunk college kids blocked my path, leaned into my face, and insulted me for a few minutes with their beer-flavored breath. They seemed to think I (I!) was Goth, and kept saying, "That cloak doesn't make you cool!" I walked on, neglecting to draw the rather large and pointy sword I happened to have at my hip beneath the cloak.