Hosing Down

Nitwits and Titbits

My lovely friend Nodique Deneen recently, briefly turned my thoughts away from another maddeningly illiterate television commercial (which ends “We all want to be a mom that cares about their child”) and back to the Wonders of the Wealthy. You really weren’t aware, she asked me, that cops have been turning blind, shaded eyes away from an illegal activity that has been poking up more and more on the sands and in the surf around Hotel Del Coronado?

Tourists from all over the world love the expensive resort, of course. And we want to make their visits truly enjoyable, ensuring many future returns. The tourist bureaus and our very economy require that visitors have easy, unlimited access to the unique aspects of our often-nifty town while enjoying, at the very least, all the proverbial comforts of home.

Coronado Invaded by Topless Bathers!
I’m glad the word hasn’t yet reached the uncounted voyeuristic perverts of our virginal city. And I’m pretty sure that none of them reads the San Diego Troubadour, so if you, dear reader, didn’t know about this already, let’s keep it to ourselves, okay?

Back to Miss Deneen’s revelation to me. She said that females who either enjoy going topless or demand equality (or both) have been frolicking in the occasional rays across the bridge dressed in their one-piece fashion statements, which, like those of their male counterparts, cover only areas of the mid-body. As always, the apparel differs slightly from the male versions by requiring about a third as much material for their manufacture. The bottom line, still, is a notable one: female nipples have been enjoying emancipation around the Hotel Del.

Now, just a second, Hose. Just what does all this have to do with show biz or music, which this column has pledged to expose in all their beauty and deviance?

Aw, c’mon. With due respect and no intended offense, even Stevie Wonder would be able to see the connection. But I’ll drop in an occasional subtle hint if you insist.

Stevie Wonder has nipples.

So does Janet Jackson and so did her brother Michael (and I’ll bet his were green!). When they were very little, Mikey and his little sister could both moonwalk shirtless along Hollywood Boulevard any time they felt like it. But when they grew up, only Michael would have been able to legally get away with it. You’ll recall that when Janet was about to try doing it at the Superbowl, our great nation nearly had a heart attack and lost its fragile innocence for the fourth or fifth time that year.

Jewel has nipples.

Assuming the liberation of the wealthy female nipples in Coronado is a fact and that Miss Deneen wasn’t pulling my own with her story, I find myself very happy about the liberty aspect but incensed that the reason behind it was entirely capitalistic (we want them tourist bucks, darnit) and devoid of intellectual concerns. As I’ve always seen it, America’s cultural/legal take on nudity is such that we’re the laughing stock of much of the world, the other countries chuckling secretly at our insanity so as not to offend the self-styled Rulers of the Planet.

Fleetwood Mac has nipples. Lots of them.

During a brief rest period at half time in an otherwise energetic game of Doctor with a well-known female physician in Los Angeles, she flattered me with a remark of such candor and surprise that I feel I should now milk it for all of its worth. She was astonished, she said, that my own left nipple appeared to be an exact twin, visually, of the right nipple of a famous female pop star. To protect the singer’s identity (at least until the doctor’s lab verification is accomplished), I’ll call the vocally augmented idol Yentirb Sraeps. When the doctor’s theory is confirmed as expected, my name will once again be linked with that of Ms. Sraeps in news items month after month just like two or three years ago, and once again the focus switches from my voice to my body (this time just my chest?!) and that becomes annoying real quick.

Donny and Marie have nipples.

I can fight back and make a political statement at the same time. Since I’d like all beaches to be like those of Coronado and France and Spain and Iceland, I’ve decided to act. Until all female nipples in America have stopped being treated like social agitators, I, in an act of solidarity with the nipples of my sisters, will wear circles of black tape over my own henceforth in my public performances.

Yes, even José Sinatra has nipples. Superbly designed, secretive and compassionate, perhaps one day they shall feed the world . . .

In America, once a female begins to develop breasts and her chest area physically loses resemblance to that of a male, our culture (in an edict of supernatural, illogical idiocy) declares her nipples dangerous. Not the beauteous deviation of the expanding mammary glands, oh no. Just the nipples. In effect, it is the nipples of the female, nearly identical to their male counterparts, that require the licensing, concern, and regulation. Their appearance in public or in magazines or on network television can actually become criminal acts — acts that must be carefully controlled lest our lunatic nation head directly to Hell.

Hey, has anyone checked the destination listed on our current ticket?

I’d like to thank you for spending a few moments of your valuable life reading this column, and I especially thank the publisher for having the nipples to print it.

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  • September 2016

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