I woke up yesterday morning, and my cold was almost -- but not quite -- gone; naturally, I called in sick. I figure they owed me after Monday. Anyway, I slept until after ten, and then I did nothing of note for a few of hours, and then b&c (who is still more ill than I) said he was going for a short walk. I said I'd join him, and he said he'd be walking slowly, so I told him to go ahead, and I'd catch up. I never did, but only because as I was heading towards the door, I detoured to get my camera.
It's one of those suburban spring days when everything is so beautiful that you entirely -- if temporarily -- forget that the suburbs are e-vil. ("E-vil," in case you're wondering, is less evil than "evil," but still far, far from good.) Really, everyone seems to be in a good mood. I was taking some close-up pictures of some dogwood blossoms and a woman I've never met called out, "You can take pictures of my dogwoods!" I'm assuming here that "take pictures of my dogwoods is not some bizarre and frightening breeder euphemism. I'm pretty sure it's not: we had a brief, pleasant conversation about just how nice the dogwoods are right now, and then I continued on.
I'm sorry, readers, but there is just no other way to say this: I'm disappointed in and a little bit miffed at you. I might even describe myself as hurt. Some of you have been reading this blog for days or even weeks, but not one of you has ever mentioned Turkish oil wrestling to me.
What's the deal, people? Surely you didn't think I wouldn't be interested in a sport that involves hot young (sometimes too young) Turks who cover themselves in olive oil and then wrestle? I have never expressed anything other than unguarded enthusiasm for a) turks, b) wrestling, and c) olive oil. And, really, did you think I wouldn't find out? Let this be a lesson to you, readers: if there's hot and sexy man on man action out there, I'm going to find out about it sooner or later, so you might as well 'fess up now.
In any case, it's difficult to imagine a sport designed more to my liking (as a spectator, that is) than Yağlı Gűreş. Just take a look at some of the rules. If you dare, that is. There are no pictures on that link, but it's decidedly NSFW.
Seriously, I can't be responsible if you read the rules at the office and have to put your briefcase in front of you while you walk to the men's room. Who wouldn't get excited by a sport where the ways to win a match include:
(3) Since a wrestler is not restricted from placing his hands inside his opponent’s kispet (he may not grab his balls or invade his rectum, however), he can also use the waistband to hold the other man in place. Occasionally the kispet is yanked so far below his hips that the fighter being held cannot rise without exposing himself. Having lost his trunks he also loses the match.
The real winner, of course, is the audience.
I always thought that wrestling singlets were the hottest gear out there, but, well, the kispet may have the singlet beat. It's tough to decide, so I think the Turkish wrestling authorities should send me five or six of their most attractive wrestlers and let me see them in (and out of) a singlet and then a kispet. Nothing beats a side-by-side comparison. Ease of removal will, of course, be one of the judgment criteria.
I can't understand why the gay travel organizers haven't been busy hawking Yağlı Gűreş to Istanbul. I know that Turkey is not the most gay-friendly country on earth, but it's certainly not the worst either, and while a lot of guys I know probably couldn't help moaning loudly at the sight of those hot glistening muscles taking each other on, surely they'd be drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
I, sadly, probably can't go to Istanbul. I don't recall whether I've mentioned it here, but I suffer from a very advanced stage of musical connectedness. Certain words just send me off. My children stare at me warily when we're approaching the orange section of the Monopoly board because they know that if any of us lands on St. James Place, I cannot stop myself from singing, "I went down to the St. James infirmary. I saw my baby there," and that's usually when they shut me up. I have many such musical associations, but none is stronger or more irrepressible than the Turkish capital. I fear that if I went on a tour, I would offend the locals and annoy my traveling companions: at any hour of the day or night, I'd be likely to break out into a loud (but always tuneful)
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Naturally, I above all wish to avoid an international incident. Besides the dollar is worth shit right now, so I'll probably stay closer to home, where, at least, the scenery is pleasant. On my walk yesterday afternoon, for example, I noticed these perky red protuberances on some of the many pine trees I pass during my standard walk. I'd never noticed them before.
I'm pretty sure these are immature pinecones, but I prefer to think of them as some of nature's many, many phallic symbols. I often get lost in thought during my walks so that I'm more aware of the general sense of being in nature than I am of the particulars, but obviously sometimes it pays attention to the details. Who doesn't love nature when it's simultaneously beautiful and erotic. The young cones may not oiled Turks, but they certainly are pretty.