Closely Watched Bums

In which the Elegant Bastard discovers that even on a crowded bus, Life’s Lessons can be Learned!

The number of synonyms available for any particular body part varies in direct proportion to the amount of interest that particular part arouses. Butts, therefore, have acquired an enormously long list of names, especially when you compare them to the much overlooked fingers, arms and esophagi.

But not all synonyms for the gluteus maximus are equal. “Asses”, for example, get kicked. “Backsides” are smacked or simply sat upon. “Buttocks” are of interest only to medical professionals. (Come on, when did you ever hear someone wishing to get a feel of that “buttock”!)  And no one has had a “derriere” since 1982.

Bums, however, are beautiful – round and cheekily perfect globes that can fire the spirit of Columbus in us all. Let them dance and the watchful mind stops; let them rest and it’s the mind’s turn to dance. If, as the poem tells us, Cortez really did stand silent upon a peak in Darien, doubtless his eagle eyes had spotted a New World Bum close by. Robert Frost tells the world to take the “road less travelled by.” I am sure he wanted to write “Bum”.

Have you noticed, Dear Reader, the similarities between digressions and obsessions? No? Consider it.

So when two of the nation’s twenty-somethings boarded the same crowded bus as I and came to stand a short meter from where my eyes were scanning the New York Times – and then turned their backs – I immediately confronted Plato’s fundamental error. He tells us – with a certain degree of smugness – that the “Perfect Forms” exist so far away that mere imperfect human beings (like us) may never see them. Well, Plato old boy, that might be true of Perfect Truth and Perfect Beauty, but not of Perfect Bums. A pair of them, each tightly Levi’d, had arranged themselves so close to me that Diana Ross’s old lyrical commandment to “Reach out and touch somebody’s hand” was in danger of being instantly rewritten.

I did not drool. No, I tell you that I did not drool. My interest was not at all lascivious. I am simply a lover of art in public places and felt it would be almost disloyal to that cause to turn my eyes away. Besides, they were clearly Canadian Bums and I am Canadian.

So, apparently, were most of my fellow travelers, for I noticed many of them were intent on being as patriotic as was possible given the limits imposed by good manners and various unimaginative laws.

Still, one fellow did seem unmoved. Youngish, a little chubby and unhealthily pale, he sat rigidly behind me, muttering strange words, his head bowed and his hands firmly grasping a slim black rectangle. I could not say he was fondling the device for thumbs have little fondling ability. But whatever thumbs can do, his did, and they did it with the same devotion my eyes were giving my two nearby icons.

He, however, did not see them. Instead he appeared to be calling up app after app, each to be toyed with briefly and then banished, another then taking its place. And as he browsed, his legs vibrated up and down. One of his knees seemed imperfect for it clicked as it quivered. The Bums could have been on Mars for all that he would know. As if to make up for his slight, I turned my attention back to them.

Their presence was innocent. Nothing about their owners’ poses or behavior suggested that they intended to arouse interest, comment or anything else. They were simply there, a momentary gift bestowed on all of us by an exuberant Nature so very clearly pleased with herself. “Behold!” she cried to us, and we all obediently beheld, all of us but clicking boy who was checking out the time of day in world capitals.

Eventually the couple moved to the rear doors and disembarked across from a shopping mall. The traffic light was green for them – how could it not be? – and this gave us all one last chance to watch them ripple across the sun dappled avenue before our bus rumbled into motion and took us away into shaded suburban streets. As we picked up speed, I turned my attention back to the Times and its attempts to keep me informed about who was killing whom wherever.

But I caught one last glimpse of the head behind me, bent low over his black box. He had apparently located a GPS app and was now busily trying to discover where he was.

As a devotee of a political grouping called The Mushy Middle, the Elegant Bastard despairs when his own city is in the grips of any form of political extremism. Those also suffering under the rule of moronic mayors might enjoy this explanation of whose fault it really is: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1B