The Road to Steve

Let’s talk about hats.

By my estimation, fifty percent of my audience has just closed their browsers.  To those poor wretches that remain, I’m sorry, but the topic remains hats.

But first we’re going to talk about movies.  Trust me.  It will all make sense in a minute.

Cinema has changed since the early- to mid-1950s.  For example, Bing Crosby has never, in my recollection, ever been tasked with bringing down a helicopter with a compact car.  Dorothy Lamour, to the best of my knowledge, has never played the part of a genetic anomaly able to conjure tornados by waving her arms.  And Bob Hope, someone please correct me if I’m wrong, still cannot transform into an eighteen-wheeler, which I imagine would limit his marketability in Hollywood right now.

But I digress.

What Crosby, Lamour, and Hope did have, aside from respectable careers, were hats.  Nice hats.  Hats that do not – people of Wisconsin, I’m looking at you – in any way resemble a piece of cheese.  Somewhere between then and now, such hats fell out of favor for such reasons as I can only guess.  In its place, we have the tyranny of the ball cap, but that too is a subject for another day.  No, our subject today is this.


What.  The.  Hell.


Now ignoring for a moment that someone talked that poor model into putting an entire coyote on his head, minus only the parts that make it a functional coyote, I have a question.  Who was taking the picture?  And why, pray tell, did that individual keep telling the model in question to, for want of a better term, smolder.  He’s wearing 9/10s of a coyote on his head and looking at me with come-hither eyes.  I’m worried that if I give them my shipping information, he’ll come by around six to take me to dinner and a movie.

And speaking of movies, every time I pulled up this page (making sure my wife wasn’t looking and quietly explaining to [let’s just call him Steve] Steve that it just won’t work between us), I kept staring at this particular…piece.




Regardless, every time I looked at it, the déjà vu bordered on palpable.  I found myself humming a tune I could not immediately identify, despite the fact I was the source.  Then, like the shower scene in Psycho, the answer came upon my psyche like a knife.


Bowie…my old nemesis.  Suddenly, Steve isn’t looking so bad, if for no better reason than I don’t believe he has ever stolen a baby and performed “Magic Dance” in pants with a negative two inch waist.

Though, in Bowie’s favor, I don’t believe he’s ever been photographed wearing most of a coyote, so we might have to call it a tie.

Because, and I say this with certainty, no one is winning here.  Except maybe Inspector Gadget who, heaven help us, has the most Crosby-esque headgear of the bunch, even taking into account that it occasionally morphs into a helicopter.


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