Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, September 12, 1994 TAG: 9409150003
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BY JOE KENNEDY
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
You'll have to excuse me. I'm still recovering from a trip to the beach. I hadn't been there for two years. Things had changed.
``Moonglow.''
Don't get me wrong. The important things, the things you drive all that way and spend all that money for, were as good as ever: nice weather, cool breezes, plenty of sunshine. But something seemed different, and it took me a while to figure out what it was.
``Moon River.''
After a day or two of sitting by the surf, I began to get a handle on it. It was the swimsuits - the women's swimsuits, I mean.
``How High the Moon.''
Years ago, bikinis were the thing. Then there was the string bikini rage, favored by Sports Illustrated models and very few others, as far as I could tell.
This time, nearly every suit, one-piece or two, shared a single characteristic: They were hitched way up in back and on the sides, leaving little, as they say, to the imagination.
``Moonlight Sonata.''
For years we've heard women complain that male fashion designers secretly hate them and do their best to make them look sillier with each passing season. At the beach, I began to see what they mean.
``Moon Over Miami.''
I suppose there is a woman somewhere whose appearance is improved by the exposure of certain major anatomical parts that normally are covered, but that woman was not at the beach where I was.
``It's Only a Paper Moon.''
Of course, I am a middle-aged man who spent his formative years ogling swimsuits in the style of Esther Williams. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have cherished those days as a time of sweet mystery.
``Blue Moon.''
A few months ago, I heard my wife complaining about swimsuit selections, but I wasn't listening closely, so I didn't get the gist of it.
``Fly Me to the Moon.''
In the end, she opted to stay with her previous models - and I'm glad she did. Call me a prude, but if I want to look at moons, I'll buy a telescope - and other guys can do the same.
Keith Moon.
It would be easy to condemn women for caving in to fashion, but I don't know their circumstances. Maybe their old suits wore out. Maybe the stores where they shopped lacked mirrors. Maybe it's none of my business. It's a free country. People can wear what they want to.
``Moonlight and Roses.''
Some might say swimsuits are like TV: If you don't care for what's on, look elsewhere. But to me, they're like boom boxes: The more they annoy you, the harder they are to ignore.
Moon Unit Zappa.
We men are in complicity with the designers on this. All we'd have to do is criticize one woman who strolled past with her business hanging out and at least half the women nearby would thank us.
Moonwalk.
The other half would call us sexists.
I have a solution.
Next season, designers should hike up men's trunks in back, like the women's. Men would take to them like catfish to chicken livers, confident that while all the other guys looked foolish, their personal attributes would draw women's admiration with every step they took.
``Bad Moon Risin'.''
This would double the visual pollution, but it would multiply the merriment, as well. In a world as far gone as this one, we need all the amusement we can get - to keep us from mooning over such things.
by CNB