Who gives a shit: Americana

I don't mean Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln or Lincoln. I'm talking a sometimes insidious and vapid (although often stated/expressed as deep, enduring and meaningful) in things with historical (perceived or lent) significance, of or possessing some quality of "heritage" and/or "Americana" expressed variously through style (and 2), photography, decor and ethos.

On the surface, this is a problem of authentic personage vs. persona akin to the one discussed below re: Vampy, but that assumes a less than honest adoption of the aesthetic of Americana. To be sure, there are issues of the affluent adopting the trappings of the working class, but that's nothing new. And yeah, right now the Americana aesthetic is hip and trendy: "Affected? Absolutely. Still, how we dress says a lot about who we want to be, and that ache for authenticity—or, at least, the aura of authenticity—is revealing." via Newsweek.

I can't speak for the flannel clad hipsters or the ironic mustache, but personally I like history. I like when things are worn in, used or have some other indication that a human being has touched something, lived in it or with it. Before it fell apart, my first real wallet (not a Hawaiian velcro nightmare) was my grandfathers. I loved that every time I paid for something I thought of him, that I could feel the wallet in my pocket when I walked. The same feeling, albeit a step or two removed, exists when I use anything that evokes craft, or having been made by a person, be it clothes, furniture or anything else.

We welcome you to Scrabblegories with sex and celebrity and answers to a personal question regarding those two things

Who? Who would you do?

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You knew there would be a catch, didn't you? Well, I won't disappoint.

On copping-out, I mean.

Honestly, it has to be Abe.

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OK, look. There were no rules against dead people, and if this is creepier than macking on people who probably pay interns (think of the interns!) to Google themselves every three seconds for defamation but also dream of running away from their wives and E-meters to sex all their fans, I stand alone but proud in the crypt.

Obviously, the only serious answer to this question is Cary Grant. But while I'd like to think Ceege would never leave me, come on.

Abe, on the other hand: miserable, body-dysmorphic (why else would he hide in all that hair?), kind of racist and not-so-good on the civil liberties precedents, but generally wanted to make people happy. Also, by all accounts he desperately wanted a man, and his wife probably concurred. How could he say no?

The point is, Cary Grant only said witty things other people wrote. Abe wrote, said, did.

Abe Lincoln: the celebrity for the rest of us.