Elias Norbert, in his The Civilizing Process, took one of Erasmus' minor works, a book on manners written for boys, as a measure of the civilizing process, such as it was, in the 15th century. Manners, of course, in Erasmus' time were not simply an adjunct to behavior, but the emblem of status and the mark of one's subtlety. Subtlety is power, in the Renaissance. Elias was fortunate to discover Erasmus' text, for it turns out that the humanist had a school teacher's ineradicable impulse to correct the slouching, wayward boy:

"If you pass by any ancient Person, a Magistrate, a Minister, or Doctor, or any Person of Figure, be sure to pull off your Hat, and make your Reverence: Do the same when you pass by any sacred Place, or the Image of the Cross. When you are at a Feast, behave yourself chearfully, but always so as to remember what becomes your Age: Serve yourself last; and if any nice Bit be offer'd you, refuse it modestly; but if they press it upon you, take it, and thank the Person, and cutting off a bit of it, offer the rest either to him that gave it to you, or to him that sits next to you. If any Body drinks to you merrily, thank him, and drink moderately. If you don't care to drink, however, kiss the Cup. Look pleasantly upon him that speaks to you; and be sure not to speak till you are spoken to. If any Thing that is obscene be said, don't laugh at it, but keep your Countenance, as though you did not understand it; don't reflect on any Body, nor take place of any Body, nor boast of any Thing of your own, nor undervalue any Thing of another Bodies. Be courteous to your Companions that are your Inferiors; traduce no Body; don't be a Blab with your Tongue, and by this Means you'll get a good Character, and gain Friends without Envy."

Still good advice, although impossible for Limited Inc to take: we guffaw at obscenities like regular jackasses when we aren't making them ourselves. But we were reminded of Erasmus because a friend invited us today to dine in the cafeteria of the place that she works. That place shall be nameless. Suffice it to say that in the cafeteria, there were numerous, numerous men of around my own age -- middle age, that is -- sitting at tables that looked exactly like the cafeteria tables we once sat at in high school. You have to see this room: a big open space, an atrium space, and it is lunch time, and these men have come out with their selections of the rye bread with the ham and american cheese with the mustard and the fixings on it, the bit of salad or fruit, the coffee or soft drink, the pie. And here Limited Inc was, sitting among this crew of middle managers who, even as they ate, exuded a certain sad achievement, a certain niche of income and marriage and children that can not be, if God is in his heaven, taken away from them, but that they have a nasty, sneaking suspicion in every dream and failed erection is actually being, by forces unseen, taken away from them -- you have to see this. My companion to my left, to whom I directed the sparkles of my wit, barely looked at me. A handsome guy, I thought, but he was obviously wondering who let in the lunatic as he stuffed the forkfuls in his maw and talked about Thanksgiving. The man sitting across from him was a more favored, as in old time, table talk companion, and so his was the Thanksgiving being speculated about. There's another guy sitting to the left of the man sitting across from us, a short guy with white hair and a snub nose, whose eyes would sometimes iridesce with a certain balefulness, although not at anything said in particular, but at some interior vicissitude of memory in which he was either bested or in some obscure way, insulted. The conversation was mainly about the politics of the day, and mainly bloodily ferocious - standard conservative prattle. But what impressed yours truly was not the conversation so much but the end of the meal. One guy after another would finish, then slightly shift his tray away from him, sit back, and cross his arms over his chest. I checked, and it was like choreographed: the sit-back-cross-arms rippling across the room. Think, this happens every day. Still, it was impressive -- the testosterone of a hundred guys with a hundred families putting their arms up like that, as though these arms were tools -- the pipe wrench, the garden shears -- they were hanging in the garage. They'd used em, and now it was time to hang them up.
And I thought, how odd. I live, or lived, among a more boho set of male bodies, and hands and arms do these things at the table: support heads; tear napkins slowly into shreds; make gestures illustrating some conversational point; or lie on the table to give support and even rhythm to the fingers drumming. It took me back to my father's world, where arms did go up to the chest. I found this fascinating and slightly archaic, and it impressed me, once again, with my dizzy disconnect from a good part of white America -- like the old Talking Head's song that ends with David Byrne's squirrely voice singing: I couldn't do the things the/way those people do/I couldn't live there/if you paid me to.