Good taste is a palatable trait that one likes to think he possesses. Unfortunately where there is good taste there is bad—but the latter resides with others, never with us. There are the gauche who have no class, the public offenders who know no bounds, the sports fans who reek of beer. Not us—we pick our noses in private, we are abusive only to loved ones, at an event we imbibe calmly from a silver flask.
Those who will not torment their feet with dress shoes and white sox will scoff at those who do. Among the contemporary fashion plates blest with slender figures, it is admirable that they demonstrate their knowledge of good taste by snickering at the heavyweights who dare to wear short skirts and heels. Among the muscle bound who pump iron still go on kicking sand in the face of those who leave development to nature. Those who are loyal to the finer restaurants on the shore are revolted by an invasion of fast-food riff-raff who naively think they are upgrading their eating habits. In the early morning hours it is chic for one to report to work late with a plastic cup in hand but laughable if one shows up early with a thermos under his arm. It is somehow in democratic good taste for a president to appear before television in a jump-suit but poor taste for a congressman.
On the other hand, it is good taste to wear ugly sandals on weekends and poor taste when the dress shoe freak relaxes in bare feet. It is in perfectly good taste during leisure for the slender doll to wear her shirt-tail out in quaint straight line fashion, but poor taste should the overweight attempt the same and risk accentuating the tent's expanse. It is fitting that the gourmet lace his silk tie with mozzarella strands while viewing C-Span but disgusting that the junkie drip taco sauce on his sweatshirt during an Archie Bunker rerun. The morning plastic cup enthusiast properly drinks his beer right from the bottle or can, while the lagging thermos carrier continues his ridiculous fetish for obsolescence by drinking his from a glass. The president weekends in his flannel shirt and jeans while congressmen attend hometown barbecues still in blue suit and tie.
The woman of yesteryear who demurely brought slippers and pipe to the old man is an absurdity of history while the modern woman is lauded for supplying her mate with condoms. The old gent who gives up his bus seat to a woman is thought to be suffering severely possessed of his past upbringing while today's man is sexy by not opening the car door for his date. The youth who watches his language in the presence of girls is naive—unaware that girls are as foul-mouthed as boys—while the acceptable youth succeeds in out-F-ing the girls. It is acceptable taste to be ingenuous —provided it is outside the symbiotic circle in which one breeds pseudo-sophisticates—but excellent taste to be disingenuous always.
"Every man to his taste" is not really recommended in the slick realm of writing. For the editor is king. He who edits out may be efficient, though guilty of omission. The editor who edits in, may be helpful, but meddlesome. The editor of renowned authors, simply rejects the nameless. It is said that if Hamlet had been placed on the desk of a modern publisher and not rejected outright, it would be pared to a one act play. Taste is no longer a private subjective slant; it is institutionalized by the closed shop of sophisticated, judgmental establishments.
Sam Johnson's "wild vicissitudes of taste" implies chaos; modern society calls it diversity but at the same time those "in the know" put down those whose tastes differ from theirs. Actually and ironically the high-echelon of pace-setting strive for a monolithic society. To pass no judgments is an integrity foreign to them . Alas, it appears even integrity is but a matter of taste one can do without.