Too far, so good?
January 11, 2004 | 12:00am
Daniel Peres, editor in chief of the evolved man’s bible Details, has now denounced his own gospel. Not even a year after his controversial interview with the Washington Post about the booming metrosexual nation, he has now cried Old Spice and declared, "I certainly hope that this metrosexual thing has the cultural lifespan of Dolph Lundgren."
You’ve got to admit it, we have a knack for running things to the ground. I mean men who use Anthony, Zirh or Khiels are nothing new. However, stick a label to their kind and you have a sort of cultural shakedown. I realized how north of cheesy this phenomenon has gone when I finally saw Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I mean, c’mon! They enter this pad through a Star Trek-style entrance and babble on and on about how great they all are in their respective fields. I mean, in fairness they do have a couple shots of wit in their pockets and the transformations that they do are fab. Even the message of self-improvement is always touching. I guess it’s the whole approach. That combative and militant style that they exert to cleanse these men of their Neanderthal ways. And Carson’s hair bugs me.
Well, their 15 minutes are about up as the Queer Eye backlash has now ensued. There’s nothing wrong with men meandering towards their feminine side, but if my date has to wear Galliano’s eyeliner (God bless his soul), suddenly the concept of limits becomes very sexy (even my gay friends agree). Perhaps we have been a little permissive with our terms. God knows I have. A slut is no longer slutty, simply bohemian or spirited if she is fabulous. I find myself paraphrasing the word irresponsible into indulgent. It has also indulged me in the sweet broth of consequence. And as for men, they used to be effeminate in my book, but after a few disasters, there’s no doubt about it – they’re gay.
I find myself very desperate for excuses given the imperfections that define me. And I guess this is what Daniel Peres is trying to say, don’t hide behind this trend. There’s nothing wrong with a man who is keen on being fashionable, but please don’t use Prada to hide the fact that you are a closet case. Or maybe you remember that Sex and the City episode wherein Charlotte dates a gay straight guy. Again taken too far you’ll both be fighting over who gets to wear the tiara – a little too Liza Minelli and David Gest for me.
I like a man who uses fig-scented candles, splashes on variants of Vetiver fragrances, someone who believes that climbing the corporate ladder includes tapered pants, slim-fit button-downs and semi-pointed shoes, and knows better than to say cunt when referring to the female gender. I loved him then, I love him still, whoever he may be. However, it was said that my ultimate undoing would be my unapologetic shallowness. I’m a Libra, I can’t help it – I like things preeeety!
I remember living in New York , I once met a guy who made it to my wish list. He was the kind that wore shirts like Jay Gatsby (shirts with stripes and scrolls, plaids in coral, apple green, lavender and faint orange with monograms of Indian blue), obviously had his hair sheared in some decent salon, he knew how to eat and better yet to drink, was not ashamed to listen to Dido, but would speak in high-pitched notes at intervals which at that time I found very charming. Although I would find myself at a loss when he knew more about the Chanel skincare line than me, I thought to myself how lucky I was to be in the company of such an evolved male. This was until a good friend of mine spotted him in a gay bar in Chelsea Gloria Gaynoring it out.
The following year in I met a guy in San Francisco who immediately swept me off my feet by buying me bubbly (I’m cheap, that’s why these things happen to me). We talked about everything including my favorite topic at that time – scarves. Thinking I had found my soulmate, I was smitten. This was until he was openly macking on my friend, a happening gay guy of mine who also liked scarves. This and he admitted to watching Absolutely Fabulous in college.
The following day he called and still wanted to meet up. Thinking he found a best friend in me, I met up with him and his eyes immediately lit up when he saw my fab jacket scooped from some flea market. After a couple of champagne and orange Grey Goose cocktails, he started telling me how beautiful I was. Before he could get in between me and my Calvins, I told him (not asked him) that he was gay. He seemed to love it as he laughed heartily and shrugged off his Helmut Lang coat and posed in what he perhaps defined as sexy and said, "You’ve got to be kidding." As if on cue a tendril of hair fell on his right eye from his silk-groomed head. Looking at him, he was cute in a clean-cut sort of way (too clean, in fact), knew the ways of the culinary and literary worlds, funny and proper in a way that Wharton would swoon over. He had read all of my favorite books, we swore by the same movies, and I swear, we were checking out the same guy, too, by the bar (I caught him doing when I tried to establish a sultry eye contact session). He was too perfect to be straight.
There you have it. Not only do you have to worry about Mr. Right not calling, worrying that you said "I love you" too soon, bumping into his gorgeous ex – now you have to wonder, if he’s so perfect can he be gay?
In high school we girls would spend lunch time talking about how we had our boyfriends’ hair cut in some fancy salon, how we spent last Saturday getting his-and-hers manicures, and our scientific analysis of how you can smell a fake Polo Sport cologne. It seemed so innocuous then. These poor guys were still so young that they just wanted to please the divas in any way they could. They also did it through grooming. He pleased mom by brushing his teeth as a child. He will please his nymphet by going to the derma now.
There’s nothing wrong with a well-groomed man who goes to museums rather than watch the Superbowl. He knows a good meal means it does not come out of a can and nuked in a microwave machine. He knows that he has to wear sunscreen if he doesn’t want to have anything pulled by a surgeon. But there are limits, I guess. When you feel they’re too metrosexual(oh, you’ll know even if you won’t admit it), you’ll find yourself firing blanks in the dark.
Yes it’s that futile.
Surrender the fantasy life, it’s not that perfect for us ladies. Being a walk-in closet can be a very frustrating deal. He doesn’t want to get in between you and your Calvins. Just maybe your Calvins.
E-mail me at ystylecrew@hotmail.com.
You’ve got to admit it, we have a knack for running things to the ground. I mean men who use Anthony, Zirh or Khiels are nothing new. However, stick a label to their kind and you have a sort of cultural shakedown. I realized how north of cheesy this phenomenon has gone when I finally saw Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I mean, c’mon! They enter this pad through a Star Trek-style entrance and babble on and on about how great they all are in their respective fields. I mean, in fairness they do have a couple shots of wit in their pockets and the transformations that they do are fab. Even the message of self-improvement is always touching. I guess it’s the whole approach. That combative and militant style that they exert to cleanse these men of their Neanderthal ways. And Carson’s hair bugs me.
Well, their 15 minutes are about up as the Queer Eye backlash has now ensued. There’s nothing wrong with men meandering towards their feminine side, but if my date has to wear Galliano’s eyeliner (God bless his soul), suddenly the concept of limits becomes very sexy (even my gay friends agree). Perhaps we have been a little permissive with our terms. God knows I have. A slut is no longer slutty, simply bohemian or spirited if she is fabulous. I find myself paraphrasing the word irresponsible into indulgent. It has also indulged me in the sweet broth of consequence. And as for men, they used to be effeminate in my book, but after a few disasters, there’s no doubt about it – they’re gay.
I find myself very desperate for excuses given the imperfections that define me. And I guess this is what Daniel Peres is trying to say, don’t hide behind this trend. There’s nothing wrong with a man who is keen on being fashionable, but please don’t use Prada to hide the fact that you are a closet case. Or maybe you remember that Sex and the City episode wherein Charlotte dates a gay straight guy. Again taken too far you’ll both be fighting over who gets to wear the tiara – a little too Liza Minelli and David Gest for me.
I like a man who uses fig-scented candles, splashes on variants of Vetiver fragrances, someone who believes that climbing the corporate ladder includes tapered pants, slim-fit button-downs and semi-pointed shoes, and knows better than to say cunt when referring to the female gender. I loved him then, I love him still, whoever he may be. However, it was said that my ultimate undoing would be my unapologetic shallowness. I’m a Libra, I can’t help it – I like things preeeety!
I remember living in New York , I once met a guy who made it to my wish list. He was the kind that wore shirts like Jay Gatsby (shirts with stripes and scrolls, plaids in coral, apple green, lavender and faint orange with monograms of Indian blue), obviously had his hair sheared in some decent salon, he knew how to eat and better yet to drink, was not ashamed to listen to Dido, but would speak in high-pitched notes at intervals which at that time I found very charming. Although I would find myself at a loss when he knew more about the Chanel skincare line than me, I thought to myself how lucky I was to be in the company of such an evolved male. This was until a good friend of mine spotted him in a gay bar in Chelsea Gloria Gaynoring it out.
The following year in I met a guy in San Francisco who immediately swept me off my feet by buying me bubbly (I’m cheap, that’s why these things happen to me). We talked about everything including my favorite topic at that time – scarves. Thinking I had found my soulmate, I was smitten. This was until he was openly macking on my friend, a happening gay guy of mine who also liked scarves. This and he admitted to watching Absolutely Fabulous in college.
The following day he called and still wanted to meet up. Thinking he found a best friend in me, I met up with him and his eyes immediately lit up when he saw my fab jacket scooped from some flea market. After a couple of champagne and orange Grey Goose cocktails, he started telling me how beautiful I was. Before he could get in between me and my Calvins, I told him (not asked him) that he was gay. He seemed to love it as he laughed heartily and shrugged off his Helmut Lang coat and posed in what he perhaps defined as sexy and said, "You’ve got to be kidding." As if on cue a tendril of hair fell on his right eye from his silk-groomed head. Looking at him, he was cute in a clean-cut sort of way (too clean, in fact), knew the ways of the culinary and literary worlds, funny and proper in a way that Wharton would swoon over. He had read all of my favorite books, we swore by the same movies, and I swear, we were checking out the same guy, too, by the bar (I caught him doing when I tried to establish a sultry eye contact session). He was too perfect to be straight.
There you have it. Not only do you have to worry about Mr. Right not calling, worrying that you said "I love you" too soon, bumping into his gorgeous ex – now you have to wonder, if he’s so perfect can he be gay?
In high school we girls would spend lunch time talking about how we had our boyfriends’ hair cut in some fancy salon, how we spent last Saturday getting his-and-hers manicures, and our scientific analysis of how you can smell a fake Polo Sport cologne. It seemed so innocuous then. These poor guys were still so young that they just wanted to please the divas in any way they could. They also did it through grooming. He pleased mom by brushing his teeth as a child. He will please his nymphet by going to the derma now.
There’s nothing wrong with a well-groomed man who goes to museums rather than watch the Superbowl. He knows a good meal means it does not come out of a can and nuked in a microwave machine. He knows that he has to wear sunscreen if he doesn’t want to have anything pulled by a surgeon. But there are limits, I guess. When you feel they’re too metrosexual(oh, you’ll know even if you won’t admit it), you’ll find yourself firing blanks in the dark.
Yes it’s that futile.
Surrender the fantasy life, it’s not that perfect for us ladies. Being a walk-in closet can be a very frustrating deal. He doesn’t want to get in between you and your Calvins. Just maybe your Calvins.
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