SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Last week while out shopping—in the midst of deciding whether to buy this cute (but totally unnecessary) straw hat—I spotted a cardboard display board boldly emblazoned with this:

Think you have what it takes to represent Original Penguin worldwide?

We’re looking for real people to feature in our upcoming ad campaign. So impress us with your style. Overcome us with your wit.

Put on your sharpest outfit and send us a few snapshots.

You could win a 4-day/3night trip to New York City and be in the center of it all.

Followed by:

Be in our next photo shoot—with a large acid-green arrow pointing downward toward all the particulars of the contest…..

I deemed the hat unflattering, but thought…hummm about the contest, and decided to enter.

This is what I wrote:

Diana Vreeland was once quoted as saying: “There is nothing more vulgar than the imitation of youth!” As I approach fifty, I consider the statement more often than not when choosing what to wear. Can I still wear it now…even if I wore it when I was twenty? And with the aforementioned consideration, I’ve accessorized it with this: modern is different than youthful.

Thus, here I am, responding to your call for real people/models.

Why?

Because, although I suspect that I am not what you had in mind, I will say this: People are always telling me that they can’t believe I am in fact my age, and that I seem so much younger. Chalk some up to genetics and the remainder to my choice of clothes, my style: modern, yet timeless—which is why I buy and wear Penguin. Which is why, in my twenties living in NYC, I rummaged through the thrift stores in search of your label.

I’ve worn it for years.

I wore it when I was an emerging, albeit poor, fashion designer.

And I wear it as a successful art director.

So, after twenty-five years of featuring variations on Penguin, while standing at the register (of the L.A./Melrose store) making a few new spring/summer purchases, I gazed over at the cardboard-request for real people. After reading the request, I considered myself and then laughed. But then I glanced around the store and saw several other men, around my age—all in various stages of shopping, and thought hummm.

After I left, the proposition sat with me. It sat through meetings at work. It sat with me in traffic. And it especially sat with me through jury duty last week—a boring, mind-drifting succession of days.

Why?

Because I love seeing the grey-haired guy in the Banana Republic ads, or the women of all ages in the Dove campaign—which is also why I love Lauren Hutton and her balls-out attitude about age.

And, because, akin to the lack of advertising for modern-middle-agers—with lots of money to spend—there’s also a lack of dialogue about said demographic. So, throughout the past few years via my musings—column and blog—I’ve attempted to be the face of middle age. Suffice it to say, I’ve talked the talk.

But a picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words. So here I am: A real-person-middle-ager. And I wear Penguin.

I know it’s an unconventional proposition to consider someone 49, but take a look around…for the first time in our history, multiple generations are wearing the same thing…go figure?

And so, along with the above, I sent a few snaps and my stats.

Did they love the looks and hate the fifty-year-old player? Did they agree to thrust me proudly in front of the camera with fearless abandon, causing Diana Vreeland to smile from above? Can “Real People” reeeeallly Model?

Several days later, I got this:

We wanted to thank everyone who decided to participate in our contest! We were truly blown away by your debonair looks and style. It was a tough decision, but someone had to win.

Naturally I went to the website to see the winner, my competition. And the “real person” they chose—although adorable and hovering around 25—was also a real model complete with photos of himself on the runway.

So… there you have it: the march of the Real Middle-Aged Papa Penguin, who like his demographic, shall remain invisible. But at least I tried to walk the (cat) walk……

Call of Duty

Like dodging a bullet or avoiding the draft, 49 years managed to pass before my number was up. After a lifetime of avoidance, when the rigid official-looking document came in the mail, there was no getting around it, I’d used up every excuse possible, jury duty was inescapable.

As My awfully BIG adventures include anything virginal, since I’d never “served”, I figured I should attempt to chronicle something about the experience. But, as “they” have reiterated, over and over, we cannot discuss the case. So instead, I shall share my observations of a day-in-the-life of duty.

Said service began with sitting. Lots of sitting. This remained consistent and plentiful throughout the duration of my nearly two-week obligation. And if my ass could talk—farts aside—after sitting on a hard, cold terrazzo floor, a cement bench, an extremely jankety swivel office/jury chair (masked with the appearance of comfort by a thread-bare cushion), cement steps and row upon row of “connected” seating in the jury room, my ever-aging derriere would scream: FUCK OFF!

To avoid an accompanying numb brain, I realized early on that I needed a diversion. I chose to focus on fashion.  The most obvious was not a stream of shady characters dressed in atrocious ensembles, but an ongoing parade of practical women’s pumps—leaving the term “high” heel entirely out of the equation. Said parade brought thoughts of a (20-year-old) commercial where a (now retired) supermodel plays basketball with a gaggle of—I’m not kidding—nuns. The accompanying tagline = “Looks like a pump…feels like a sneaker”. To the aforementioned commercial as well as the bevy of “pumps”, comfort and practicality paramount, suffice it to say the footwear choices appearing each day successfully thickened the ankles and stunted the legs of every female attorney in the building.

To make matters worse, the unflattering footwear was more times than not, combined with an equally unflattering 27” skirt, an ill-fitting jacket marked by dreary tailoring details and each and every look finished off with a nude stocking.

Suffice it to say the women who work in this building—while attempting to be “professional women”—set their sex appeal back about 100 years.

My only respite from the parade of unsavory shoes was my daily jaunt in the elevators. Each day, quirky combinations of mankind would pile in for the one-floor-at-a-time ride up and down. This usually took about 15 minutes—allowing me to enjoy the combinations of people in conjunction with their fashion choices. (Too much to chronicle in this blog)

And sadly, since I cannot share the trial, its particulars, my vote, all I can say is this: if you poke at something relentlessly and from every angle, eventually a hole will appear. It’s called reasonable doubt. So after days of deliberating, I am still left wondering…

….was justice served?….along with Bad footwear?

“Come oooon..let’s take our picture together!” she blurted out, while grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the brightly lit scrim.

Normally I wouldn’t classify myself as camera shy, but I was dressed in what-can-I-find-in-ten-minutes-on-the-floor-in-my-office-that-would-be-appropriate-for-an-80’s-themed-work-related-party outfit.

I might have been less reluctant if I were visually representing a band member from A Flock of Seagulls or a cast member from Desperately Seeking Susan, but the best I could do was a graphic t-shirt (with neck cut away and sleeves rolled) and a hand-me-down mullet wig that was more redneck-with-a-pickup-and-a-rifle then my internally desired English band member.

 She’s a maniac…maniac I thought, and followed her onto the pumpkin colored roll of paper. If I couldn’t dress like Jennifer Beals (from Flashdance) at least I could be in the company of one of my favorite looks from the office turnout….as well as from the eighties.

And then, she..ummm…bumped it up a notch. 

“Stand behind me…like we’re taking a high school prom picture..and put your hands on my stomach! It’ll be really funny!”

Immediately I loved her a little more.

In case you didn’t notice in the photo, she is five months pregnant.

More of a maniac than I’d given her credit for, as I took my spot, like the uninformed, underage white trash father of an illegitimate child, I searched for my character.

 While imagining that my character spent his money on things like monster trucks and gun racks and chewing tobacco and beer—instead of condoms—for one brief moment, I considered my (actual) life in the eighties: the girl, our Barefoot In The Park apartment, my Duran Duran hair, my choices.

What if I’d chosen differently? If life had pulled me down a different path…into another picture?

Then the flashbulb popped and, I swear I felt the baby kick….

…mine would have been twenty-five.

The (what I thought was a) simple question  still begs….and perhaps there are NOT 100 things every gay man should do in his lifetime? I’m keeping the list up with the hopes of reaching my goal….and shall continue adding to it as things stream in…

….but at this point, it appears that I may have to write something different.

Still, any thoughts/additions to the Homo Bucket List are greatly appreciated. (see below/previous post)…

I wonder if she’ll notice, Kyle speculated, as he stared longingly at the cup of Coca-Cola.

The prospect of drinking the syrupy sweetness made him giddy. It made his heart beat faster and his teeth hurt. The glitch? His mother wouldn’t allow him to drink soda, nor would she allow any in her house.

 “No! It’s baad fer yew! It makes ya’ll jump about tew muuch!” his mother declared after another bout of begging in the soft drink isle at the A & P. A year had passed and that was that.

 With a quick assessment of his mother’s activity—still busy swapping gossip with her friend, another mother from the neighborhood—he judged the drink more seriously. This opportunity might not occur again for years, he thought, her voice dousing the notion from behind. 

“When I caan’t get the keeds to settul’ down”, she declared, ruling the conversation from behind the dark, protective armor of her sunglasses.

“I just keepum’ way frum suga’. Bout’ the only thang’ werse then a buncha keeds hopped up on suga’, is a buncha keeds hopped up on TeeVe!…Lifesavas’ bout’ the most I letum haaave. Betta’ that way.”

 Only on special events like birthday parties or the occasional summer picnic, would she allow her children sugary drinks. On such occasions, she chose cherry Kool Aid for its festive color and the ability to override the suggested recipe—lessening the formula from two cups of sugar to only a half.

All other times called for milk and her usual sermon. “It’s forr yer’ own goud! When I’m gowne’, and ya’ll still have awl yerr teeth, yu’ll thaank me!”

 While Kyle contemplated the covert digestion of the abandoned Coke, of defying his mother’s rules, he considered her warnings, their meaning and then his teeth. Like the now forbidden theatrical productions he would stage with his sister’s Barbies’, or the forced weekly delivery to little league practice, was soda the same? Would he be ruining his future, killing all his chances for playmates, other boys his age? Would his future turn rotten if he drank the soda? 

 “Just a spoon full of sugar.” What about that? he thought. What about Mary Poppins? He’d tried that angle once during a family evening of, what his mother liked to call, ”quality time”: a meal, enforcing all family members be present and participatory.

“Areya’ sick?” she shot back. “If yew kids need medicine, yu’ll have it like the docta’ seys. Plaain n’ simple!”

He wished his mother would be more like Mary Poppins. He wished she gave him hugs and spoonfuls of sugar.

 Everyone was busy milling about the fairground—eating hotdogs and fried foods and washing it down with soda. Who’d notice if he drank the Coke?

 He thought of his favorite Coke commercial, of all the people holding hands to make a chain across the grassy hilltop. I’d like to teach the world to sing…in perfect harmony.

Why can’t I have perfect harmony? He wondered what that meant. Maybe holding hands or having a Coke?

 Still suffering her wrath from his last act of freedom, Kyle evaluated the consequences of getting caught, weighing them against the satisfaction of the sugary liquid as it entered his body, his brain—charging it with a fizzy bump of carbonation.

Only days before, he’d been caught dressed in the contents of his mother’s closet, another forbidden desire craving thirst. But like the pearls he’d chosen to accompany the dress, at first they made him feel pretty. Like sprinkles on a cupcake, they added a touch of sweetness. But with one swift whack, the strand leapt from his body and flew across the bedroom floor like a frantic game of marbles. The sweetness was gone. His mother had not touched him since.

 He could see the heat from the red metal tabletop scorching the base of the cup, softening the waxy coating on its exterior. Beads of water had formed a perspiration on the walls of the cup, making the red and white stripes seem as if it had rained on the circus. One by one, propelled by the icy chunks inside, they had begun dripping down the sides, creating a watery mote at its base.

If I move the cup, she’ll know. It’ll leave a ring on the table he concluded and gave up the prospect, the infusion of sugar.  

 As a man, Kyle’s disdain for sugary soft drinks—especially Coke—became the perfect compliment to his lack of affection, his aversion for affectionate men. On the rare occasions he engaged intimately with other men, the exchange always made him perspire like a soda left out in the sun. Everyone mistook it for passion—wanting, even more, to drink him in. Yet inside, hidden below his waxy exterior, he was rotten from neglect.

“You have such beautiful teeth!” they’d often remark—admiring his pearly whites against the starched bed sheet. “How do you keep them so white?”

“Lifesavers.” 

(Kvel) — to be delighted; beam with pride

 “Bruce! Hold still! Stop fidgeting…or I won’t be able to get the knot straight!”

Huh…tying a straight knot. Now there’s a concept, Bruce thinks to himself while staring at Anthony’s boutonnière of carnations.

 In three hours, Bruce would be getting married. Married to a woman; another closeted military officer named Jhayne. Bruce and Jhayne had only one reason to marry, to tie the knot: protecting their careers from the hateful bigotry of the military. And like Bruce, Jhayne also had a secret lover. But following the ceremony, from that day forward, to have and to hold they would marry together their secrets: their covert love and their mutual gayness.   

 **************************

 While Anthony continues pulling and tightening, Bruce imagines himself married, living in one of those cramped houses on the base. The stark walls all painted the color of pancake batter and shiny with harshness from the caged, exposed light bulbs that flanked every room. His new love-nest would be a stark contrast to Anthony’s cozy Craftsman bungalow. Everything would remain regulation, by the book, uniform in its presentation…or at least appear that way. As Bruce saw it, military life had no room for humanity, individuality. No room for unconventional, for gays. For him to advance, Anthony would have to stay hidden. 

 ************************** 

 Four years earlier, when Bruce was barely nineteen and Anthony a few months shy of thirty-three, they locked eyes one Sunday afternoon while sunning in the nudist section of San Diego’s Black’s Beach. As they swapped flirty glances, overhead the hang gliders and remote control air planes gave a mechanical touch to the otherwise unmarked southern California landscape. Akin to the powerful undercurrent of the Pacific, Anthony seemed to possess a natural gravitation that pulled Bruce toward him that day.

Desperate for connection, while on weekend furlough, Bruce opted for the nudist beach after overhearing stories about gay sex near the base of the massive, rocky, sandstone cliffs. While he surveyed the array of naked bodies dotting the beach that afternoon, although unclothed, until he spotted Anthony, Bruce lay swathed in anxiety. Ever since that first beach encounter and throughout the past four years—even while adjusting his tie—Anthony had continued to make Bruce feel safe. Bruce loved that Anthony was taller, older and cocky with life-experience. He loved the fatherly attention and their clandestine weekend gatherings. But most of all he loved their nicknames. They gave his life a certain intimacy that could never be expressed on the base. Knowing this, Anthony continued calling him “Peaches”—for his creamy Irish skin and the tufts of carroty fuzz that gave his butt a silky allure. And, in turn, Bruce christened and continued to address Anthony as “Herb”, because of the opulent flower garden around his bungalow—which was covertly laced with marijuana.

 ***************************

 “But…when the Chaplain asks…and..and…I…I..I” Another knot forms at Bruce’s throat. 

“Look at me” Anthony tenderly coaxes.

Bruce continues focusing on the boutonnière of carnations.

“Peaches?…Can you feel my touch?”

Speechless, Bruce nods, comforted by the tension around his newly tightened collar.

“When you’re up there, when the Chaplain says to have and to hold, I want you to remember these hands. They will be here for you always. From this day forward.” Anthony kisses Bruce’s forehead.

“Today is just a formality.”  

 Bruce cannot look up. If he does, he knows he will cry. Instead, he remains focused on the cluster of white carnations. They look so fake, he thinks, reminding him of occasions when pomp is required: his high school prom or those arrangements from the hospital gift shop for people who are dying. Inside, he feels as if he too is dying. Outside he feels fake, like the carnations. The adjustment in his life—for his job, his country—will never feel as satisfying as Anthony’s touch.

“Herb?”

“Um hum?”

“Will you still love me?….in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, in sadness and in joy…as long as we’re both alive?”


“ Yes Peaches. But don’t tell…it’ll be our little secret.”

“Even if I’m married?”

“Especially because you’re married.”

Bruce leans in, burying his nose into the mount of flowers on Anthony’s lapel.

From that day forward, he would never question the look of true love….

….and forever kveil over carnations.

 Nine years later Bruce became a Colonel. Jhayne brought carnations to the ceremony..along with Anthony.    

As his father snaps a picture of the giggling, elevated baby, pretending to care, Nichols forces a smile. With considerable discontent, he surveys the gaggle of fawning females.

What’s the big deal? It’s just a dumb ol’ baby he thinks, digging his thumbs into the pockets of his Wrangler chinos. I might as well be invisible!

Truth-be-told…it was a big deal. After six years of trying—resulting in two younger sisters—his mother’s wish had finally come true: she’d produced another son. Weighing in at ten pounds six ounces and bearing the name Perry, the latest addition to the McGean family had arrived four months earlier—marking the end of Nichols’ eight-year run as the sole male offspring.

With eight years, three months and sixteen days of experience under his favorite whip-stitched Navaho belt, along with the arrival of the new baby, Nichols had become aware of the significance of competition, of being passed over for someone younger. And, as he had come to discover after several months into third grade, boys could be ruthless in their pursuit of popularity—especially during murder-ball on the blacktop at recess. But at home, until the arrival of Perry, Nichols had held the elite position of sole son, only boy. The privileged rank afforded him the upper hand when vying for attention. He could tell a stupid joke and everybody would laugh, or wear mismatched outfits and everyone would still shower him with compliments. And, at will, he could get any of the family adults to kiss him and buy him whatever he wished for. At eight, the world as Nichols saw it, was his for the taking. And then Perry arrived.

Finding his place in the scheme of things, his footing with the other boys his age had been tricky enough. But Nichols was not prepared to combat what came with the new baby: the allure of youth, of being passed over for a younger male.

“Look Agnes, the baby has my hair color”, his mother boasts, lifting the cooing infant above her head. “Finally!….A brunette in the family!”

Nichols gazes down at the flaxen fuzz on his forearm, then to his bare feet and finally his shadowed silhouette sprawled across the leaf-marked yard. He feels gawky and old, overlooked—like the paper-machete flowers in the school play, like the ancient tree in the yard. 

 “Well he certainly is going to be a heartthrob”, Aunt Agnes adds. “Just look at those dimples!”

Feeling a tickle on his bare foot, Nichols looks down to find a swarm of ants carting a dropped piece of fried chicken in the direction of the picnic table. Having a younger boy around…it’s like murder-ball, he thinks. Take or be taken, eat or be eaten, stay young or be forgotten.

From that day forward, Nichols would always crave the attributes of youth, of younger boys….

….and never again eat fried chicken.

While they posed for the picture, Robert John Thomas and Woody “the Woodman” Davis had other things on their minds’. Secret things they hoped to share in private. Boy things they thought Elaine would never comprehend. But it was 1977—the eve before the commencement of her 52nd year. And, if Elaine stuck to her plan, she hoped it would be a different, more enlightened year. Ever since the Cosmopolitan magazine article, she’d decided to buck the traditions of her existence and follow Helen Gurley Brown’s advise.

Red, pink and orange had all been the new black, the mini skirt had morphed to the maxi, and according to Cosmo, fifty had been declared the new forty. Now able to view her upcoming birthday as the “new” forty-two, this afforded Elaine a relaxed outlook: she could picture her life in a more leisurely fashion. This included making the time for photographs.

***************************

“Don’t be in such a hurry” Elaine insisted—mentally recalling the recent Cosmo article, aptly titled: Surprise: Guys Do Like It Slow. Dragging them from the dark corner of the dining room, she thrust the pair into the harsh lighting of her kitchen.

“Now move back against the stove, and stand still…so I can take your God dam picture!”

Following Elaine’s directions, “the Boys” (as Elaine had begun calling them) each took a gulp of their drinks then huddled together—careful not to let fingers wander into regions that might evoke their concealed, randy desires. But Robert couldn’t help himself.

While Elaine searched for the ideal location to snap the pair, Robert’s fidgety digits roamed the plains of Woody’s left ass-cheek. Too polite to ruin the photo, Woody did his best to disregard the probing. He considered the infringement of Robert’s fingers, then of Elaine’s request to slow down. But the outcome of Robert’s caress was creating a Woody squared situation.

“ S-t-o-p it!” he hissed through stretched lips while continuing to hold his forced, beaming smile. “You’re giving me a boner!”

“What was that?’ Elaine demanded from across the linoleum floor.

“Nothing” replied Robert, taking another gulp of his sea-breeze. “Woody is just being a hard-ass!” He then took another squeeze of Woody’s plump derriere, and smiled back at Elaine.

Click, then the pop of the camera flash.

“Ya know….I can see your erection”, Elaine announced, as she snapped another photo—the flash causing a sheen to appear on their faces. Woody’s face and body burned with a combination of lust and embarrassment.

“What is it with boys? You’re always up to something….always looking to get laid! Relax..enjoy the party…stop focusing on sex so much!”

***************************

All at once, several elements of hardness occurred: Woody’s hard-wood, Robert’s hard-grip and Elaine’s hard-line. Each had a point. 

Woody wondered what things would be like with Robert if he thought with his head before his hand. Robert considered a different way of knocking Wood. And Elaine wondered which head would triumph? That night—unbeknownst to “the boys”—they all celebrated something new. At midnight, while Elaine blew out the fifty-two candles on her cake, she made a wish. Then she blew new life into old habits.

**************************

A year later, at her fifty-third birthday party, Elaine surveyed the walls of the SoHo gallery. Her observations had become art, citron the new black and the Camero the must-have car of the year. Then, through the artsy crowd of New Yorkers, once again huddled together and smiling, she saw “the boys”. Her wish had set a new trend: Robert and Woody tried it before they knocked it.

And becoming friends first…..

….became the new gay.    

…..beveling his foot from side to side in the mirror, Jeffery contemplated his footwear choice—a white driving shoe in March. He considered their inclination to scuffs and their pristine allure. He considered the no white after Labor Day rule and then all the other rules that he’d accumulated throughout the course of his 48 years. And then he recalled that first white pair.

                                  ********************************************************* 

Back then life was so uncomplicated, he thought while removing the loafers from his feet with a heel-toe crunch and kicking them back onto the heap in his closet. At five his mother made choosing effortless: there was always vanilla and chocolate pudding. And she only bought him white shoes.

Jeffery loved his white shoes. They gave him a reason to avoid the dirty yard and play in his mother’s jewelry box instead. They matched everything in his closet, his life.

They were perfect. 

And then the oatmeal wall-to-wall carpet came.

“Mama…Mama! I can’t see my feet!” he shrieked, after stepping into the living room—his feet and ankles lost in the colorless carpet. 

“Oh Jeffery settle down!” she said, scooping him up and plunking him atop the coffee table.

“Just because you blend in, doesn’t mean you can’t be special!”

And she went back to the kitchen, back to making pudding.

He sat on the coffee table relieved to see the white shoes dangling above the carpet.

How would he walk? What could he do to stand out?

And then she returned. A bowl of pudding—half vanilla, half chocolate—in one hand, a navy sofa pillow in the other. Once she’d propped the pillow below his feet, his mother pulled her instamatic from inside the console. No more worries, no more choices, only direction.

“Smile Jeffery” she coaxed.

And then a flash.

                                           **********************************************

    Retrieving the loafers from the pile of footwear, Jeffery jimmied them back onto his bare feet—the gnarled digits disappearing inside the supple suede like bandaged wax beans. When he looked back to the mirror, a bit of innocence had returned to his face, his footing.

Uncertain times were ahead. Complicated times filled with decisions. 

That night he made pudding…..

….and he chose a flavor. 

Life happens.

Unprepared, (even during middle age) it can stop you in your tracks—resulting in lifeless fingers and a mute psyche.

Untouchable—playing everyone but you—ambiguity rules.

Then..life inevitably happens again.

First with a drip that turns to rain—eventually the haze lifts.

Clarity returns.

Changed, more knowledgeable, you begin again.

Word by word, the pixilated smog from your blogmosphere….

…..becomes a man.