American Idolatry
American Idol is not a program I actively watch, although I am as up to date about the goings on because this country has already been invaded by something far more consuming than avian flu- Idol Mania!
I decided to tune into the last fifteen minutes of the finale, in which either Taylor Hicks or Katherine McPhee will win. Though I have contended that American Idol is akin to karaoke at its best, once they pick a winner, the hard part is over and that is the best standpoint with which to launch the winner. No one knows what you have to say, only that you know how to sing… it is the Reverso-Ashlee Simpson.
I imagined that Taylor Hicks sung Frank Sinatra and songs from the Soundtrack to Aladdin on FOX, but secretly harbored a passion for death metal. Katherine McPhee would be concealing a penchant for Depression Era radio jingles. Which is why if the person who wins, or the one who is more popular, did a total 180 when laying down their first album on wax, it would be the worlds most perfect switcheroo. It would be a bigger ripple in American pop culture than Milli Vanilli to the fourth power!
Taylor Hicks was the early favorite and surprised no one by winning. The vested emotion of a borderline manic population cheered as Hicks was crowned, while a collective sigh and knowing look radiated through the crowd in Katherine’s camp. 63.4 million votes were tallied for American Idol, more than any presidential election tally in history. Our culture is so plugged into Idol, that even by not watching it, details are embedded. American Idol is so permeable that it borders on Kim Jong Il. And tomorrow, around the watercooler and in the halls of schools across the country, we will have something to talk about and Taylor Hicks will do exactly what is expected of him, even though we already know how it will sound.
Mom's Day
My mom loves to be outdoors. She is the type of woman for whom getting the Sunday Times is a good excuse to walk a couple extra blocks and maybe get a soft served ice cream in the spring. When she was a girl growing up in Philadelphia, people would just sit outside their house on a warm summer night and connect with the neighborhood. Even though it was a tad weird, my mom would grab her knitting and a book and plant herself outside our building in New York on an ancient folding lawn chair. Sometimes I used to sit on the radiator and peep out the window to make sure she was still down there on the sidewalk reading, and not fending off some viscous poodle or crotchety neighbor.
Yet in the last several years, my mom has also connected with the outdoors in a more spiritual sense, hiking all over the world from Machu Pichu to Tibet and the jungles of the Amazon. I am not surprised by her gusto- this is the same woman who in Zermatt, Switzerland organized a group to walk down from the top of the mountain back to the village, a four hour ordeal. My dad and I took the train and then went to a toy store.
So for mothers day, while I know she needs a new backpack for day trips, I decided on getting her something a bit more conscious, in a way. Every year, the average American is responsible for about 18 tons of carbon emissions- through purchasing products trucked into the city, to riding in cars and other mass transit, to operating goods, to using lightbulbs. This carbon output has an adverse affect on our increasingly fragile environment and after reading an article in Time magazine, I knew a good gift for her this year.
I bought my mom a years worth of carbon output neutralization, meaning that a company called CarbonFund.org will donate resources, or plant trees or participate in advocacy which, for a set fee, will thereby nullify the carbon output of one person for a set amount of time. So for a year my mom will have no negative impact on the environment whether she is sitting outside our apartment or hiking in the swamp of a third world country. While my mom just returned from the Copper Canyon in Mexico, it was more then just pictures and some hand-woven baskets that she came back with. I want to make sure that the environment my mother has been having all of these magazine experiences in, is around for a long time so the atmospheric conditions wont limit her adventures.
Esquire Man
Though it was warm yesterday, I decided to go ahead with my initial feeling and wear my cashmere sportcoat. Not merely a blazer, this jacket was made of Loro Piana cashmere and fashioned specifically for Hugo Boss sold only at Barneys New York. It is a truly original piece of natty attire and certainly of the highest quality. I thought pairing it with my silk/linen/cotton buttermilk colored trousers and a deep brown French cuffed shirt with pink and purple stripes would make a fine mark on the judges of Esquire’s Best Dressed Man contest. A vintage brown pocket square from my father’s collection rounded out my ensemble of textures, fabrics and patterns.
Arriving at Macy’s Herald Square, I knew my outfit was out of the ordinary, especially given that my cherubic face belies my actual age. And besides, most people who wear yellow hued pants usually drive Cadillac’s that resemble a bag of skittles. Walking into the men’s department on 2, I was taken aback by the many degrees of gentlemen waiting patiently in line for the esteemed honor of being a best dressed man. Surely many of these contenders were the best dressed in their office environment, and many had the type of well cut, side vented suits that make a man feel like his potential is limitless. There were some aberrations; flip flops, shorts, seersucker pants without any discernible care for the right pant length but I did feel like I was in the company of many a boardroom leader. But that is the fallacy of fine dressing, there were electricians, senior VP’s of finance, corrections officers, a younger fellow who works with Kofi Annan (himself an urbane and impeccable dresser) and myself, still in buttermilk pants.
In the queue, side glances were exchanged and ties straightened. Though it was roughly 80 degrees inside and many cocktail napkins were used to blot foreheads and necks, the only true conflict was an internal one, in which men debated if they had picked the right shirt to wear that evening.
The concept of dressing well, I believe, extends to what a gentleman considers the ideal of chivalry, good taste, refinement and elegance. A beautiful suit is high fashion, but cannot immediately give style to someone who does not know how to get it tailored, or has slovenly mannerisms. Fashion and style are not mutually exclusive and many believe that wearing D&G equates them with the suave sophistication of Domenico and Stefano when this is certainly not the case. Dressing well, merely for ones own pleasure, is parallel to being on time for a date, to opening doors for a lady and to know which fork to use during the appetizer and which to use at the entrée. It also means that a man knows not to order chili in public under any circumstances.
When it was my turn, I calmly strolled up to the microphone and addressed the panel of judges, comprised of Esquire staff and a style correspondent from Access Hollywood. My name, age, occupation and style (which I deemed “comfortable dandy”) was rapid fired and I could tell that the publisher of Esquire had already made up his mind as his eyes were focused on the page in front of him. I decided to go with a memorable quip, citing my fathers advice to listed to “NPR”. While this did not mean tuning in to All Things Considered, it actually meant “Never Pay Retail”. This caused a laugh and light applause but I was not picked to be a finalist. Out of the 130 men who entered, one dashing soap opera-esque gentleman was a clear winner however the bigger picture of why it is important to look your best and that dressing well communicates so much about who the man is and who he wants to be was the most important exclamation point on the entire affair.
It is important to hold fast to the essence of what makes a gentleman who he is and within that very essence is the very means to carry on a life of dignity, grace and class. This is achieved no matter what the shade of pants, from buttermilk to brown and all hues in between.
