LOSING IT

I used to dress well. I had a look. Clean, conservative, but with splashy accessories. 

What happened? Should I blame Vancouver? The city is not known for fashion. Plaid is always in style. People dress for hiking even when headed to work or dinner. 

No, it can’t be Vancouver’s fault. I never bought into the outdoorsy look. I can’t fake it as a hiker. I don’t like mud. Hiking boots are too bulky. And I still don’t know if I’m supposed make some noise or play dead if I stumble upon a bear. 

So then my rural home setting of the past six years must be a factor in my fashion slide. Last weekend I went on another quest for the latest issue of GQ. The guy at the gas station stared back blankly. Seems I was spouting random letters. GQ, SB, LMNOP. I didn’t even bother to ask at the drug store. I’m still peeved that they only get a shipment of Entertainment Weekly every other week. Read the cover—it’s not Entertainment Biweekly! 

But I digress. Must stop scratching old wounds. I suppose local retailers are just being practical. Retirees and mill workers aren’t seeking out an article about “how to brave the cold in style”. The John Deere cap and hockey jersey are all-season wear. 

Fashion has no place here. Case in point. On Saturday, I saw two people nonchalantly walk into cafés in town wearing flannel pajama bottoms. Where’s the sign?! No real pants, no service. I will never step foot in Mark’s Wearhouse, the only men’s clothing retailer, but I am guessing they had a 50% off sale of loungewear. Irresistible, eh? Why not wait for bedtime? But no. 

I am certain that the blue collar, multi-paint-stained jean look has not influenced my wardrobe. Basically, my fall from fashion can be attributed to shingles and logs. As a homeowner, anything I had in savings—and then some—rests on the new roof that I have to climb up a hill to even see. Okay, it’s not just the roof. There’s the new flooring, new lighting, new ceilings, new heating, new drywall, new paint. The NEW IMPROVED house is most impressive…even if my dog fails to comment. The “For Sale” sign still isn’t on the front lawn as more fix-ups arise. Sadly, I won’t recoup any of the expenditures. I’m just trying to minimize my losses. 

And then there are the logs. I’ve walked by them countless times and they never seem to notice my $120 designer hoodie, my Michael Kors jeans and my perfectly matched belt, socks and shoes. Those damn logs just sit there like, well, logs. 

I can’t think of anyone or anything else to try to impress. 

Here’s the hard truth—oh, I can’t believe I am saying this: Fashion doesn’t matter. Not here, not now. 

Maybe I really have hit rock bottom! At work today, I dressed up. I reached into the back of my closet and pulled out a classic suit. I found the shirt and tie I’d bought specifically for the suit. I polished my shoes and put on my ultrasoft olive Hugo Boss topcoat. And the kids loved it! Especially the coat. 

“I like your cape,” one of them said. Sigh. He meant well. 

Another commented, “You look like a mystery solver.” Yes, she likened me to Sherlock Holmes, that incredibly popular fictional dude from the nineteenth century. Not sure how to take that. 

I’m weeding my collection, bidding sad adieus to Armani sweaters that belong on “The Cosby Show” and faded Ralph Lauren dress shirts and frayed Hilfiger slacks. 

I am sure there are designers and styles to replace my old favorites, but I would need to consult a current issue of GQ. Something tells me I’m not going to learn the right things watching “The Big Bang Theory.” 

If I ever do move, here’s hoping I can regain some fashion flair. I fear that beer tees, knee-high black socks and Dockers khaki shorts are hovering above, ready to swoop down and curse me for life in fashion hell. Makes me want to don my ripped, balsamic-vinegar-stained, too short pajama bottoms and curl up in bed. 

Damn, I need new sheets too.

TAKING ISSUE

I first learned of the area where I live after reading a newspaper article many years ago. As prices for a home rose, the writer explored places outside of Vancouver to see if she could find other “livable” communities in British Columbia. She had a checklist to ensure she wouldn’t give up some of the simple pleasures she found in the city. Things like finding Thai food and being able to pick up the latest issue of a particular magazine—The Atlantic or The New Yorker, I don’t exactly remember.

I should have paid more attention. I should have made my own checklist.

Facing (another) Saturday night with nothing to do—alas, the hockey playoffs are down to two teams I don’t care about—I drove into town to rent a flick. Almost buried in New Releases amongst the multiple copies of Saw VI and Transformers was a single copy of The September Issue. (Tangent: Ever notice how the New Releases section stretches the meaning of “new”?) I wiped off the thin film of dust on the top edge of the clear plastic cover and checked out the documentary on Prada “devil” Anna Wintour and the process of making Vogue’s most anticipated issue of the year.

Earlier in the day, I’d envied a friend in Toronto who was off to see the new Sex in the City movie on its opening weekend. Alas, that blasted green ogre continues to take up the only two movie screens that I can drive to. But now I had my own fashion film. Thirty minutes in, I could hardly contain myself. I pressed pause and headed back into town. This would be Fashion Night! Despite living where it doesn’t matter, I had the urge to peruse the latest summer and fall collections for men. I scanned the shelves of London Drugs. Alas. Men’s magazines have taken a downward turn. Three publications were shrouded in black plastic wrapping. Esquire had a voluptuous woman yanking down the top of her black dress dangerously close to the nipple zone and the other men’s magazines dealt with cars and stocks and hockey. Nothing even hinted at fashion. (This time of year, hockey is more fashion challenged than ever as scraggly beards complement those damn mullets.)

Where was my GQ? I searched the display racks three times and surveyed the tabloid section by the checkout. Wait…Dennis Hopper did drugs?!

Gee, no GQ. What’s with this town’s aversion to the letter Q? No GQ, no DQ. (Tangent: I struggle with an addiction to Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzards. And the Oreo Mint ones. And…)

I felt another tirade coming whereby I rant against this deceptively pretty Hell Hole and John Mellencamp, he of that taunting “Small Town” song, the only line I ever remember being, “I’ll probably die in the same small town.” Fortunately, a Starbucks decaf—God knows I didn’t need caffeine in my state!—calmed me. I must have looked particularly pathetic as the barista said it was on the house.

I found the apparently elusive magazine at the gas station. I’ll admit I was embarrassed to take it to the counter. More scandalous than Esquire! Some Aussie “supermodel” stared seductively on the cover, anxious to peel off her teeny white bra. What would the clerk think?

No, I am NOT a perverted old man who hasn’t figured out where to find internet porn! I’m just a gay man, desperate to see if suspenders are coming back. And those silky disco shirts!

Turned out to be complete waste of money. GQ was that magazine I subscribed to in high school with a new impossibly chiseled model’s face gracing the cover each month and tips about the correct way to apply cologne and fold a pocket square. Sadly, the current issue has busy, garish ads with race car drivers, a floozy pushing Curve Fragrances and a Gillette one-pager without the customary male model posing shirtless at the sink. There was a shot of an overweight shirtless man barfing in a garbage can, photos of lions and moose having sex and some Playboy-inspired comics of politicians like Alexander Hamilton having sex.

It was yet another near bust of a Saturday night. Thank God I had another hour of The September Issue to browse. And, yes, Madonna—on cassette!—to pay tribute to a fashion magazine with the wisdom to stick to the runway.

CATALOG SHOPPING

I remember being excited as a boy when the Sears catalog arrived. Sure, it had some cool toys to add to my birthday/Christmas wish list—ooh, Lite-Brite!—, but the main attraction was the pages of women in bras. The section didn’t arouse me as it might have for most boys, but it appealed to my sparkly mind. Who were these women, letting themselves be photographed before they put their blouses (or muumuus) on? Why were they all smiling? Where was the embarrassment? How did Sears get away with this year after year? Didn’t they know children would be taking peeks?

Yeah, it doesn’t seem like much now, but I was a young, sheltered kid and this was pre-Britney, pre-Madonna, even pre-Farrah poster. Once I got over the initial shock in seeing the lingerie spread, I’d look at the women and decide which was the prettiest.

In my teens, I subscribed to GQ. That was before they had movie star actors or naked Rihannas on the cover. (At the airport this week, I was too embarrassed to buy the Rihanna issue. Felt more like an issue of Maxim or Penthouse.) Back then, GQ was all about fashion, male models with incredibly chiseled faces mocking my pimply complexion and my desire to generate something more than a snicker when I ran out and bought an Izod or a pair of Jordache jeans. (Gosh, what's the male vocal equivalent to Janis Ian's "At Seventeen"?)

I think it was my GQ subscription that led to my receiving the International Male catalog in the mail on a regular basis. Goodbye, Sears! I had pages and pages of tanned, buff male models with no body hair sporting brightly colored underwear. If there were boxers, I don’t recall them. It was all about the briefs. Again, it led to same old routine, ogling the pictures and deciding who was the prettiest.

I was reminded of this catalog shopping ritual yesterday as I browsed portfolios of men seeking men on PlentyOfFish.com. I have tried a couple of other sites like Manhunt and Gay.com, but they seemed particularly sleazy, with so many guys choosing to post penis pics. When it comes down to just dating a penis, I think I’ll have hit rock bottom. Not there yet, thank goodness. PlentyOfFish, by contrast, has always seemed more reputable with most of the guys claiming to be looking for something more than a quickie. But things seem to be slowly evolving. More and more men are posting photos of themselves with their shirts off. It’s still tame compared to the other sites, even more modest than International Male, but it still feels wrong.

Shirtless or shirted, there are so many profiles to peruse. It’s a shallow way to look for a boyfriend, but I suppose it’s no worse than cruising in a gay bar. As I still live in a rural area, I don’t have a lot of choices. I can’t join a gay running group or a gay tennis league or even go see “A Single Man” in a theater (not when Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel is playing). Fishing is the only option. And I must confess that I get sucked in to gazing at the shirtless guys. Can I blame Sears for creating this shopping ritual? The whole thing does feel like catalog shopping.

Something tells me I need to update my photos.