WHAT IS "OLD"?

Those of us who have lived at least a few decades see how fluid the terms young and old can be.

 

MUST be. 

 

When I first came out—finally—at twenty-four and started going to gay bars in West Hollywood, an especially brutal place for being judged based on looks, I remember thinking forty was so old. When I dated I guy who was thirty, I wondered if our age gap was too great. 

 

Thirty or even forty as something considered older…it feels embarrassingly stupid now. It also reminds me of needy guys on Twitter, announcing it’s their thirty-fourth birthday and saying they’re old just so those of us who are older will say, “Thirty-four’s nothing. You’re so young.”

 

Yeah, I don’t do that. If a thirty-four-year-old wants to feel old—genuinely or falsely—that’s his shit to live with. I remember thirty-four. It felt like the perfect age.

 

But now I’m sixty. My hands did not shake as I typed that, but I’ll admit to pausing after the period. 

 

Holy #%&!

 

SIXTY! So old.

 

But old in terms of being sixty feels like the word fag. I’m allowed to use it for myself but, hell no, it’s not okay for other people, i.e., younger people, to attach old to my age. That’s when I get defensive, even annoyed. Sixty is nothing. Or, at least, it’s definitely not old.

 

Yes, hair-obsessed...

I got my back up last night as I watched the first episode of Season 9 of Queer Eye, set in Las Vegas. The woman being made over was a sixty-three-year-old former Vegas showgirl. It wasn’t an especially memorable episode aside from the fact I was obsessed with the new guy’s hair—the highlights, the length, the styling. (New guy is Jeremiah Brent, replacing Bobby Berk as the interior designer.) I did, however, become too aware of how much the show set the showgirl up as being old.

 

Not knitting (or collecting)
doilies yet!

A grandma.

Living in the past, living only for her children and grandkids.

No new goals.

Let herself go.

Gray hair is bad.

 

Yes, it’s in the show’s interest to portray the poor woman as dour and dowdy in the beginning. This is a makeover show and a radical transformation is key to an episode’s success. Let her reveal come with a string of exclamation marks. Let the viewer say, “Oh, my god, she looks so good…for sixty-three.” Yeah, I added on that qualifier. As if sixty-three is old. 

 

I don’t know what I think is old anymore. I just know it’s not sixty. I won’t allow myself to think that. I certainly am not going with sixty-three, counting down the days before OLD walks into my home and takes over. Hello, knee-high socks and gaudy golf outfit, polo shirt tucked into plaid pants, Buddha belly as prominently on display as unkempt eyebrows and strands of ear hair.

 

Yeesh. Let that version of old be held at bay for a lifetime.

 

I cringed every time Tan, Jonathan, Karamo, Antoni and The Hair Guy said old or older. They made sixty-three something to dread…unless it came with a team that redesigned your entire home, kinda sorta showed you how to make a red pepper dip (Oh, Antoni) and arranged for a last hurrah on a Vegas stage. It’s worth noting that the QE crew is experiencing its own age creep with all but Jonathan now in their forties. (Still, so young now in my books!) From my perspective, the nineteen years between Karamo and the showgirl weren’t so great.

 

“Age is just a number” may be a cliché but, now that I’m seemingly aging more than when I was twenty-something, it does feel true. Let sixty be the new forty. Heck, honestly I’d say I feel not a day over thirty-seven. And immediately after typing that, I sense that I need to defend it. I still work out six days a week. My runs, as an example, are always eleven kilometers (or occasionally more) and I run them as fast as I did thirty years ago. I seem to spin all day, a flurry of activities. That Tasmanian devil critter’s got nothing on me.  

 

Somewhere (way) down the line, I’ll embrace the word old, but it’s a firm no thank you for now. I’m not going to let that mindset in. Let me continue to ascend and descend stairs, skipping every other step. Let me listen to podcasts or, okay, audiobooks. Let me sing-mumble that “Tipsy” song, even if it’s from my home office desk and not an actual bar. (Oh, the noise!) So maybe I’m not exactly young. I’ll concede that. I have no interest in spending a second of my day on TikTok. But I’m not going shopping for knee-high socks this decade either. 

 

Youngish. That sounds all right. Oldish? Nope. Don’t rush me, thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

 

IT'S OKAY IF YOUR SOFA ISN'T GAY

I’m not rushing to IKEA. I have a generalized liking of the company because it’s Swedish and all things Swedish make me smile. As well, one of their commercials always amuses me and I regularly use its catchphrase, much to the puzzlement of my friends. Still, my days of shopping for some-assembly-required furniture are in the past for several reasons. I once put together an IKEA armoire that did a spot-on Leaning Tower of Pisa impression. I don’t wish to park my car in the far reaches of the parking lot which may technically have me across the U.S. border, if not Mexico. And I don’t want to carry around one of those ridiculously large yellow or blue shopping bags that whisper nonstop, “Fill me.”

Not even a gay sofa will lure me. 

 

If that’s your thing and it goes with your décor or serves as the inspiration for a redecorating project, go for it. I don’t have any objection to an LGBTQ sofa in any of its news-making incarnations. I just don’t have the need for one. My charcoal-colored sofa is comfy enough, even if the accessorizing pillows are looking a little dated.

 

When I consider building up The Pride Inside, I’m thinking about within my mind and soul, not my living room. I’m not sure that any item in my entire apartment screams gay, but I’m okay with that. Trying to make a statement with a gay shower curtain or nightstand or spatula would be much ado about nothing. I already know I’m gay. My gay spatula isn’t going to out me or showcase how important queerness is as part of my identity. I don’t cook that often and, if someone came over, we’d definitely be ordering takeout. Call it a hunch, but my not-so-famous soggy nachos and overcooked fettuccini with vodka-infused Prego sauce are for my taste buds only. 

 

I don't know...If this sofa were really 

gay, I think it would be tastefully edited.

Too garish.

Truthfully, no one would even chance upon my gay spatula while rummaging through my kitchen drawers as I head down to the lobby to pick up the aloo gobi and channa masala from the DoorDash guy. (This is my made-up scenario. I’ll order what I want and the fictional guest will happily go along with it. Mmm, aloo gobi! Whatever that is.) I’ve had no one over in the past year. I could say that it’s on account of COVID so it doesn’t sound so sad but, truthfully, I’ve never been keen on hosting. In my five years in my prior home, I didn’t have a single party…not a dinner for four and most certainly not some raver celebration that gets shut down by the police. I don’t even have a dining room or a table. If IKEA comes out with gay dining room tables…Nah. Still not a statement. I’m not going to suddenly say to the barista who only knows me as 20-ounce Oat Milk Latte, “Hey, want to come over and watch Netflix when your shift’s over? I have a brand-new dining table. It’s gay, by the way.” 

 

I confess, I was just looking

for a strictly professional

reason to do a Google Image

search of Nate. 

Can you blame me?  

Sure, some boyfriends saw my last place, but I didn’t feel any sense of regret that, in giving them a tour of my teensy space, I couldn’t say, “And here’s my gay lamp. Don’t you think Nate Berkus would love it?” The light even had an environmentally responsible LED bulb. Not that I had a yearning to highlight that either. Sometimes a lamp is just a lamp. Let it help me read at night, let it soften the bags under my eyes if I should decide to take a selfie. Perfectly functional, perfectly fine.

 

There was an episode of “Queer Eye” when they focused on Skyler Jay, a young trans man. I recall him having a big rainbow flag hanging in his living room and the QE team taking it down during the makeover. I don’t recall their reasoning, but it was probably something like too college dorm-ish or Your living room has a big window with southern exposure. You know flags fade, right? 

 

Even if I were in the market for a new couch, I wouldn’t head to IKEA to purchase one that’s just celebrated its coming out in a big way. If sofas could talk, this one would say, “Yep. I’m gay.” (If your sofa actually does talk, you might want to see someone about that.) I’m pretty sure that, even after the deepest night’s sleep, I’m not going to crawl out of bed at ten in the morning, step into the living room, glance at my sofa and think, Oh, yeah. I’m gay. Thanks for the reminder. Now…must have coffee.

 

If I were still passionate about letting the world know I’m queer, there’s not a thing I could do in my condo that would convey the message. Not even if I bought three gay spatulas. It’s no bolder than all those overwrought journal entries from my adolescence that always ended with the same sentence in all-caps: I THINK I’M A HOMOSEXUAL. No one ever read my diary. Not even my mother was that curious.

 

So magnet-worthy, don't you think?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy a gay fridge magnet, one with the AIDS ribbon or a highbrow literary nod to James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room which I haven’t read but is always near the top of my reading list. (The magnet might work better than a Post-it to nag me into finally checking it out. When you commemorate something on a magnet, it’s serious.) Maybe I can just get someone on Etsy to make me a shirtless Matt Bomer magnet. I’m not really all that highbrow.

 

If I want to show my Pride in any meaningful way, someone else has to see it. I can walk into the grocery store with my rainbow face mask. (Yep, I’ve got one. The only person who’s ever commented on it is a young, overly caffeinated female barista at another café who knows me as Large Nitro Cold Brew.) I can also put on my rainbow Converse shoes which still haven’t been broken in. Another option is to carry around a softball and say to random strangers, “Hey, you wanna play catch?” If they shrug and say okay, I could then miss every ball. Oh! they’d say. He’s gay. (I’m the reason the stereotype still exists.)

 

As far as my living space, I could buy some art by a local gay artist (because I’m pretty sure I can’t buy a Mapplethorpe or a Hockney). A painting by Joe Average or John Ferrie perhaps. I’d rather my money go to someone who’s gay than to a large corporation that makes clearly faulty armoires. 

 

For now, I’m going to spend the rest of the day shopping online for new pillows.

CASTING A CRITICAL EYE ON "QUEER EYE"

New "Queer Eye" cast. Left to right: Bobby Berk,

Karamo Brown, Antoni Porowski, Jonathan         

Van Ness, Tan France                                            

Well, that went fast.

I tuned in for the first episode of “Queer Eye” 2.0 about six weeks ago and worked through the season without an urge to binge. I figured I’d be watching the show into late Spring and was surprised when the show stopped being a viewing option on my Netflix account. Eight episodes, call it a season.

Original series cast, L to R: Jai Rodriguez,

Ted Allen, Carson Kressley, Kyan              

Douglas, Thom Filicia                                

I remember the hype when the original “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” aired in 2003 with five gay guys guiding straight men into a transformation regarding their lifestyle. Ted Allen mentored in the kitchen, Kyan Douglas gave grooming tips, Thom Filicia guided a home decorating overhaul, Carson Kressley advised on a fashion makeover and Jai Rodriguez had the nebulous role of being “Culture Vulture”, offering tips on relationships and being a swell guy at social functions. The show ran for five seasons and one hundred episodes. Carson Kressley and Ted Allen continue to be in the public eye, riding whatever cable waves they can find.

More than ten years after the original show ended, QE2 (also how I refer to Her Majesty) waded in again with a new cast, checking to see if some campier than average gay men can still endear themselves to seemingly polar opposite straight men (and one closeted gay man) while also delivering an After that is radically different from Before.

Did it work? Are there still straight guys whose worlds are sheltered from gay exposure? Does the premise still pique an audience’s interest? Is there enough in a makeover to give five guys enough to do?

Well, I’d say Will & Grace 2.0 (okay, so it also needs a nickname…WAG2) is fresher than QE2. But then WAG2 has legendary director James Burrows, amazing writers and a stellar acting team. It was reborn with a silver cocktail strainer for Karen Walker’s butler.

Unfair to compare reboots. Perhaps it’s better to consider how it stacks up against the original and whether it’s still relevant. As with the original, QE2 struggles with having substantial roles for each of the five pairs of queer eyes. Jai Rodriguez had a weightless role in the original but Karamo Brown as culture expert steals every scene. Jai was 24 when the QE1 started and he came off as too green. At 37, Karamo has more life’s experience and a genuine interest in getting to know what the setbacks have been for each makeover man. He quickly develops a rapport on each episode. (As well, his casual attire is impeccable and, well, he’s easy on the eyes.)

The hair and makeup guy—handsome Kyan in the original; see-me, hear-me, love-me Jonathan Van Ness in QE2—is a thankless role in both series. There’s a bit of talk about eye cream, lots of talk about moisturizing and then Jonathan primarily cheerleads as a barber does most of the haircutting. Moreover, a couple of the featured men don’t require much of a hair transformation but just the kind of cleanup any decent barber or stylist would provide. The wow factor in the haircut and/or beard trim is present more in the first half of the season than the latter half. That leaves Jonathan reverting to dipping his head in front of the camera and Vogue-ing with his hands a lot.

While energetic Jonathan doesn’t have much to do, it’s even more of a slog for producers to figure out what QE2’s food and wine expert Antoni Porowski should do. In the original series, Ted would show how to make a single meal which seemed like a limited part of a makeover. How many times is the guy going to “impress” people with the same damn meal? Pan-seared salmon? Again?! It’s much worse for the very nice (he’s Canadian) Antoni who freely acknowledges he has no training as a chef; instead, he has an interest in food. Ah, yes. Another “foodie”. I suspect Antoni got the part because of his good looks.  The concoctions he coaches the weekly makeover guy through are laughably simple. Guacamole. Avocado-grapefruit salad. Hmm, what else can I do with avocado? Macaroni (from a recipe he lifts off the guy’s mom!). Chili. Hot dogs. (Yes, hot dogs. But with fancy condiments, which reminds me of a line in Canadian group Barenaked Ladies’ “If I Had $1,000,000”: “Buy really expensive ketchups with it, That’s right, all the fanciest Dijon ketchups.”) So we’ve got a guy who can eat guacamole at home when he loves a certain Mexican restaurant. I don’t see it happening. Same with everything poor Antoni dishes out.

There is no one with the sassy wit of Carson Kressley. The QE2 team tries, especially in the opening montage where they are all in one SUV driving to each episode’s particular Georgia location, but I think the producers need to let go of any thought of a Carson reincarnation. It’s the same as when “American Idol” lost Simon Cowell. The zingers are gone; you move on.

Still, in addition to Karamo, Tan France and Bobby Berk work well in their roles as fashion expert and home design expert, respectively. Tan’s clothing advice is thoughtful and there is genuine interaction between him and the makeover guy. Tan wants to know if the guy is comfortable in each suggested look and adjusts based on the feedback. It seems there is a greater likelihood that the new wardrobe and ways of wearing clothes will be adhered to due to the conversation.

Bobby is much like Thom in the original, forgoing the limelight (which Jonathan seems to crave) and working with contractors and a design team behind the scenes to turn neglected bachelor pads into fresh, livable spaces. The reveal is always polished but with special touches involving family photos or a quilt made of a deceased father’s clothes that had overtaken closet space. Any tear shedding from the made over man or the viewer at home is likely to come from the work of Bobby or Karamo.

Just yesterday, Netflix announced that there will be a second season of QE2. Going forward, the show could be tweaked. During the eight-episode season, they cut the end segment, a useless half-minute tip such as how to walk with confidence. (That particular tip made me feel they needed J. Alexander from “America’s Next Top Model” as a special guest to show his runway walk.) The show would be tighter if they went from a quintet to a quartet. Get rid of some of the filler in each episode; deepen the transformation. I’ll let the producers decide who gets cut,…maybe, ahem, as they eat fancy hot dogs and realize they’re still just hot dogs.

Really, they could cut the cast to three. Okay, if producers are seeking advice, I’d say keep Tan (fashion), Bobby (home design) and Karamo (culture and grooming). If the makeover guy is in a nacho rut, so be it. Let him apply to be on whatever happens to be Bobby Flay’s newest show.

Is “Queer Eye” still needed? Not really. Gay men are out in the open more than ever and, yes, they’ve left their enclaves in the Castro, West Hollywood and Boystown. There may be an uptick in hate crimes and a White House that doesn’t want transgendered people in the military, but in the world of reality TV, “Queer Eye” is tame. We don’t need it any more than we need junior chefs making food the viewer can’t taste or some catty housewives from, I don’t know,…Iowa City.

That said, “Queer Eye” is easy viewing. I watched each episode on nights when I knew I’d fall asleep if I cracked open a book. I found myself wishing they’d include a buyer’s guide in the credits or online to indicate where to buy Tan’s white polo with red and blue trim and a zipper instead of buttons—he wore it and distracted me in two episodes—or where to get any of Karamo’s clothes. Perhaps I should be embarrassed to admit it, but I found myself wishing the QE crew would come help me. For the past three years, I’ve used moving boxes for a coffee table and a basic wooden stool is my only chair. Almost all my clothes are solids and my feet only know what it feels like to be immersed in Converse. (Thirty pairs, mind you!) Yes, this gay guy could use a Queer Eye with better vision. For now I’ll just have to learn from the TV and congratulate myself for my new habit of buying flowers for myself each week. (It’s an easier decision than a table. Cheaper, too!)

Bring on the second season!