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Long
Live Glam
No doubt about it, women's glamour has made a comeback.
Smart crocodile handbags, lush furs and sky high stilettos grace the pages
of my beloved fashion magazines. A few pieces
have even slipped into my closet, I'll admit. Grunge and dirt for the
sake of dirt is definitely passé. Even now, a curious new species
of man has emerged-this metrosexual- and women are going crazy for him.
I'm not buying it for a second.
Sure it's nice to have a man who isn't growing a sea monkey colony in
his underwear, but when it comes down to it, I don't want a dude that
smells better than me, or coordinates his socks to his shirt. As far as
I'm concerned, a man shouldn't even know what a facial is. And, no, I
do not want to turn the clock back to grunge. Uh-uh. I'm talking glam,
baby. Men in tights. Take-no-prisoners, garter-wearing, hard rocking studs.
All sheen, very little hygiene.
My obsession with the glam-man hearkens back to the 1970s. In my formative
years, The New York Dolls spoke volumes of wisdom to me. Just because
a man spackles on the Cover Girl doesn't necessarily mean he's not capable
of screwing my brains out or laying down a killer guitar solo. These men
flaunted their masculinity by sporting heels and stockings. As dangerous
and sinister as Doctor Frank-N-Furter, they thumbed their powdered noses
at me saying, "Not only am I man enough to paint my face and wear
your clothes, but I dare you to reject me." Paul Stanley of KISS
continues to make his living strutting his way along the border of "Is
he" or "Isn't he", but a crotch bulge and chest muff like
his bespeaks nothing but virility to me. However, as far as best makeup,
show and overall manliness, I would be remiss if I didn't mention my first
true love, Alice Cooper. His late seventies shows were spectacular displays
of what one could do with a little time, face paint, and a stencil. The
spider webs, the costumes, the makeup all combined to deliver one yummy
scare fest. I was very nearly frightened into orgasm. But along came the
eighties and the feeling quickly faded.
Unlike their predecessors in the seventies, eighties she-men were just
that: she-men. Chicks with you-know-what's. Musical prima donnas prone
to cat fights and the occasional drug binge. Their music was as inoffensive
and bland as a lukewarm milk bath. The makeup was less shock factor and
more Max Factor. Bands like Poison and Duran Duran looked too much like
women. I wanted a man in campy makeup and drag, not someone who left me
wondering if I had come down with a case of Lesbian. Gone were the days
of the sexually suggestive moves of the lead singer. These clowns were
pouting, dancing and singing. Not screaming death metal or speaking over
a creepy bass line, but crooning. Impersonal synthesizers replaced the
powerfully essential guitar maestro. Power ballads became the bane of
my existence and the dudes that sang them my arch enemies. Were skinny
ties and slick hair what I had to look forward to?
More determined than ever, I vowed to keep glam alive. Believing that
charity began at home, I started in on my husband and his friends. "Try
a little rouge," I suggested to Joe, the man who keeps McDonalds
in business. "It'll lessen the effect of your massive beer belly."
For Felix the anteater, I suggested that perhaps a transparent powder
would eliminate the shine on the bridge of his enormous nose. After all,
he wasn't planning on landing aircraft in his T-Zone, was he? After Joe
and Felix departed with their free samples, my husband cornered me, brandishing
our heavy remote control and demanding answers. "Do you have to embarrass
my friends?" he shouted. I was dumbfounded. I was only trying to
help and I told him so. "Men don't wear makeup," he replied
dryly. "More men should," I shot back.
Glam, I explained to him, was more than just makeup. Oh, no. It was the
attitude behind the makeup. The bravery, the raw sexual energy emanating
from behind false lashes and glittered eyelids was what attracted the
women and confounded the men. Yes, I declared. Glam was all the goodness
life had to offer packaged in a cute compact.
Oddly enough, the idea never quite caught on with the guys, but I did
notice a strange trend developing. Glam is seemingly very popular among
network news anchors. I can't recall the last time I watched a news television
and my eyes weren't glued to the heavy foundation mask around the jawbone
and chin of some aged reporter.
What makes these guys glam instead of metrosexuals, you ask? Simple. Metrosexuals
are pretty. These news guys are cadaver-like men who look like they smell
like mothballs and feet. Most of them should be herded up and shipped
off to the Home for the Criminally Ugly. All are repulsive, except my
favorite news anchor and current obsession, Shepard Smith from Fox News.
He wears so much orange makeup, I mistook him for a black guy. Every morning
at nine sharp, he greets me with piercing eyes outlined in thin black
liner, lips of shimmery coral and skin as taut and orange as a ripe tangerine.
His suits are exquisitely cut from the chest up and his hair is always
the right side of tousled. He may portray a metrosexual on television,
but I'm certain somewhere beyond the Southern charm and Mary Kay #13 Mocha
Bronze, he probably enjoys a little fancy dress. Maybe even a spank, but
I'll get back to you on that one.
Unfortunately, as much as I hate to admit it, the idea of glam is dead.
It's been reduced to a relic of a happier time fossilized forever in my
obsessive little brain. Among the tens of people in the world lamenting
the passing of the leather bound lipstick hound and the silencing of gutter
rock, I must be the saddest. But as long as there is breath in my body,
I promise to keep glam alive and loathe the day when Paul Stanley prances
his way out of relevance and into a pair of Dockers.
by
Keisha Poiro
26th October 2003
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