There’s no question why
October 9, 2005 | 12:00am
There was a time when all a girl wanted was a two-carat solitaire and a sensitive guy. None of the Cool Hand Luke designs, more of the mopey and heartrending sleight of hands mastered by the patron saints of boo-hoo, such as John Cusack, Ethan Hawke and Jake Gyllenhaal.
Now, with a plethora of Kiehl’s on the left side of the bathroom sink, which isn’t yours, a constant battle for who knows what – the next new avant guardian or some pretentious idiom that resonates the same idea (and in the case of some couples, even fighting for the same clothes), and oh, yeah, that beating bleeding heart that we wished for for oh, so long – we finally have him, the perfect man.
Queer Eye came way too late. They didn’t start this revolution. It’s been happening. They just grabbed the zeitgeist by the Adam’s apple and told the world that men should moisturize when all the other guys were already spending their lunch breaks getting pedicures. It’s not purely by chance either. Steve Jones, a respected geneticist and author of Y: The Descent of Man, was quoted by Details magazine (hmmm) as saying that the Y chromosomes (what makes men, well, men) in men are slowly disintegrating. In the same article, it was reported that in 125,000 years, a biologist will find that the Y chromosome has disappeared. A reaffirmation of Darwinism? The dawn of the new man (or rather, non-man)?
So, does this mean that we’ll be dating gay guys, girls, and lesbians? No, there will still be men, but they will be feminine, or at best, androgynous men. When this onslaught of dandies came at the spring of the millennium, we grappled for ways to describe them.
"Guidos" were the grossest kinds. "Metrosexual" was the term for those at a loss for words when it came to describing the perfectly groomed and dressed man with a passion for Sex and the City. But now, let me say this once and for all: these men with a vast knowledge of fashion, pop music, post-war style saints, trendy cuisine and cupcakes, are men. Men with less Y. But nevertheless, they are men: men to desire, men we have always been begging for.
Most of my best friends are these men. It’s great, all the girl talk without the underhanded backstabbing. That’s what the Y is still there for. To protect their logic from encouraging catty talk. Once they cross the kitty line, then it’s time to doubt. I have a friend who once shocked a woman in Mango because, as she was waiting in line at the fitting room, he came out with an armful of shirts. He just looked at her and, as if she was some blossom from the far mountainous region of the north, declared, "It just fits better." This was a couple of years ago, when everyone was still into teepee gross polos. So, he was a sort of visionary who had to endure slim tailored tops with buttons right over left (the way women’s shirts are made) until Hedi Slimane and Helmut Lang freed men from pleated sacks and allowed them to finally wear his tailored pieces with pride (left over right).
So, as men try in vain to talk about T&A (tits and ass) when they would rather talk about H&G (home and garden), they’re on their last shot of Jack D. And women are freaking out.
Personally, I queer-eye everyone. Even those that don’t need queer-eyeing are subject to my sartorial whip. So I’m totally loving this Y-disintegration thing. I remember when I was in college I spent a good amount of pedicure time inhaling toxins in a car garage as my Y-filled ex changed his mags, exhaust pipe, spoilers and bucket seats. Although I do have spa days with my posse (boys, girls and vas together), this Y-descent is also proving to be very expensive. Now hanging out means shopping, eating in really expensive restaurants, buying designer home décor, and traveling to chic and exotic locations (next stop, the Dalmatian Islands) with friends. As in, guy friends that I’m not even dating. So, I guess this is a glimpse of the future of dating: Men and women looking utterly and speechlessly chic in not-so-known designer duds, dressing to impress, rather than seduce; wining and dining not to get into each other’s pants, but much more like a pissing contest of who knows what better. Dating will be a lot like female friendships with claws, paws and coiffed horns.
Do we save the Y? How? Was this not all we wanted in the past? Well, the sensitive guy has gone beyond common and two-carat rings are now rice beads next to the four-carat yellow Graff cut diamonds that they now really want. I guess in the end, it’s our problem, girls. We never are satisfied. We get the two-carat and call it a compromise. We get the sensitive guy and call him gay. Go figure. There’s no question why.
Now, with a plethora of Kiehl’s on the left side of the bathroom sink, which isn’t yours, a constant battle for who knows what – the next new avant guardian or some pretentious idiom that resonates the same idea (and in the case of some couples, even fighting for the same clothes), and oh, yeah, that beating bleeding heart that we wished for for oh, so long – we finally have him, the perfect man.
Queer Eye came way too late. They didn’t start this revolution. It’s been happening. They just grabbed the zeitgeist by the Adam’s apple and told the world that men should moisturize when all the other guys were already spending their lunch breaks getting pedicures. It’s not purely by chance either. Steve Jones, a respected geneticist and author of Y: The Descent of Man, was quoted by Details magazine (hmmm) as saying that the Y chromosomes (what makes men, well, men) in men are slowly disintegrating. In the same article, it was reported that in 125,000 years, a biologist will find that the Y chromosome has disappeared. A reaffirmation of Darwinism? The dawn of the new man (or rather, non-man)?
So, does this mean that we’ll be dating gay guys, girls, and lesbians? No, there will still be men, but they will be feminine, or at best, androgynous men. When this onslaught of dandies came at the spring of the millennium, we grappled for ways to describe them.
"Guidos" were the grossest kinds. "Metrosexual" was the term for those at a loss for words when it came to describing the perfectly groomed and dressed man with a passion for Sex and the City. But now, let me say this once and for all: these men with a vast knowledge of fashion, pop music, post-war style saints, trendy cuisine and cupcakes, are men. Men with less Y. But nevertheless, they are men: men to desire, men we have always been begging for.
Most of my best friends are these men. It’s great, all the girl talk without the underhanded backstabbing. That’s what the Y is still there for. To protect their logic from encouraging catty talk. Once they cross the kitty line, then it’s time to doubt. I have a friend who once shocked a woman in Mango because, as she was waiting in line at the fitting room, he came out with an armful of shirts. He just looked at her and, as if she was some blossom from the far mountainous region of the north, declared, "It just fits better." This was a couple of years ago, when everyone was still into teepee gross polos. So, he was a sort of visionary who had to endure slim tailored tops with buttons right over left (the way women’s shirts are made) until Hedi Slimane and Helmut Lang freed men from pleated sacks and allowed them to finally wear his tailored pieces with pride (left over right).
So, as men try in vain to talk about T&A (tits and ass) when they would rather talk about H&G (home and garden), they’re on their last shot of Jack D. And women are freaking out.
Personally, I queer-eye everyone. Even those that don’t need queer-eyeing are subject to my sartorial whip. So I’m totally loving this Y-disintegration thing. I remember when I was in college I spent a good amount of pedicure time inhaling toxins in a car garage as my Y-filled ex changed his mags, exhaust pipe, spoilers and bucket seats. Although I do have spa days with my posse (boys, girls and vas together), this Y-descent is also proving to be very expensive. Now hanging out means shopping, eating in really expensive restaurants, buying designer home décor, and traveling to chic and exotic locations (next stop, the Dalmatian Islands) with friends. As in, guy friends that I’m not even dating. So, I guess this is a glimpse of the future of dating: Men and women looking utterly and speechlessly chic in not-so-known designer duds, dressing to impress, rather than seduce; wining and dining not to get into each other’s pants, but much more like a pissing contest of who knows what better. Dating will be a lot like female friendships with claws, paws and coiffed horns.
Do we save the Y? How? Was this not all we wanted in the past? Well, the sensitive guy has gone beyond common and two-carat rings are now rice beads next to the four-carat yellow Graff cut diamonds that they now really want. I guess in the end, it’s our problem, girls. We never are satisfied. We get the two-carat and call it a compromise. We get the sensitive guy and call him gay. Go figure. There’s no question why.
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