Who's Hotter?

Trad Pinup, Mary Louise Drysdale, Interior Designer and Antiques Expert, 9/2000

A Life ago, my Ex and I came close to buying an antiques shop.  And while I don't suggest, "On the Job Training" in antiques, it was what we were about to do.  A warning sign came a year later from the infamous dealer, Tom Devenish who, when I asked, "What's new," replied, "That fucking Pembroke table in the corner."  Innocently, we began by taking a week long American antiques course at Winterthur.

On the second or third day, folks in the class were getting comfortable and questions for the instructors increased.  Most were not general but personal, "I have this 18th century toile …" sort of thing.  About this same time the marriage was not going well.  My wife and I constantly argued and she suggested that my interests were in younger 20-ish women.

The Ex was making the 'younger woman' point in class when an older woman, well into her forties and sitting next to an even older woman in her fifties, raised her hand.  They were both wearing needlepoint slippers, khakis and button downs.  A frosted blonde bob topped the hand raiser who asked,  "What would the humidity in Palm Beach do to the veneer of a Chippendale tiger wood mahogany chest?"  As the instructor answered, I leaned to my wife and whispered,  "That's the kind of woman you should worry about."

Philip Weiss: The New M & The Old Observer

New York Observer, February 3, 2001 (click image to read)

Peter Kaplan cobbled together the new M mostly with existing staff from Fairchild.  I offered my services in a Starbucks near his office, "Pay me spit and I'll do anything you tell me to do.  I'll attack machine gun nests for you.  Only condition -- I report to you and not some hump who works for you." Maybe I came on a little strong.  Actually, I would work for one  hump who writes for Kaplan.  Philip Weiss.

Back in 2001, Kaplan was the editor of the NY Observer (Best Of NYO is in the sales bin here) back when that paper meant something more than real estate ads.  Kaplan not only hired Candace Bushnell but he came up with the title for her column, "Sex and the City."  I bet the NY Observer made a fortune off that.

Kaplan rounded out the new M crew with a few cronies from the Observer. One Observer alumni,  Philip Weiss, cranks out a gutsy interview with a difficult subject matter for any straight man... pretty boy model, Sean O'Pry (To Editors at GQ:  Worried about living down the, "Gay men's life style publication." Drop the cheese cake beards and hire Weiss).

I follow Weiss on Twitter  but back in the day, Weiss did an Observer interview with balls-so-big-I-don't-know-how-he-walks writer, Jim Harrison.  The premise for the interview was a discussion between Weiss and Harrison about older women. Harrison was always a hero of mine but Weiss became one too with this beautiful and honest piece about what it's like to be a man growing old and how it's possible to wake up and wise up.

If you're getting up there in the years - read this - you'll love it.  If you're a 25 year old Jr Mint -- I'm working on a Tumbler to explain this to you.  -30-

Where Have all The Floppy Tennis Hats Gone?

I bought this hat in Bermuda at least 15 years ago. Never wore it. Too big despite its claim of S/M. I'm a 7 1/4, depending on the last visit to the barber shop.





I learned a trick in the park service for fixing hats that are too big. Fold a paper towel four or five times until it's about an inch wide and tuck under the sweat band. One in front and one in back. Over time the hat'll loosen up but just stick a couple new paper towels in and you're good to go.





The Floppy Tennis Hat is getting hard to find. There are bucket hats but they're not the same thing. For one, they don't have the green shade on the underside of the front brim. Secondly, they're just too hipster at present and I think the aesthetic is all wrong. Too little hat for the head, unless you wear a size 9 ... in which case you can use your hat to carry groceries home.




Then there's the floppy tennis hat with a domed top complete with that silly button on top. That's a big No-Go unless you're a 55 year old woman with frosted hair and pink nail polish who makes a killer G&T and plays in the Atlanta Peach League. The authentic Floppy Tennis Hat has be flat on top. That allows you to crush it and mold it and make the hat your own.





Some folks prefer the all white hat sans ribbon. Probably a good idea -- Unless it's a hat from Bermuda. It's an understated destination and it allows you to communicate your knowledge of, and desire for a Dark & Stormy. I'm not sure what you communicate with ribbon announcing,"Welcome to Vegas."




Those are my requirements. The Floppy Tennis Hat is as much at home on the court as it is on the streets of NYC... with a pair of Ray Bans. I know it's an advertisement for being over 40. What's wrong with that? Sometimes, I like to wear mine like Art Buchwald.

Phyllis Diller & The Monica Lewinsky Joke

"Come again?"

"Monica Lewinsky. She's outta the news but she's still around. She went to the cleaners the other day, took a dress in and said, "I'd like my dress cleaned." He's hard of hearing and says, 'Come again?' She said, 'No, it's orange juice.' A-Haa -haa - haaa"

Phyllis Diller, The Aristocrats

All The Way...

"In my life there have been few
who've affected me the way you do
(you do, you do)"
Pet Shop Boys
It Always Come As A Surprise

The news of a whore house in Spring Lake spread through the barracks like wild fire on the Serengeti. Spring Lake bordered Ft. Bragg to the north and was home to the poor, enlisted and hundreds, if not thousands of mobile homes - of which one double wide, The Devil's Playground, was doing a booming business.

There was talk of a woman nicknamed, 'The Screamer.' She'd shout profanity laden descriptions of what she wanted, and that sounded pretty darned good to me, seeing I was 19 and all the screaming I heard had to do with what I was doing wrong.

A bunch of us climbed into someones car and after an hour of searching a trailer park in the dark, we found a double wide that fit the description. We also found a line for the screamer that reminded me nothing was a secret long at Ft. Bragg.

The Madam of the house took my military ID and paper clipped it to an index card which she filed under 'T' in a gray metal box. I sat down on a folding chair in the shag carpeted living room and watched TV with the line, my buddies and two huge black staff sergeants still in fatigues and providing security.

The Madam had a body that said, "Go Airborne" but 40 miles of bad road on her face. Her hair was jet black along with her disposition. She was not happy with the line and started asking if anyone wanted a date with her. No one moved. Feeling sorry for her (and being at the end of the line), I raised my hand like it was first grade.

I could hear the screamer as I watched the Madam undress in a tiny bedroom. A red rose tattoo covered her belly button and a tattooed green stem with thorns traveled all the way down to what she called her pot of dirt. Afterwards, she returned my ID and punched a hole in the index card. "Get to 10 and you get a freebie." she said.

I'd go back for the Screamer but the Madam would smile when she saw me, hand me a beer and whisper something amazingly filthy in my ear. I came to know Rose well and was something of a regular. Besides, I was pretty sure the screamer was full of crap - what with the screaming taking on an all too repetitive pattern.

I found a woman who'd actually go out with me and quit going to the Devil's Playground. A year or so later, I saw Rose having breakfast at IHOP with a woman who looked to be her mother. Rose looked at me for a good three or four seconds, and without any expression, turned back to her mother. I never saw Rose again but more than anything, I remember her eyes -- Big and dark and able to see every mistake I ever made or would make.

A Mormon Woman Named Estelle...

This is not Estelle -- I hope she has a pool




"I painted over ten thousand paintings
Sad ones, funny ones, dark ones, and light ones
I've done haystacks
And rich old ladies by their pools
Wearing nothing but a scarf
I've painted everything there was to paint
Now it was time to sit back
Give interviews
Hang out at club med
Get on the internet
Take stock of what I've done"

Sitting here updating a list of blogs I can't stand when I just remembered where that came from. Dan Bern's, "...rich old ladies by their pools wearing nothing but a scarf" has me wondering why Hermes hasn't taken that image and run with it. Maybe I can convince them.

I remember the first girl I held hands with was Cheryl Stewart in 7th grade. I've tried six times to write what that felt like. I give up. Except this. I couldn't believe she wanted to hold my hand.

This aquarium has lulled me into a trance and this song always makes me laugh and cry and sometimes both at once. I lost my dog in a divorce. That really sucked.

Ft. Monroe Officer's Club - The Deep End

My 14th Summer was hot. Hampton, VA was spared by a breeze or two off the Chesapeake Bay but the place to be, for me, was the pool at the Ft. Monroe Officer's Club. There was an ocean beach but the water was always infested with jelly fish and the officer's wives preferred the sandless concrete deck of the pool.

I watched as formulas of baby oil & iodine were massaged by hands with long pink nails. Swimming towards the deep end in a slow breast stroke - I couldn't take my eyes off them. Not for the nine year olds playing Marco Polo. Not for the F-15 flying over from Langley. Certainly not for girls my age. Not for anyone who wasn't north of field grade and spritzing her hair with hydrogen peroxide. Lighting another Virginia Slim. Rooting through a purse for sunglasses.

When Major Frampton's wife stood up in her white bikini, strode to the edge of the deep end and slowly slid her baby oiled body into the water... I wanted to be the water. I poked my head under and watched her glide inches above the bottom of the pool as sunlight bounced off long frog-kicking legs.

Later, in wet trunks and a towel, I stood shivering in the cold air conditioned bar while my father and 30 other men like him sat at their martini lunches. 30 backs in military creased khaki shirts and black web belts leaned forward on bar stools. Packs of cigarettes and Zippo lighters engraved with 'Fuck Communism' littered the bar while huge Army issue glass ashtrays smelled like chlorine from the pool.

My father reached into his elephant hide wallet, handed me a dollar for the Fanta machine and I watched him sneak a look at the deep end of the pool. That was the first time I ever told him a joke. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln -- How did you enjoy the play?" He laughed and so did the officer next to him. I couldn't wait to wear khaki.

The Older Woman

(images from Models 1)

I hadn't been in New York City long. Long enough that the $40 seersucker trousers I was wearing were well past their expiration date. It was early October and I was with college friends at the Surf Club on the upper east side. I was introduced to a red head and was told she worked at Shearson Lehman. She asked if I would buy her a drink. I went to the bar and bought her a gin and tonic and ordered tonic for myself. Not because I didn't want a G&T. But because I couldn't afford it.

Three more gins and tonic for her. Three more tonics for me. We slow danced to Susie Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kiss Them For Me, and since our legs seemed to be getting along so well - - I kissed her. She broke off the kiss and just as I was going to apologise she asked where I lived. "18th between 8th and 9th." I said. "I'm closer." she said. Pulling me by the hand off the dance floor she suddenly stopped and said, "I don't even know what you do." "I'm a park ranger." adding proudly, "At the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island." less she think I worked for the city or state.

She looked at me and touched my cheek. "Oh, sweetie. I didn't move to Manhattan to meet a park ranger." "So, we're not going to your place?" I asked. "No." she said. "I'm taking a taxi home." She did ask that I call her if that afternoon's job interview at 20th Century Fox worked out.

A week later I sat at the bar in the Plaza Hotel waiting for a college friend to come down from his room. He had a real job with Epcot and was going to abuse his expense account and buy me dinner. A woman came in and sat at the bar a couple stools down from me. I didn't notice her at first but when the bartender asked what she wanted I heard her say, "Whatever he's having looks pretty good." I turned to her and smiled, "It's a Beefeater martini." She smiled back and said, "Perfect." turned to the bartender and said, "I'll have one of those."

A couple of nights later she took me to dinner. She was in her late 50s, divorced, her only daughter in college. She owned a dress shop on the west side and her apartment had a terrace that overlooked Central Park. She had more style than any woman - or man - I have ever known. There was a natural grace about her. Not just in the way she walked but in how she opened a door. Put her keys in her purse. Picked up a phone. Opened a window.

She had a favorite Italian restaurant where the owner knew her. The tables were close and it was hard to move through the room without bumping a table. A woman, who looked the same age as the red head from Shearson, shot me a look from her table as we walked by. A look that said, "She's old enough to be..." And I thought, "Hey, I tried it with your age group."

I'm an older man today. And I still love older women. Although, the older woman has become just a woman. In some wonderful way our aging paths have crossed.