Fashion Goon Squads

If you know me, or rather, if you have known me long enough, you will see that I don’t have a specific “style” of dress, in fact, it is rather an antithesis to having a style, and that has been true all my life.

Currently I am wearing a white linen “hippie” shirt cut low enough to have my Buddha necklace pop out from my chest hairs, with 501 jeans and leather sandals. Yesterday I was wearing cords, a “rodeo-style” button-down, long-sleeved collared shirt with rather conservative leather walking boots. Or, I might one day be wearing lululemon shorts and work-out t-shirt, or another, a hand-made silk paisley shirt from India with hemp pants, or if formal, an Ike Behar silk tie, Hugo Boss shirt and Brooks Brothers’ slacks with rather expensive hand-stitched Italian shoes from Bologna. This is not to pat myself on the back, but rather to say, depending upon the day that you meet me, you may get a hippie, a yuppie (though I am pushing the “y” on that one…) a jock, or a fashionably dressed man.

In Jr. High and High School, I was considered both the best and worst-dressed person, at the same Time! My nickname was “slob” on the swim team as I would wear my Uggs (as in the original ones, 25 years ago) down to holes in the sole, and toes sticking out and ripped shirts and sweats to swim practice at 5am, though also wore a skinny tie and parachute pants with spiky hair later that day to High School.

Am I fashionably schizophrenic then?

I have known people for decades who look exactly the same every day, in every picture, and yet, when I look back at pictures of myself, it is literally like looking at someone different every time. Although I have been somewhat conscious of doing this, though not as a “statement,” but now that I am in my fifth decade of life, I have left quite a wake of fashion mistakes and triumphs behind me.

My facial hair is no less dramatic. I have had a Nietzsche-style moustache that looks like I have a hamster on my upper lip to a quite unassuming soul-patch, a Van Dyck goatee, a full “grizz” beard (already in 11^th grade, getting yet another nickname…) or a pencil-thin John Waters-esque moving to a Salvador Dali twirl-able stache as well as being clean shaven for years at a time.

Hair? From shaving it down to the scalp with a bandana when I took my PhD comprehensive exams (freaking most of my colleagues out when I walked in) to have a ponytail when I played college water polo at UT-Austin. Spiked, gelled, and even bleached with peroxide at one time out of vanity.

Body hair? I like to think that I have “just enough.” Luckily I did not inherit my dad’s hairless chest, but rather from my maternal side where all the men have a decent v-shaped shrubbery, though not excessively, and thank god, no real back hair save for some stray hairs that I bend into contortions to pluck out every now and then.  When stressed or excited, I can literally “flash” a 5 o’clock shadow within the span of a day, so my shaving patterns can be adjusted within a few days to have a goatee, beard, or clean. And, being a swimmer, I have been shaved my body from head to toe numerous times…

So, who the hell am I?

If it came down to fashion, hairstyle, facial hair, or what?

The Goon Squad is definitely coming for me I fear if it comes down to the Fashion Police.

It makes me wonder then, how do others “see” me on any given day? Given Malcolm Gladwell’s concept of “Blink” I could be a million different people to anyone whom sees me, and who wishes to make a snap judgment, they might get quite a different blink from day to day..

So, what stays the same?

The Eyes, I guess.

When I was in college, on the swim team, there was a contest on campus for the “eyes” and I was voted “Mr. Eyes” for the team and my “eyes” were used to represent the team on campus for the contest. Though I did not “win,” I guess that is the one thing that really has not changed on me. I have gained weight, lost weight, changed fashions, but, the windows to my Soul, I think, really are my Eyes.

And, if you know me, or as before, if you know me long enough, you know that when I look you in the eyes, I am present, and I am listening to you, and it really doesn’t matter what I am wearing, or what my hair looks like, or if I have a beard or clean shaven, the true test of a person is simply, can you “look someone in the eye?” If someone can do that with me, then I really could not care less what you look like. Next time you talk to someone, really, deeply look into his or her eyes, and try to forget being part of the Fashion Goon Squad.

Be-ing Human.

LIfe on Mars?

Without a doubt, one of the best live music performances I have ever seen was David Bowie for his Sound+Vision tour at the Frank Erwin Center in Austin. It was one of those situations where I decided to go about 30 minutes before the show, walked up to the arena, no ticket in hand and purchased one from one of the entrepreneurs who are wont to be found in front of such events, and I took advantage of their sense of emporium skills and bought an incredible 3rd-row floor ticket to see Bowie.

At the time, 1991-2, the acoustics of the Erwin were reprehensible at best, but to be about 20 feet from Bowie was worth every nails-on-the-chalkboard miscue of the PA system, or lack thereof. I knew that I was truly in the presence of musical genius, which Bowie is.

However, as with many things in life, it is often much later that we find out the details of events and the oddities of Space and Time begin to show through in Low moments or again in epiphanies and revelations.

What struck me so odd of all about Bowie, someone whose work I have admired for many, many years, is that I didn't even look into him until somewhat recently. I just liked Bowie. I knew that the curious eye discrepancy was due to a youthful encounter, disfiguring his vision for life, though probably enhancing his quest for sound as well.

But, only quite recently did I look up the "meaning" of "Life on Mars" and found that it is somewhat of an Alice in Wonderland perspective of a young girl listening to the news. Now, the song makes perfect sense. Having a daughter of my own who is beginning to be quite aware of the world around her, and its imperfections, the detail of what the devil this song was about became crystal clear, like a diamond bullet through the forehead, if you will.

The world is a mysterious place and the world of adults is quite as mysterious for children as it is vice versa for adults to remember the world of our youth. J.D. Salinger's "Nine Stories" is akin to Beethoven's Ninth (as interpreted in the movie Immortal Beloved) of bringing this troubled connection of youthful innocence and adult folly into focus.

Bowie's "Life on Mars" does so likewise, and suddenly a song took on a whole new meaning for me.