A sporadic offering of suggestions on how to be a Gentleman to your lady, your friends, your minions, and anyone else who comes into your esteemed company.
Wow, what a summer this Gentleman has had. Since being let go as a thigh model for 2(x)ist Underwear, I have found my calling on the farm, met several gorgeous ladies (both betrothed and unattached), saw a great friend get married in beautiful fashion, and saw another friend propose to a great lady. Sure, as in every good tale, I had my share of heartbreak (such as the Zoroastrian) and criminal prosecution (I was recently served another citation, this time for illegally brewing "corn wine" in an abandoned barn). But overall, this was one of the finest summers I have had since I was 15, when I worked as a cabana boy on Cougar Island.
Now, as Autumn awaits us with even more wonders, we should probably approach these last two weeks of summer (yes, there are two weeks left) with a slow pace and a big appetite for meat, drink, and naughtiness (a Teutonic approach, in other words)
Before I continue, I would like to share with you this brilliant comment from my constant friend/commenter, Mr./Mrs. "anonymous" (perhaps you can leave a bloody first name before dropping a comment, fair reader?). Anonymous had this to say:
Monsieur, I have long been a fan of your blog, and feel that perhaps our tastes are aligned - I hope it is not presumptuous of me to suggest you peruse the following music video. Instincts tell me it'll stir something in you... In fact, I suspect you may have already bookmarked this gem. Who never dreamed about a rollerskating milkshake-bearing lesbian waitress?
And here is the video that she/he was referring to:
And in response to this comment: Not only have I bookmarked this gem, you will be surprised to learn that it was none other than EtG who handled the art direction for this video. It wasn't all fun and games, sadly, as the director gave the outfit I originally designed for the lesbian band member (nice spot, by the way) to that effeminate, no-talent, feral cat of a lead singer. After much head-butting with the director, eventually I resigned, but not before telling him, "I liked this band better when they sung their songs in English and called themselves 'The Scissor Sisters.'" Sassy, granted, but that director was such a catty bitch.
In any case, in exchange for your video, here is a clip from me that you will enjoy and convince you further that our tastes are indeed aligned:
That aside, I'm afraid that my column today is going to be brief. And instead of boring you with more farm tales and dodgy etiquette suggestions, I am going to share with you the roster for the upcoming 2007 DAKAAR NOIR HANDSOME MAN GAMES, which is taking place in just a short time from now. So, without further ado, here are some of the entries:
From Macedonia: Tassos Yastrakis
From Borgarfjardharsysla, Iceland: Bjartur Gudlaug.
From The Principality of Liechtenstein: Wally Stuttgart
From Calcutta, India: "The Brown Frown-Remover," Abhishek Biswas
From Beit ed Dik, Muhafazat Tartus, Syria: Abdulwahad Najib
From Jefferson City, MO: Billy Bob Heartthrob, the Romancin' Redneck
From San Lazzaro di Savena, Italy, this year's recipient of The Lifetime Acheivement Award in Chivalry and Winter Sports: Alberto "Tomba la Bomba" Tomba
And of course, yours truly:
The games are scheduled to happen in a few weeks, so you will indeed hear a brief - if not entertaining - report on what transpires.
Enjoy the remainder of your summer and as always, please stay chivalrous.
My teenage colleagues at the farm were baffled as to why Ed the Gentleman would ever want to be a farmer. I explained to them that I was actually an Italian count who was forced to flee his beloved country after a botched assassination attempt. They asked me why someone would want to kill me, to which I explained: “If you romanced all seven mistresses of Palermo’s biggest mafia boss, you, too, would be a targeted man.” They all looked impressed… that is, save for Fred, the youngest and frailest of the bunch. The expression on his face displayed a confused disgust for my explanation.
“I don’t understand why you would bother dating a girl if you knew you’re not going to end up marrying her. It’s not right,” said Fred.
This caused a great uproar from the other teens, who laughed and called Fred “fool,” “dumdum,” and “homo-queer.”
When the noise settled, I approached Fred and said, “my young, mistaken, homo-queer friend, I am afraid women and love are not as simple as you would hope for them to be.”
I patted him on the shoulder, and then ran for cover as the other boys pelted Fred with beefsteak tomatoes.
While we’re on the subject of Italians, marriage, and beefsteaks: My dearest, oldest friend from childhood – Luke Antonio Wormgold - just proposed to his wonderful girlfriend of six years, Laura, and the burly bastard is going to be a husband (again)! His bride-to-be is a sweet - if not tough - Boston beauty who holds the grand distinction of winning “The Most Comely Countess of the Commonwealth” for three years in a row (1999-2002).
A brief history of Luke Antonio: We met in 1987 during my first year at The Robert John Wagner Boarding School for the Disarmingly Handsome. At the time, I was a terrified young chap in sore need of a friend (a vicious rumor broke out that I was “stinky” and thus to be avoided at all costs). After two terrifying and homesick days at the school - when I resigned myself to a life of friendlessness - Luke Antonio boldly came to my aide and brought me into his small cadre of “cool” friends, and we have been loyal mates ever since. To put it shortly – and to those of you who have read J.P. Donleavy’s extraordinary book, The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B – he was the “Beefy” to my “Balthazar B.” It is because of this bond that Luke Antonio asked me to be one of his groomsmen, and why I eagerly accepted the offer. Even though this was a demotion for me from his first wedding – I was the Best Man and his bride a Nigerian con-lady whom he met online - I am still honored to partake in what promises to be a glorious wedding.
And now on to my real reason for this post: How to properly ask your date to give you a hand-job.
No, actually, it is about how to handle a conversation with your blind date.
BLIND DATE DISCUSSIONS
I was recently forwarded a blog written by a young man who just had his book published. When I read the blog, it appeared that all he wrote about was his book and what it was like writing his book and how his book was a superwickedawesome thriller that was bound to sell thousands, if not millions...
The reason why I share this with you (without sharing the link to the blog, admittedly) is that, personally, I wasn’t crazy about it. All he could ever write about was himself or his book or anything remotely connected to his ego, which - in my opinion – did not make for dynamic entertainment.
A Gentleman could commit the same mistake while on a first date.
I happen to enjoy blind dates. I haven’t been on many in the past, but for those few that I have, I found the experience to be interesting and, dare I say, fun.
Blind dates can be one of those rare instances when two strangers feel compelled to act civilly towards one another. These two strangers do not want to offend as they are both single (and, possibly, horny), so they endeavor to act kindly and carefully, but it would be naïve of me to say that it always comes out spotless.
As I often enjoy doing, let’s posit a situation in which you, the Gentleman, find yourself preparing for a blind date.
The Blind Date You are an associate VP at an emerging paper conglomerate. You may not be entirely enthused with your job – your real passion lies in reflexology – but for now, your job affords you a comfortable lifestyle in New York City.
You are spending the weekend at your friend’s house in Cape Cod, and your friend’s mother asks you (repeatedly) why such a nice young man like you has yet to find a girlfriend? You attribute it to bad luck while secretly admitting to yourself the real reasons (halitosis? Eye-patch? Zoophilia?). The mother gives you the number to a “cute” girl whose mother she plays bridge with. Even though you are reluctant to follow through, you nevertheless give the mother your word.
You then call the young girl, whose name is Gretchen. She works as a fashion publicist. She seems nice and chipper and suggests that you meet for a drink at a wine bar of sorts (like Bar Veloce) in two-days time.
Fast-forward to the date, where you two have ordered your glasses of wine and found a small place to sit at.
Now this is by no means original or poetic, but as many-a-man once said, conversation is like jazz, and nobody enjoys a twenty-minute drum solo… unless the solo is being performed by Neil “The Professor” Peart:
The date as a whole should be an equal exchange of dialogue with no one really dominating the conversation (unless she’s a big fan of paper, which then you’re in luck).
With that said, begin the conversation by asking her about her day, and see if that leads into any insight into her job and whether she enjoys it or not. If she does enjoy fashion, you can ask her more about which designers she likes, does she ever go to the fashion shows in Paris, are models really that skinny, etc. If she hates fashion, you could say “phew! That’s a relief,” before you tear off the trendy striped shirt you bought just for the occasion.
I always prefer to listen about what my date has to say first before I begin telling her about my line of work, my goals, my incredible buttocks, and so forth. It’s not so much that I don’t want to come across as being too forthcoming and pompous. Instead, I think a woman – let alone anyone – enjoys it when a new acquaintance takes an interest in what they say, especially while it’s over an introductory glass of wine.
When she asks you about your job at the paper company, don’t sigh and say “whatever, it’s just work.” At the same time, don’t suggest that your job is so fucking important that it makes fashion publicity look like janitorial work at a Muskegon Denny’s. Just be modest, sell your job as intelligently as possible, then perhaps talk about something of mutual interest. I find that cuisine always manages to grab a new woman’s interest. If you’re either a habitual cook or a “foodie” (I hate that term) and if you’re in need of something to break the ice, food is always a good go-to move.
Overall, I think the important thing is to just enjoy yourself, and make as much of an effort to engage your date in conversation. If it lags, you could always end it after a drink and explain that you have a “friend to visit for a nightcap.” Let’s just hope that your “friend” isn’t this:
Well, that came across as being too blunt and dramatic. You see, I was recently served a summons by the Town of East Hampton for being “too handsome” (in reality, I was arrested for running a Gin Ricky stand on Main Beach without a liquor license. Oh, and for hiring illegal immigrants to sell the Gin Rickys for me). I agreed to work on a farm for a week as part of my plea bargain.
So here I am, Farmer Ed the Gent, writing you after a nine-hour day of lugging thirty-pound bags of corn across acres of farmland and digging through 300 yards of dirt for potatoes. One could say I have been “reduced to being a ruddy plebeian,” but you'll never hear that from my mouth!
I actually enjoy this line of work. It is labor at its most honest and pure form. It is a way of life that hearkens back to the days when East Hampton was all about farming and not about star-fucking. I suppose I am grateful they arrested me for my good looks (or rather, nabbed me for hiring Flavio and Czibor to sell Gin Ricky’s to surfers).
The Town let me decide which farm I would work at, and after finding their ad in the classified section of the East Hampton Star, I settled on Balsam Farms. Balsam Farms grows organic produce - mostly tomatoes and corn, two cash cows in these parts - that they supply to most of the high-end restaurants in EH.
I spoke with their chipper young co-owner, Farmer Ian, who encouraged me to stop by the farm on Monday and to “wear clothing you don’t mind dirtying up.” As I lost my pair of Zubaz pants and Al Toon retro Jets jersey in a tragic Jets tailgate fire year ago, I ventured out and bought a pair of Carhart work pants and a machete. I was later told by the Town that machetes were illegal and carrying one would further complicate my situation. This town is being run by candy-asses, I tell you!
On Monday, I arrived to the farm to find a small gaggle of Full Throttle-sipping teenagers, most of whom looked rough from their all-night sessions of playing “World of Warcraft” online. I did not see anyone who looked like Flavio or Czibor (read – illegal and immigrant-like), which I surmised that perhaps Farmer Ian had his migrant workers stashed away where the Feds couldn’t see them.
As I was the oldest of the bunch, I was put on corn detail, which means filling up large burlap bags with 55 ears of corn, carrying them through treacherous rows of corn stalks and then throwing the bags on the bed of a pick-up truck. The entire time I kept asking Ian when the illegal immigrants were going to jump out of their hiding places to make my job easier, but he just nervously giggled and ignored me.
“come out, come out, wherever you are…”
In the afternoon, I joined Magic Man – a teenage boy from New Jersey – and “Flaco” Barretii – a filthy teenager who was not as thin as his nickname purports – in picking sungold tomatoes. "Sungolds" are small, delicious tomatoes that are in high demand in the East End. They are also quite tedious to pick. Filling up a single box takes upwards to half-an-hour, and I ended up filling four. By lunchtime, my hands were black and soiled like those of a gorilla's.
Farmer Ian asked me to meet him at their second farmland in Amagansett, just by their farm stand (which for those of you who head out East in the summer, can be found on Windmill Lane and Town Lane). I did, and was instantly put on potato detail, which meant getting on all fours and digging in soft mounds of dirt for small russet potatoes. It took three hours, and by the end my outfit looked as though I had been hugging a hobo for five days straight.
As I was already in Amagansett, I thought I would stop by this wine shop that my father, Allan the Gentleman, frequents. Despite my hideous attire, I thought at the very least the shop would allow me to stop and buy a bottle of Glenrothe (the lonely hours at the farm left me thinking sentimentally about the Zoroastrian).
My hands and clothes blackened with dirt, I entered the Amagansett Wine and Spirits store to find that it was empty, save for their three employees. Each one gave me a coldly discerning look, one I think they reserve only for thieves and the Irish. I went straight for the scotch section, found one bottle of the Glenrothe situated on the shelf, took it and brought it to the counter. When I placed the bottle down, the sniveling, bald-faced weasel standing behind the counter did not say anything for ten seconds.
He just stared at me in a way that suggested that I was a lowly commoner. I said, “Hi, I would like to purchase this fine bottle of scotch,” to which he smirked and scanned the bottle. I gave him my credit card, which he contemptuously picked with his thumb and forefinger and then swiped. I noticed a look of disappointment when the credit card worked. I asked him if this bottle came with special packaging, to which he slithered, “I believe so. Do you really want one?” I told him not to bother, as my presence had already got his gay, swarthy knickers in a twist. I thanked him, took the bottle and left. I heard him say a dry “thank-you” as I departed.
The reason why I bring this up is, sometimes a Gentleman is faced with the displeasure of dealing with sniveling bald-faced weasels, especially when in liquor stores, clothing stores, and sometimes, weasel stores. The gut reaction is to either “sass the dude out” or “knock that dude the fuck out,” but that is not a Gentleman’s gut. Instead, dealing with a cool head and sharp tongue is a best way to handle such a situation. Remember, cooler heads prevail in these situations, and being firm and steady, rather than furious and irascible, always helps in these spots.
I suppose the point of this post is: It doesn’t matter if you’re dressed like a Count, a Farmer, or someone x’ed out of his mind at Burning Man: ...it’s the way you carry yourself that matters most.
So, despite the great deal of labor that goes into farming, I have to say that it has been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I find myself feeling as fit and vigorous as ever. My stamina and strength have increased tenfold, and had I girlfriend right now, I would be able to go all night like a lumberjack.
Also, the people who work on the farm are solid dudes. Although I have nothing to add when the conversation turns to "Warcraft" and "Guitar Hero," they nevertheless enjoy my thoughts on music and women, all the while trying to figure out why I am working alongside them in the first place.
And to those of you who are vacationing in East Hampton: Please pay a visit to the Balsam farm stand. Their corn and tomatoes are second to none.
I will see you out in the farm, and stay chivalrous,
The weather is horrible right now. Why bother with work when you can take a long lunch break and go see Julie Delpy's 2 Days in Paris? It is (apparently) a very funny film about an American man who goes with his French girlfriend to Paris, where he meets her army of ex-boyfriends and other colorful Parisians. It is (apparently) very good and worth your time, especially on this aforementioned crappy day. And by no means am I bringing up this film because I know another Gentleman who is distributing the film.
Also, I saw this clip of Stevie Wonder playing a drum solo and it damn near made me spit out my coque au vain as I was watching it during supper.
But today is different. I have been in a funny – if not solipsistic – mood as of late. And it is difficult to elaborate this mood without getting too personal, so I will share with you instead a tale that happened to my brother a short while ago. This is a complicated issue, so I may be on base or off. Either way, the issue goes as such…
Four years ago, my esteemed brother, Allan the Gentleman IV, had just finished earning his “Handsome JD” at a prestigious law school and soon learned that after passing the NY Bar he had absolutely no desire to pursue a career in law. In fact, he had little idea as to what he wanted to do with himself professionally, so he decided to start a small company with a friend that manufactured excellent organic pomade (I say “excellent” as it did wonders to my already wonderful quaff). The company did well for a bit, until an unfortunate lawsuit brought on by a young man (seen below) with an allergy to one of their ingredients derailed the duo’s hopes for owning a pomade conglomerate.
Soon, my brother found himself without a company and without a clear idea as to what he wanted to do with his future. As he was doing a lot of soul searching, he met a young woman who captured his heart. They dated for about a month, and during one fateful evening out, she decided to offer him her interpretation of him and his career and what he should do with himself. Suffice it to say, despite her best intentions, she got too intrusive. She said he needed to do some soul searching, that his company was a mistake, that he should become a lawyer, that he needed to wear better clothes, and so forth. Suddenly, my brother came to the realization that he could either listen to this girl - whom he has only known for a month - share thoughts with him that were making him feel terrible, or he could stand and leave. He did not want to be a lawyer and he was very happy with his wardrobe. Most importantly, he did not view his company as a mistake. He made up his mind, suggested that they end the evening, and they parted ways. There comes a point where one has the choice of being either a gentleman or a doormat. He could have sat there, listened to this new girl judge his character entirely while making him feel bad about himself and think “I should listen to this since, even though she’s making me feel bad, I would rather be treated like poo than be single.” But instead, he said, “M’lady, you are quite off base right now. You have only known me for a month and despite your good will, I am afraid you have got it wrong,” before saying good night.
Once again, her intentions were good, but she ventured into a personal area that she did not have access to just yet. Over time, I suppose she would have earned his trust. But in the end, she was hasty.
Which reminds me of a saying my dear Father, Allan the Gentleman III, used to tell all his new employees at his former LBO firm, Hedgehog Farnum LLC:
“Gentlemen, as you begin your employment here, there is one thing I want you to take into consideration: It is going to take you eight months to find the bathroom, and once you find the bathroom, it’s going to take you another four months to figure out how to use it.”
I should add that my Father meant this both literally and figuratively, as the office was located in a hedge maze and finding the bathroom was nearly impossible. But on a figurative level, it was quite apt.
The offices of Hedgehog Farnum.
And I have been thinking about that statement lately, because could you apply that theory to relationships as well? As much as we would like to think we could know a person in the span of a month, sometimes that isn’t the case. We can get a good sense of them, but in terms of actually knowing the person, I believe it takes more time.
For the purposes of this post, let’s say you’ve met someone and you find yourself instantly interested in her/him. Do you jump into the relationship? Do you give it a month before jumping into the relationship? Do you follow my Father’s adage and remain friends with this person for substantial period of time (hopefully something shorter than eight months) before deciding whether she/he is worth it or not? And will that person even wait around eight months for you to make a decision (doubtful, but you never know)? Unfortunately, that is up to you. In my mind, it is this: Whatever your instincts say, trust them. And whatever the situation is, always makes sure that you make your decision when you are in a calm state of mind, not when rushed. That is the only advice I can offer on this matter.
People are a lot like movies: Sometimes we can predict how the film is going to end after watching only thirty minutes of it, especially if the film is terrible (example – every film Rob Schenider has ever starred in). But, we can also predict a good film when we see one, and within those first thirty minutes we say “you know, this is a very good film, and I don’t know how it is going to end, but my gut says it will be worth it.” And sometimes we’re right (recent examples for me are “The Lives of Others” and “Pan’s Labyrinth”), and sometimes we’re wrong and end up feeling disappointed (like “Turkish Delight” and “How High”). Such is the way of a relationship for those in their twenties and thirties. We have no idea how this thing is going to end. It could end well or it couldn’t. We just have to trust our instincts on this one.
As I am a young Gentleman (28), I have had experiences where the relationship went well, only to end not so well. There was an education in those experiences, and for a while they left me a little wounded. Lately, it feels as though I can’t buy a break (the Zoroastrian left me for a homeless poet). But no matter how tricky these situations get, luckily they have failed to embitter me. Just like with the film analogy, you wouldn’t go to see, say, “Superbad” and think “I’ve seen every Rob Schneider film and I know that every comedy I see from now on will be like ‘The Animal,’ so why bother?’” Meanwhile, “Superbad” could end up being fucking awesome and you could lose out since you were being such a cynical and neurotic grumpalump.
I suppose this point of this post is: As much as we would like to think we know someone right off the bat, we should always remember that it’s sometimes a lot more complicated than that. With time, we will know the person. But, getting to know them in the meantime could be rather fun... that is, if you play the game with care.
My apologies for taking a week to write you, but I have been in such an uproar with those blubbery tushie-fondlers (a.k.a. the commissioners of the 2007 Drakkar Noir Handsome Man Games) that sitting down to construct another installment of EtG was not on the top of my list. Basically, on Monday I received word that they were going to remove the Bocce ball event from the Games, as they claimed that Bocce ball "was not commonly known as a 'Gentleman's game.'" Therefore, the game is to be removed to make way for "Watermelon Smash," a newly established game in which Gentlemen from across the globe take turns throwing a large rock at a faraway watermelon in the dead of evening. They considered this a "Gentleman's game" as it was conceived by new co-commissioner Spilo Agiaga (photo below), not to mention that they recently named The National Watermelon Promotion Board as one of their key sponsors. I sent them many a vociferous complaint, saying that "the last time I looked at my English Passport, the name read 'Edward the Gentleman' and not 'Leo Gallagher!'" But they refused to hear me out, so it looks as though me and Argentine Bocce master, El Lanzador, will just have to join The United States Bocce Federation sometime soon.
"It's like Bocce, but instead of hitting a jack, you smash the fuck out of a watermelon, Brah! WOOAAAH!"
That aside, I recently learned an expression that, because of its title, I should have known about years ago but have not been hip enough to learn until now, and I have my friend Eksy Autumn to thank for that. Apparently there is a thing called "The New York Kiss," which is when you are self-consciously looking at your surroundings as you are romantically "snogging" your lover while on a street corner, in a restaurant, in a Gentleman's Club, what have you. For the purposes of this blog, I wanted to make a few pointers about how improper it is to keep your eyes open while being passionately entwined with your pretty lass.
The only time you should have your eyes open while kissing a girl is:
A) as you hear this contraption heading towards you on a NYC sidewalk
B) as you suspect a hired goon coming at you with a machete:
C) or when the effects of the alcohol have worn off and you think that the Woman you are kissing really looks like this...
...or this:
For the most part, it is unlikely that you will be either kissing "The Cat Lady," or be flattened by a hovercraft. That said, I would recommend you keep your eyes closed and give your girl all the undivided attention she deserves.
Which brings me to a quick "Do" and "Don't":
DO
I am going to repeat myself from a few posts before, but this rule can never be stated enough:
To receive that first kiss from a lady of your affection is the modern day equivalent of receiving her glove, since - thanks to the sexual revolution, eroding social mores and Joe Francis - Ladies in the year 2007 are more upfront about their affections (and less upfront about sending their gloves in the post, which is a gyp in my mind).
That said, if you've been on a date in which everything clicked and you've been suggestively holding hands and pawing at one another like unspayed kittens, I would say DO hold off on kissing her and kiss her on the cheek instead. Courting a Woman is a slow and measured process, like making a Tron costume, and to do with it with skill and care will reap dividends in the end, especially if you desire this Lady. Which leads me to my DON'T:
DON'T...
...suggest you go back to your place to make a baby. That is the grossest thing you could possibly say. If you two do end up kissing and find yourselves eager to hit one another's thang, perhaps you could say this:
"Girl, I really want to take you back to my place, throw on some Jodeci, put some rose petals on my Egyptian cotton bed sheets and reenact certain scenes from 'Caligula' with you. But I'm a Gentleman, and I feel a little ashamed for even stating my sexual desires. My apologies, but it's just you're so hot and fiery that you make me drop my air of gallantry and want to act like Eric Benet at a champagne room."
"There you go again, making me confess my intentions because of your unfettered sexual power. On that note, I must bid you good night before I lose all composure." Give her a small peck on the lips and then walk to a dark corner where you can rearrange your pants to hide your boner. This was not much of an offering of advice on my part. As you could probably tell, I've been so infuriated with this Bocce ball brouhaha that I have not been able to hold my focus. That said, if you, good reader, have any questions or topics that you would like for me to address, please email them to me, EtG, at edthegent@gmail.com.
Also, I realize that the "dude" quotient in this post is dangerously high. That said, I have enclosed some links to photos of properly dressed ladies who I consider "comely."
They can be found HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE. Until next time, stay chivalrous,
Just a simple and classically-trained amateur Gentleman who has somehow survived in this age of lad mags, sleeveless ts, body sprays and Callum Best.
Questions or comments can be directed to: edthegent@gmail.com
