A Gentleman Reflects

Fair Reader,

These posts sometimes range from the silly to the serious to the silly serious and then to just the plain confounding. For that, I apologize. My musings are meant to show that one can be a Gentleman, sometimes cook a passable meal, and find love in a city as challenging as New York. It is also meant to give you a brief giggle, from everything to my brief flings as a rap label investor to squiring about town with a Aussie friend's wife. But after going through a challenging week, I am feeling somewhat direct.

I will admit that being a Gentleman and finding love sometimes seems downright unfeasible, especially when living in New York City. There are times, like when a relationship suddenly ends (which was the case with me last week), when I wonder if behaving with decency and scruples is anachronistic with modern love. This is not to say that doing so is wrong. I am just saying that when one acts with chivalry, he should not expect a consistent response from the lady he is courting.

For instance, the reaction from the Gentleman should not be, "I flambeed her squab and bought her all the garments in Barneys and yet she refuses to marry me and won't return the ring." Instead, it should be, "whatever her reaction, I am satisfied with the fact that I treated her as honorably and as genuinely as I could." Chivalry does not guarantee a Gentleman anything but the knowledge that he acted true to his word.

Unless you're proposing to your lass during a timeout at an NBA game. For that you deserve public humiliation (although I suspect that this one was staged).




If you are a reader of EtG, you may remember my father, Allan the Gent, as the drunken gambler who would steal your gold fillings to pay his bar tab at his local Olive Garden. In reality, my father is the very reason why I aspire to be a Gentleman. He has had a successful career in his chosen field, been married to the woman he loves for over 35 years, and is as well-regarded throughout the world as he is in his family home.

I shall turn 30 in a month's time. In looking back at the folly of my 20s, I think the one mistake I made was thinking that since my father was able to find his career and his wife by the time he reached 30, perhaps I would as well. This is nearly as hopeful as thinking "I can be a newspaper reporter for the next 5 years of my life" in 2009. The truth is, my professional and romantic experiences - and I think this applies to many in the age range of 18-to-34 - have been vastly different from my dear father's. I am fortunate to have dated some beautiful and remarkable women. There were perhaps one or two of whom I could have conceivably settled down with (had things not abruptly ended, of course). The same applies to my career. I have worked a slew of different jobs in London and New York, from theatre producer to leg model. Now, I am a "writer" working in an increasingly bleak market. Who knows if I will be forced to change careers again in 10-15 years time? And who knows if the next woman I date will be a committed mate or an unsuspecting abandoner?

What my foibles in love and work have taught me is that to have been in one's 20s throughout the first decade of 2000 means having the sometimes maddening luxury to explore different jobs, loves, homes, and experiences. Although one develops character and wisdom through these changes, such lessons are not learned with ease.

No matter how different the circumstances may be, or how challenging the times, I can and will remain a chivalrous Gent. As I have intimated countless times in previous posts, even if the modern era may be difficult, volatile, brash or vulgar, that is inconsequential to the Gentleman. He can still act with honor.

For those of you who think that being true to your word brings you nothing but disappointment and heartbreak, take comfort in the words of Sir Frederick Treves:

"Trust... to hard work, perseverance, and determination. The best motto for a long march is 'Don't grumble. Plug on.'"

Granted, I found this quote in the Iggulden brothers' The Dangerous Book for Boys, which is cheap. But to those Gentleman who may wonder why they even bother acting with decency during these indecent times, all I have to say is: Eventually it will reap their rewards. Now plug on.

I remain your humble friend,
EtG

Ladies in Pom Distress

Fair Reader,

A challenging drink

A rather strange recurrence to report.

Earlier this month I was out to lunch with a female friend of mine who was having difficulty opening up her bottle Pom, a popular pomegranate drink that is loaded with antioxidants (which women love). She asked me to open it for her, as I have the forearm strength of a silverback gorilla.

My forearms, figuratively speaking

I took the bottle and opened it, although not speedily. The cap itself is slippery and tightly sealed on the bottle, thus making it a tricky endeavor. But I uncapped the bottle as asked, and my lunch date enjoyed her drink and the remainder of our lunch.

Two weeks ago I was having coffee with a colleague at a Starbucks near Brooklyn Supreme Court when a fair-yet-meek young woman approached and asked if one of us could open her bottle for her. Since she gestured the bottle towards me - perhaps sensing my strength and chivalry - I took the bottle and opened it. "It's impossible to open," said the girl as she watched me do so. I returned the drink to her and she walked away, red-faced and grateful.

This left me curious to ask you this, fair female reader:
Do you sometimes have difficulty opening your bottle of Pom? If so, have you ever asked a Gent to open it for you?

And not to leave the Gents out of this:
Have you ever been asked by a lass - be sure your lover, friend, or a stranger - to open a bottle of Pom?

I phoned a Pom press rep and asked him if the company has ever received complaints on this matter. To his knowledge this was the first he had ever heard of it but was looking into (results to soon follow).

So this lead me to wonder: Is the Pom bottle really that difficult to open? Or are women playing the "this bottle won't open" card to essentially flirt with a bloke, kind of like a female version of "The Game"?

Of course I jest, as I can attest to the bottle cap's stubbornness. But should you have your own Pom problems to confess, by all means leave them in the comment section. And please continue to drink your Pom. Should you have any trouble opening its bottles, you know who to seek out.

A presto,
EtG

Rakes and the like

Fair Reader,

Alas, I have returned from Jamaica with a faint tan and a sudden dislike of Red Stripe beer, dysfunctional airports and American yokels with weed fetishes.

My attempts at becoming a "Rent a Gent" were derailed by a sudden urge to act like a decent human being (while enjoying the sun, of course). Besides, if you have been reading the newspapers as of late, you would notice that trying to be a gigolo with a German fetish has its limitations. Take the story of Helg Sgarbi, the "Swiss Gigolo" who confessed to trying to bilk $10 million out of Germany's richest lass. Sgarbi courted Susanne Klatten, the very rich and very married scion of the BMW fortune, and conned her, schtupped her, videotaped her as they schtupped once more, and tried to blackmail her before eventually getting the book thrown at him in Munich court.

The case itself is a very funny one, though not for Fraulëin Klatten, and it has all the markings of a dastardly "Rent a Gent" - or more appropriately, "Rent a Rake". Here is how it unfolded:

1) Sgarbi meets Mrs. Klatten at an Austrian Spa. Klatten, presumably feeling lovelorn and distressed about her marriage and her life, finds herself drawn to Sgarbi's square jaw and wily conversational skills. The Times noted that Sgarbi had "a knack for detecting emotional weakness," the M.O. of any cad. But Klatten politely declines Sgarbi's advances, and the two go their separate ways.

2) Shortly after their first meeting, Sgarbi appears unannounced to Klatten's vacation home in Southern France. I would imagine Klatten opened the door to find Sgarbi donned in a tux, his hair slicked back and his face wet with tears as he held a bouquet of lavender and a bottle of Chartreuse. I imagine Sgarbi would then explain how painful his life has been since he's left her side, how his loins could not take it any more, and pretty soon he and Klatten are having unfilmed sex in her vacation home.

3) They meet at a Holiday Inn in Munich and make love once more. Meanwhile, an Italian named Ernano Barretta films their lovemaking from a room next to theirs. Mr. Barretta is known to the authorities as a cult leader, an auto mechanich, and a car salesman.

4) Sgarbi asks Klatten for roughly $10 million in hush money, to be used for a woman he claimed to have paralyzed in an auto accident. Klatten gives up the money in earnest.

5) Sgarbi ups the ante, demands $420 million from her or else he will release the sex tape - which may or may not feature her uncompromising fetishes and bovine-like lovemaking sounds. She contacts the authorities, he's arrested, and now he is set to serve six years in the company of men who are a little more forceful in their manners (read - butt rape).

It's a terribly funny yet awful tale. In my mind, what separates a Gentleman from a cad is the former's strict adherence to being as genuine as he can to the object of his affection. If a Gentleman were to videotape a schtupp session, he would at least be cognizant of the fact that these things seldom end up in the right hands (as this is a family site, I will leave it to you to explore famous debutante amateur vids). But above all, a Gentleman aims for a lady's hand, not her fortune. Rather bold words coming from a gent who squandered his fortune... but I remain idealistic in my penury.

A presto,
EtG

A Gentle-Mon

Herr Reader,

I will be departing for Jamaica at the end of this week to witness a shaved panda marry a pregnant woman. Macgrath Miller, my furry Scottish friend, is to wed his longtime (and incredibly pregnant) lass on Saturday, and this event couldn't arrive any sooner. New York City is currently buried in snow, leaving me trapped in my flat with little heat, a poorly charged computer, and a near-empty bottle of Jameson. I desperately need to trade all these sad details in for whatever Jamaica brings. Namely, this is sun, beach, Red Stripe beer and a wedding featuring an upright, overgrown koala and his beautiful bride.

Here is Macgrath getting tickled.

As I prepare for my departure - have already set aside enough Piz Buin sunlotion and Gucci manthongs for the three-day trip - a rather daffy idea has crossed my head: Why on earth would I return to New York City? The town is on the brink of financial and social ruin, the streets have become emptier by the night, and the volatility of my love life will not abate. All signs point to an entirely irrational change in both home and profession, and why not Jamaica? It is always sunny, sometimes dangerous, and what's more, middle-aged women flock to the area for brief affairs with Rastafarians.

According to this recent documentary called "Rent a Rasta," roughly 80,000 women a year travel from all over the world to Jamaica to enjoy a nice vacation and temporarily date an island boy. This very fact had prompted an English colleague of mine, Pete "Ginger" Shepperton, to remodel himself in Rastafarian fashion and relocate to Montego Bay. Sadly, I think his transformation brought him little in the way of lonely women.

Ginger Pete, post op

Ginger Pete's failings aside, I wonder (aloud) if EtG would make for a good Rent Boy? I am decent at courting women, would know how to treat them to a delightful day on the beach - presuming I get the hang of where to eat and drink by the time my dreads grow out - and could orchestrate a romantic evening in my hammock.

But in the end, this is all a silly fantasy. Besides, judging by the atrocious photoshop job I performed on the photo below, a Rasta Gent I am not.

In the end, I will leave my gigolo dreams to the Rastafarian rent boys. I was reared an Urban Gent, and an Urban Gent I shall remain. The beauty and brutality of New York City life is irreplaceable, for better or for worse. But my secret dream of sleeping with rotund German bachelorettes shall live on for another day...

A presto and stay warm,

EtG