The Reluctant Daddy

All marriages are happy.  It’s the living together afterward that causes all the trouble.  ~Raymond Hull

This Christmas, out of disgust for all things material (frugality is the new black) I decided not to give my husband George anything of material value as a gift. Being from a ‘modest’ (shit-kicker) background, he seemed not to care, and was pleased to receive the short story  you will find in this post as his special Christmas present.  Naturally, I also requested nothing of material value for Christmas and was horrified to have my wishes utterly and completely respected.  Next year it’s back to mall where we belong!

I’m often asked what I love most about George.

I’ m taking the question slightly out of context, as the statement preceding this question is usually something like, “George is such a wonderful guy and you’re such an asshole. It’s easy to see why people can’t stand you, but everyone can find something to love about George. What do you love most about George?”

I’ve ceased to be offended by these declarative statements and their passive-aggressive, follow-up questions, as I have come to accept that in our long, tortured relationship, I will forever be known as ‘Tod-the-dark’ to his ‘George-the-light.’ If we lived in Middle Earth, George would be an anointed member of the ring fellowship (He works extremely well with others), and I would be one of those putrid, smelly cave trolls.   Ours is a relationship of opposites, and as cliché and as that may sound, opposites blindly, painfully and with very little forethought attract.

Years ago, when George and I were young, beautiful and unencumbered by the life-sapping, soul-deadening ‘joy’ of parenting, we decided to take a ‘pre-baby’ trip to France to celebrate (mourn) the impending loss of our freedom.  We arrived in Paris to find the city sweltering and teeming with tourists. To the ultra-chic French, I must have looked quite absurd strolling the streets of Paris in my too-tight, love handle-enhancing ‘wife beater’ undershirt and Abercrombie and Fitch cargo shorts extolling the virtues of Parisian architecture to my dead-eyed lover who politely listened as one might to a doddering, senile old man.

After a particularly debilitating day of sight seeing and pseudo-intellectual pontificating, George and I decided to take a stroll to the pont neuf.  As the day begrudgingly gave way to night, we stood in the middle of the bridge and stared into the murky waters of the seine. Like many of the lovers who surrounded us, I took George into my arms and kissed him dramatically.  I reasoned that a murderous old troll like me, who has for too long dwelt beneath bridges, rarely, if ever, has the opportunity to snog an anointed member of the fellowship. I intended to make the most of it!

We left Paris the following afternoon and headed to the picturesque wine regions of the south. Like the great navigators Magellan or ponce de leon, George had mapped out our circuitous route perfectly, and even volunteered to selflessly drive the lumbering, 5-speed ‘Smart Car’ we rented. As we plodded along, I sat in the passenger seat holding George’s gear-shifting hand tightly. Despite my zeal to document every ancient chateau, graceful meadow, and verdant forest we passed I remember very little of our journey, save for the love I had for him. The only memory that survives, is George’s shining face illuminated beautifully by the Smart Car’s dashboard as the day again surrendered to night.

Dear George Clooney,

Like most of the middle-aged, cliched gay men I know, I subscribe to the lamentable notion that one can fight the ravages of time and retain one’s youth by a implementing a rigorous exercise regimen, consuming a tasteless, carb-free, vegan diet, imbibing thrice weekly colonics (I am completely full of shit – both literally and figuratively, so I need to be ‘flushed out’ at least 3 times each week) in addition to throwing ungodly sums of money at one’s plastic surgeon. More time, money and resources have been spent in my quest to stay young and desirable than are expended for most natural disasters in the third world.  Yes, Haiti was leveled by a horrendous earthquake and thousands were killed, which is why you are bending over backwards to assist these poor, unfortunate people. However, as your next philanthropic project, I would like you to consider my wrinkly skin, deepening jowls, eye bags and ever expanding love handles as an impending natural disaster worthy of your consideration.

I realize that on first blush, you may think that my plastic surgery ‘needs’ aren’t as important as earthquake -ravaged Haiti, drowning polar bears, or even unemployed Detroit auto workers, but I can assure you this is not the case!  I too have known true suffering. Last week, I actually had to wait a full 25 minutes at THE POLO LOUNGE because THE HILLS ‘star’  Audrina Partridge and her entourage of attention-starved reality show ‘actors’ showed up WITHOUT a reservation. My usual table was given to Audrina, and I found myself sitting at the bar like some wretched Encino housewife, who’s pathetic visit to THE POLO LOUNGE  caps some valley-inspired, ‘ladies-who-lunch’ nightmare.  When I was finally seated at some obscure table in the rear of the restaurant, I bitterly sipped my White Russian tragically unseen and unheard, as Audrina and her clique of pretty young things sat at MY table pecking at their food while downing pricey bottles of on-the-house Cristal Champagne.  Despite my rage, I managed to choke down my filet mignon while glaring at Aurdrina who while sitting at MY table, was now alarmingly drunk and cackling loudly as if she hadn’t a care in the world!

George, from what I’ve read in such prestigious and pedigreed periodicals such as US WEEKLY, PEOPLE and HELLO! you are rumored to be a compassionate and generous man who understands the plight of the ‘common man.’  I ask, scratch that, BEG you to consider my woeful case. Please don’t allow me to lose another ‘A’ table to some cheap, reality show wannabe because of the subaqueous crevices in my face nor the rangy deposits of fat on my hips!

I look forward to our mutual association on this project and kindly ask that MY telethon be held on the weekend of the 30th as I’m leaving for Zurich on February 1st to have my bi-annual blood oxygenation and sheep’s urine ‘cleanse.’

Cheers,

Tod

The other day I was wandering around SOHO in NYC contentedly spending my son’s college fund on clothes when I happened upon a lovely sales girl in the store ANDREW BUCKLER. Andrew Buckler is the fantastic English designer whose modern ‘take’ on suits, jackets, and sweaters have enthralled me. In any case, due to my dubious ‘notoriety’ they asked me to talk about my own personal style.  Below is the interview that they have posted online at BucklerSoho.blogspot.com.

Tod Abrams works in motion picture marketing and is president of his own national promotions firm, Alternative Marketing Solutions, Inc.  He and his family live in both Los Angeles and New York.  In addition, Abrams is the also author of thereluctantdaddy.com, a blog about parenting, marriage and other atrocities. He is presently in negotiations with a major network to develop a TV show based on his crazy life as depicted in his blog. Read it, it’s really funny.

1. Briefly describe your personal style.

Decrepit, slightly over-the-hill Disco Dolly meets Victorian era dandy.

2. How has it changed over the years?

As you age, you realize there are certain ‘looks’ you just can’t pull off anymore.  My days of Abercrombie and Fitch cargo shorts and tank tops are but a distant memory.  Being in the entertainment industry, I try to pick ‘classic’ looks but give them a little bit of an edge. I sometimes fail miserably.

3. Who are your style icons?

Brad Pitt – he and I are exactly the same age and I try to emulate him every chance I get. Sadly, Brad is a head taller than me and way better looking. I’ve become accustomed to the cutting remarks I get from friends and family who advise me to ‘give it up’ as Brad is a movie star, and I’m a cave troll.

4. Does you haircut influence your sartorial choices, given your recent trials and tribulations with son Ethan’s hair?

Despite my unbridled narcissism, I spend very little time on my hair.  I have very thick hair for a man my age and owe it in large part to my impoverished Russian ancestors who if nothing else, gave me great hair.  My beauty routines consists of getting out of bed and running my fingers through my hair.  I consider ‘bed head’ a real style statement.

5. When you pick up Ethan from school/playdates do you think you’re the best dressed Daddy?

It depends. When I’m not bitterly resentful for having to give up an afternoon of frivolity so that I can pick my son up from some mind-numbing playdate, I make a concerted effort to look ‘sporty.’ On these rare occasions, my son generally looks me up and down and says, “You look weird.”

6. What are some menswear trends you hate?  What are some you love?

Where do I begin?! I can’t stand the ‘flip-flops’ with any outfit or any type of weather trend. Flip-flops are for the beach and and for the pool…period. I also have ‘issues’ with Ed Hardy.  There’s something frightening about men who wear clothing emblazoned with tigers and rhinestones, and who espouse the philosophy ‘love kills slowly.’ These men need not accost anyone, as their horrifying outfits do it for them.

Don’t even get me started on DOCKERS.

In terms of trends I love, I really like a great suit.  Dressed up with an amazing shirt and tie or dressed down with a cashmere ‘hoodie,’ you can never go wrong with a great looking, well-tailored suit. Unfortunately, I live in Los Angeles where the prevailing attitude toward wearing a suit is viewed as ‘scary’ as the legion of Hollywood agents and managers have co-opted them as their blood-sucking, soul-stealing uniform of choice. Sad.

7. You live in LA, but we met you in New York.  Can you talk about how menswear trends differ in the two cities.

I live in both places but probably consider Los Angeles home as my family resides there most of the time.  Men in New York are far more daring than men in Los Angeles.  I’m constantly amused at some of the wild looks I see parading around the village or Soho.  Were one to try and pull off one of those madcap, NYC looks in LA, you would get the requisite stares, clucking of the tongues, and eye rolling. Despite being the home of the ‘liberal elite’ movie business, LA is surprisingly conservative (boring) in terms of fashion.

8. What was your favorite era for menswear?

When I was a teenager, I saw that movie CHARIOTS OF FIRE and thought that the 1920′s were the shit. I am to this day, influenced by that film. I mean who wouldn’t want to run around in wool suits, skin-tight riding jodhpurs, cashmere scarves and beanies?

9. In a fantasy world where money was no object, what would you wear everyday?

In my fantasy world, I would dress as Louis XIV and rock the silks, satins, and wigs of Versailles.  I’m not sure how practical my ‘look’ would be riding the subway, but I’m certain it would be a real crowd pleaser.

10. You have described Ethan as “very straight” and he refers to himself as a “surfer” What does he like to wear?  What do you agree on?  What do you guys fight over?

My son Ethan’s taste in clothing is deplorable. Give the choice, (I’m nauseous thinking about it) he would wear the same pair of Walmart shorts and stained ‘I love New York’ t-shirt everyday.  It is a constant battle of wills in our house determining which outfit he will wear to school.  These raging battles generally culminate in a tantrum and a flood of tears – usually my own.

11.  Last but not least, what’s your favorite Buckler item that you own?

I love Andrew Buckler who I’ve personally christened ‘The New John Varvatos.’ I own a ton of Andrew’s jackets and shirts, but my new obsession is an Indian blanket-inspired sweater that is far too young for me.  Take that Brad Pitt!

(Continued from Checks and Balances Pt. 2)

As a little gay boy stuck in the depressing, distinctly middleclass suburbs of New Jersey, the only thing that brought me any real pleasure were the lazy hours spent parked in front of our RCA ‘Vista Color’ television set, greedily devouring deliciously brainless shows like THE BRADY BUNCH, THE PARTRIDGE FAMILY, and LAVERNE AND SHIRLEY.  The idiotic sitcoms I gorged on served as a tasty appetizer for the luscious main course, which in my closet case was the MILLION DOLLAR MOVIE.  Eons ago, before cable television, DVDs or DVR, there was the MILLION DOLLAR MOVIE, also known as the graveyard where dusty, black and white studio films went to die.

One film that played continuously on THE MILLION DOLLAR MOVIE and caught my discerning ‘queer eye’ was ALL ABOUT EVE.  ALL ABOUT EVE is the Academy Award-winning film about an aspiring ingénue Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter) who insinuates herself into the company of an established but aging stage actress Margo Channing (Bette Davis) and Margo’s circle of bitchy theater friends in order to establish herself as an actress. In one pivotal and revealing scene, the conniving Eve explains her sociopathic, take-no-prisoners ‘passion’ for the theater. “If nothing else,” Eve explains, “there’s applause…like waves of love pouring over the footlights and wrapping you up.” I quickly came to identify with the ‘real’ Eve, the lonely yet stunningly fashionable sociopath whose willingness to lie, cheat, steal or kill to land a starring role captivated me completely!

Is it any wonder that at my fascistic, all-boy, military-style sports camp, I had no choice but to morph into my hero Eve, the ruthless and calculating ingénue? Even at 6 1/2, I reasoned that a leading role was a leading role, and like all great actors, I was not going to let a little thing like gender stand in my way of hogging the limelight.  Every year, like clockwork, I auditioned and won every leading female role offered.  With gusto and aplomb, I grabbed the role of Dolly Levi, Eliza Dolittle, Maria Von Trapp, Roxy Hart, and finally in the most thrilling, yet disturbingly ironic of casting triumphs, I won the coveted role of Margo Channing, originally played on Broadway by the legendary Lauren Bacall in Camp Winaukee’s all-male version of THE ALL ABOUT EVE-inspired APPLAUSE.

Much to the chagrin of Darth Vader, our camp director, not only was I NOT ridiculed for my gutsy, nuanced performances, I received countless standing ovations in addition to the best reviews of my ‘theatrical’ career!  In my last performance as Margo in APPLAUSE, I took my final bow and despite the glare of the spotlight, I caught a glimpse of camp director Darth sitting unhappily in the back of the house, stoic and resigned as the waves of love came pouring over the footlights wrapping me up completely.