Metrophobia: My Latest Prejudice

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

What the hell are metrosexuals? They're straight men who are smitten with the lifestyle of gay men. Metros are stylish, progressive, and très à la mode. Their flair for fashion, frippery, and home décor complements their mawkish sensibilities and taste for histrionics. They accessorize. Metrosexuals enjoy looking their best, even if it means shaving their chests, getting eyelash implants, or greasing their teeth with petroleum jelly for that smooth, frictionless smile.

"The walls separating straight men from their gay, fashion-forward brothers are beginning to crumble," according to The Metrosexual Guide to Style: A Handbook for the Modern Man. The author, Mike Flocker, intends to set down just what a metrosexual is and what he is not. He tells a lot about metrosexuals. He doesn't tell us why we need them.

Metrosexuality, apparently, has been a long time coming. It used to be a sense of fashion and style that was the exclusive domain of "pharaohs, kings, and czars." The peasant, forced to toil "hopelessly clad in dull, flea-bitten rags," was always something of a frump. Not anymore. The "class system" has faded, flamboyance is no longer just for the well-heeled, and it's the Common Man's turn for "style, sophistication, and self-awareness." The washed masses are finally coming together to usher in the "new era of the modern metrosexual man."

Well. Calcutta street urchins might be young and urban, but I doubt they're cribbing culture and style from the gay community. I guess metrosexuality hasn't made its way up the River Ganges yet: unfortunate but understandable, because it's the latest hip trend. Or at least it was, before dozens of media publications, from the New York Times to the Dartmouth Review of Books, began writing about it.

But why not? Everyone, it seems, is a metrosexual these days. Flocker styles Mozart, Picasso, and Gandhi as the archetypal metrosexuals (seriously) because they "understood the rules of their respective societies" and were able "to rise above those rules, to shatter them and subsequently change the course of history." And you can do the same—all you have to do is spruce up your image.

And so the Metrosexual Guide. If you're looking to "get with the program," as Flocker puts it, I suggest you turn elsewhere. This is a rather dreadful little volume. Its guidance is at turns jejune ("Don't deny yourself pleasure"), inspirational ("Your life is now"), and refreshingly specific ("Eyeglasses can make a great statement, or an idiotic one, so choose wisely"), but it is altogether pretty awful. "Ten Tips for Better Hair" and "Wardrobe Must-Haves" are typical section headers. Flocker might know a lot about spa treatments, but I get the impression he's the kind of guy who couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel. He wrote in his biographical blurb that he has inhabited "the fabulous chaos of New York and the hazy dream that is Los Angeles." It cost him his last scrap of human dignity.

On the other hand, if you're looking to sit back and have a good laugh at the expense of others, I recommend this salute to male peacockery. It kept me in hysterics.
Metros must be "pampered from head to toe." They exfoliate and moisturize. They get facials, exercise by something called "pilates," and enjoy pedicures. N.B.—Flocker cautions that spas can be "extremely addictive."

Maintaining the same hairstyle for too long leaves the metrosexual looking "laughably out of date." He does not go to a barber; rather, he is serviced by a "hairstylist" at a "salon," where he gets "color treatments" or "stylish highlights." He tweezes his eyebrows and does away with his body hair via waxing, electrolysis, or laser treatment.

Metros embrace fashion. Shoes are nothing less than an "investment." Flocker recommends going "shopping," as it were, not to purchase goods or services, but for the fun of it. The point is to keep up with the latest trends and styles and revel in the joys of "shopping."

The metrosexual flirts with both women and men to get "positive attention." He is tastefully coy, because failure to charm in a "light-hearted, fun manner" could result in "humiliation and social ruin." Good grief. The old system was straightforward. The male of the species propositions the female of the species. She either accepts his advances, or, if she spurns them, he comes to the obvious conclusion: She hates being happy. Flocker suggests otherwise; the fellow just wasn't 'metro-sexy' enough. Gals, my advice: When choosing a new boyfriend, remember that metrosexuals may be soft and cute, but they are expensive and extremely high-maintenance.

I'm not personally acquainted with many metros, as I tend not to associate with men who want to be known as the Leggy Blonde. Also, I'm removed from metro hot-spots like New York ("shopping opportunities"), Los Angeles ("it's show biz, babe"), Milan ("out-of-this-world shopping"), and Paris ("because it's Paris"). But I'm quite prejudiced against them nonetheless. I'm metrophobic.

The real problem with metros, as columnist Mark Steyn noted, is that they're "preening narcissists." Metrosexuality is just haughtiness, self-absorption, and old-hat vanity dolled up in style and sophistication. There's nothing wrong with a little egotism, I guess—my last article in this paper, for instance, was little more than an excuse to use my name thirty times, if you count the byline—but did they have to pull it off in such a gassy, nancy-boy way? Decked out in haute couture, the metro might think he looks slick and chic with a touch of decadence, but all I'm seeing is some weirdo skipping by in a pair of epaulettes and one of those "tangerine blouses" Flocker is so keen on. And shopping for the fun of it? That's downright gay, and I mean that in the pejorative sense.

From what I can tell, metrosexuals are also insufferable snobs. Daniel Peres, the editor of Details magazine, told ABC News that being a metro was about "wearing clothes other than jeans and a fraternity t-shirt." Frat parties and keggers hold no appeal for practicing metrosexuals; they hang out at social soirees, cocktail parties, and the latest hot clubs. They think apple martinis and cosmopolitans are to die for, and they order them "with a twist." If they must condescend to beer, Flocker admonishes, they will only daintily sip bottled European imports—never domestic brands.

What's so bad about beer? It sends the wrong message. Beer is crude and passé. It proclaims vulgarity and even—heavens to Jim Wright—Dartmouth. "What he drinks...can be as telling as the watch on his wrist or the shoes on his feet." And there's the rub: Metrosexuality is about doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons. It's about forming an identity through consumerism and looking like you care about things. By being pretentious, materialistic, and shallow, metrosexuality is a way to fake being stylish, sensitive, and fun—assuming you're not mistaken for gay.
Flocker ends his book with an uproarious homily about the dangers of closed-mindedness. Being prejudiced, judgmental, or critical of others, we are reminded, is "small-minded and a sure sign of ignorance." That is, unless you're maligning some serf for his hopeless fashion-sense.

Finally, metrosexuality is a cultural movement embraced by the media to promote diversity and acceptance. But even here, the tolerance is pretty self-centered: "In order to be comfortable with himself, he needs to allow others to be themselves." There's an air of sad desperation to it. After all, if metrosexuals aren't celebrated as style-makers, what are they, besides a bunch of guys buying fancy shoes, drinking froofy drinks, and generally being tremendous fruits? At risk of being labeled small-minded and ignorant, that's where metrophobia comes into play. What metrosexuality needs is a bit of ridicule and some good old-fashioned intolerance—which, unlike a Queer Makeover or haut anything, is here to stay.

Metrophobia: My Latest Prejudice

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